I know Knox is playing things up to make a point, but I’d be lying if I said my heart didn’t pirouette at the sentiment. Why do I feel this way? Is it because someone, for once, is showing interest in me? Even if it is manufactured?
Leif scratches the nape of his neck awkwardly, and the fleet of emotions that slashes over his face are unidentifiable. I can usually read him pretty well, but it’s like I’ve just been locked out of his mind, and I don’t have the code to the keypad.
He shuts down right in front of me. “Right. Um, I…sorry for interrupting, guys,” he mutters under his breath, hightailing it for the stairs without so much as a goodbye—without the promise of another hello.
I watch his head of curly hair merge into the faceless conveyor belt of students, only to be swept away by the afternoon current.
I nearly lurch out of my seat to chase after him, but I think better of it. Knox releases my hand unceremoniously, leaning back in his chair like he didn’t just fracture the foundation underneath my feet. A stress crack on a frozen lake, rupturing congealed ice in some kind of centrifugal slaughter.
Numbness consumes me with an unchecked hunger. I don’t know whether to scream, cry, or punch Knox. “What did you just do?”
“I gave your lover boy an incentive.”
9
SOME STRINGS ATTACHED
KNOX
I’ve never been this nervous before a game before. Not when a scout was watching, not when my dad attended for the first and last time. But Staten is here, somewhere in the stands, and I feel a strange responsibility to make her proud. To make herseeme.
Was I thinking clearly when Leif showed his stupid face in the library, interruptingmyprecious tutoring session? No, not really.
I was all for watching the fender bender of a disaster waiting to happen between Leif and Staten, but the look on her face when he publicly friend-zoned her made my soul sink into quicksand.
Watery eyes, a pouty bottom lip, sadness so palpable that it left this rancid taste on my tongue like I’d just chugged battery acid. It was clear that she wasn’t going to go after what she wanted, so I, being the good Samaritan I am, decided to put a wrench in Leif’s plans and instigate some friendly competition.
Sure, it was a reckless decision made by a single party, but it was worth it to see Leif’s jaw practically dislocate in shock. Imean, seriously, who invites a friend to go to a mathematics competition just to take advantage of the concession stand? Staten is worth more than a cheap, gas station-quality hot dog. If Leif can’t see that, then he doesn’t deserve a second of her time.
Since this…arrangement…came on rather quickly, I haven’t told my teammates about it. I don’t want to make this a huge, flashy thing. It’s not real, and if Staten wasn’t so disgustingly head-over-heels in love with Leif, she wouldn’t even consider taking part in it.
God, what does she see in this guy? Other than the fact that his teeth are so straight he probably never has to wear his retainer ever again, he reads to the blind and elderly in his free time (allegedly), he helps families of ducks cross the road during rush hour traffic (allegedly), and he’s so smart that he already has enough credits to graduate as a junior (allegedly). I bet it’s all for show. Nobody is that perfect.
The brisk air in the arena chills me to my core, ice shavings whisking across the tempered surface as streaks of black and maroon bullet around the rink. The announcer’s voice reverberates off the concrete-padded walls sequestering us—a beacon to the restless bodies that itch for a clean fight. The floodlights blur my vision like a flashbang, my belly roils with an uncharacteristic anxiousness, and I have to pickpocket confidence from the rest of my teammates.
Calm down, Knox. The Mustangs are ten times better than the South Carolina Sabertooths. This will be an easy win. Just…focus on the game.
I don’t know how to explain it, but for the first time in my life, I want to stick to the shadows. The shadows are secure, a failsafe where I can still flaunt my skills yet evade the overbearing spotlight. I’m usually the first to jump at the chance to score a goal, but I know that my brain’s current stopover—inStaten city—jeopardizes the team, and I’m not going to be responsible for lending our opponents the upper hand.
The puck is in play not a moment later, ricocheting off Crew’s blade and rocketing over to our side of the rink. An orchestra of shouts follows closely behind, movement rustling beyond my peripheral and gearing my reflexes into high drive.
Harlan zips down the frozen runway, directing the disc with a strategic sleight of his hand, keeping up what looks like one hell of a shell game as orange adversaries careen after him at a speed unbeknownst to the normal population.
I skate parallel to Harlan—offering myself as an option if he needs to pass—and a bigger guy with a permanent death stare gains on his tail, poke checking at the puck to try and reroute its course. Harlan has the advantage with an agility that can’t be matched by anyone in the league (much less the Sabertooths), and he thinks quickly before flip passing the coveted prize in my direction.
Determination untucking between my ribs and thighs burning from an uptick in exertion, I zigzag past the defense to gain possession of the disc, heading straight for the opposing goal with a precision I’ve been honing for years. Another defenseman stands in my way, all sinew and horsepower as he lunges to impede my trek, becoming the sad aftermath of a deke that manages to accelerate me a few good feet in front of him.
I know there’s a stampede behind me; I know that my energy will dry up if I stop. The Sabertooths’ goalie readies himself for my shot, taking a wide stance to cover every inch of the goal, and I sacrifice some well-loved praise to prevent a turnover, chucking the puck over to Crew’s advancing silhouette.
The sudden change in ownership confuses the goalie just enough to lower his right guard, and Crew doesn’t wasteanother second before slap shotting that sucker into the nylon, favoring the undefended side of the net. If he had waited another moment, he wouldn’t have made it. Even with a torque of the goalie’s leg, he’s too slow to block the projectile, and the goal lights submerge the rink in a haze of victorious red.
“With sixteen minutes and fourteen seconds left on the clock, scoring for the Minnesota Mustangs is number twenty-eight, Crew Calloway, assisted by number six, Knox Mulligan!” the announcer roars over the speakers, inciting a ground-shaking rumble of satisfaction from the crowd. Screams and shouts pinball around the subzero arena, warring with the busy noise of the rink’s ground level and forcing my thoughts on standby.
1-0, and we’re only four minutes in.
Sweat forms on my hairline like a crown of thorns, my heated breath snaking through the metal grid of my helmet and dissipating into the charged ozone. It feels as if every one of my senses has been thrown into a crockpot and left on simmer—muddied, directionless. I’m hot, I’m cold, my attention is torn between every moving obstacle. I don’t bid a glance at the audience; I don’t try to look for Staten. My heart is already one strained beat away from soaring into the mid-hundreds.
The game resets, and the Sabertooths drive the puck toward our defensive zone, all piling on one another for added reinforcement. I drag behind the swarm, as if I’m watching the progression of a wildfire from the safety of a lookout tower, complicit in the wide-reaching scorch of a thousand pine trees. Hockey plays are getting smothered beneath miniature versions of Staten dancing in my head.
