My stomach twists as she spins to greet some other girls behind her and her hair whips in my directions, forcing me to inhale her spice-laden perfume.
I take another drink.
I don’t know how she and I ended up beside one another with Cyn on my other side, but I want to trade seats. It would be weird though if I just straight up moved, and normally I wouldn’t care but I want info from her, so I gulp downanotherswallow, then turn to Cynthia, my manicured nails tapping against the metal of the cup with “Drayton Dragons” etched across it in black.
“These are good seats.”
“Happens if you get here early,” Cyn says with a wink, eyeing her vodka cran like she, too, wants to dive into it.
She has no idea Will came by our apartment. Not the faintest clue that Sylvan Connor barged in after him and broke his nose.
Nor does she know that I’m meeting two of the players who are set to be on the ice in five minutes—according to the countdown on the jumbotron—after the game. Or that Sylvan has sent memultipletexts, including one yesterday reminding me Faust had something for me so I needed to be here, but another this morning, too.
S.C.
Be alone half an hour after we win.
What an arrogant asshole.
Half an hour. Extremely specific for a boy who won’t tell me who gave him my cell number.
I still haven’t worked out if I’m going to do as he said, or if I’ll simply leave with Cynthia andTas,as she told me to call her.
I see why Sylvan would’ve messed with her. She’s absolutely stunning, and while she’s giggling with the girls behind us now, she’s very knowledgeable about the game and the players without sounding like an obsessive fan.
According to Cynthia, Tas seems to have no idea Sylvan had been around any sort of dead body this week. And as far as the details, Cynthia and I both confirmed there was no mention of themanywhere:Not in the physical paper the school still put out, not online, not in the news, not even on social media. I scrolled through my account—mainly used for posting about books and philosophy before I got too busy with school, rarely with my face—and found nothing.
Nothing except the fact an incident occurred on campus in the form of the alert email I never read, and Jackson’s name written obituary-style discussing his death, but not the circumstances around it.
Cynthia hasn’t told Tasia, but thanks to some careful questioning during herfavoriteclass, Cyn found out that Tas and Sylvan were no longer dating, and Tas found he was too focused on hockey to do more than commit to fucking a girl here and there.
No warnings, though. No trash talking. Either Tas was scared to do so, or she’s still into him, as evidenced by her jersey.
Cynthia leans into me as hip-hop pumps from the speakers throughout the arena, more people taking their seats, the ice empty and already cleared by the Zamboni. Thankfully, Cynthia is by the exit, we’re three rows from the home team’s bench, and everyone on our row seems to be here so we don’t need to get up and let people by anymore.
“Have you talked any more to Nolan?” Cynthia asks, her voice in my ear. Tas is still catching up with the girls behindus, and besides that, the noise in the stadium is deafening. My physical anxiety prickles and I wonder if I should bring earplugs the next time I come to a game.
What next time?I chide myself. I’m only here because I have to be and because Cynthia, conveniently, said she invited Tas to sit with her and I should be there to hear anything about Sylvan when he ended up on the ice.
“He’s calmed down about the no lawyer situation since I haven’t been called in,” I tell my friend. “But he’s on standby. Ready to be at our place at any moment. His words.” I smile and tip my drink back, wondering if I’ll get another before the game even starts.
But if there’s any chance I’ll meet with Sylvan and Faust, maybe I should stay sober.
“He’s too much,” Cyn says with distaste. “But he seems to be good at his job. If he tells you to hire someone again, maybe you should listen.”
I nod once but say nothing.
The five-minute countdown passes too quickly and soon enough, we’re rising for “O Canada.” The woman belting out the words on the carpet rolled out over the ice is good, but as I stand there with everyone else in the arena, my mind is on how loud Tas squealed when they announced Sylvan in the starting lineup.
She wasn’t the only one.
In fact, it seemed like only Cynthia and I—along with Hamilton’s fans—kept our acknowledgment to a light applause. But when Sylvan Connor skated out onto the rink from the hallway he’d been hiding in with the rest of the team, I saw the appeal. Tall, fluid, he appeared more muscular in his padding, and that black and red jersey looked good on him, his blond hair curling out from under his black helmet.
I could’ve sworn he looked directly up at me and we locked eyes as Drake and Future pumped through the arena, butI scolded myself for thinking that. Every girl here probably imagined the same.
At the very least, one thing I know for certain is that Tas and Sylvan either were still fucking despite what she told Cyn, or he was so damn good at it, she couldn’t hate him for cutting it off, as loud as she screamed for number thirteen.
Faust was the last to come out,“Our team captain, Fausttttttt Darrrrliiiinggggg,”the MC announced, and the roar in the stands was insane. Sylvan’s applause didn’t even come close. I felt my heart pounding too hard in my chest as everyone sprang to their feet who wasn’t already on them, and even Lincoln’s blue-and-white fans were cheering for the dark-haired number thirty-three.
