Back in the main hallway, the crowd’s pouring in. Drums, chants, and shrieks fill the rink. Girls line up in the first row, all eager to get a peek at the players. Nothing surprising, really. They’re at every practice, oohing and aahing like these boys are God’s gift.
I scan the seats, craning around to focus.
“Gracie should be here by now,” I mutter and pull out my phone.
Sam:Where are you? The game is about to start, and you promised.
I hit send and head down the tunnel. My phone buzzes, and I pause to read the message.
Roomie:I’m here.
Roomie:Regretfully.
Sam:Thank you, roomie.
Roomie:Yeah. Yeah. I hope your team loses.
Sam:That makes two of us. But, after the run-in I just had with one of the Baymont players, I kinda want the Knights to win.
Sam:It’s like some universal asshole trait among the hockey players.
Roomie:Oh God. What happened?
Sam:Nothing I can’t handle.
I tuck my phone away and search the rink again. Finally I spot her sitting at the center of her section. She’s not close to the bench, but with where she’s sitting, I can at least make eye contact with her throughout the night.
Getting her to agree to this was like pulling teeth. I don’t know what her beef is with the team, but every time I talk about them, she gets a little weird. Like now. She’s here but doesn’tseem to really be present. She’s wearing a hoodie that’s pulled tight. Her arms are locked and her eyes flick around the stadium.
It’s different from her usually bubbly self. When we’re alone in our dorm or in the cafeteria, she’s the life of the party, always making me laugh. But as soon as I let off my late-night, I-hate-them rant, or we cross paths with one of them, her entire demeanor shifts. It’s like she becomes a different person.
It was the same when I cursed the chancellor for making me do this. Gracie flinched, but quickly pulled herself together. It was subtle, barely there, but I caught it.
I push the thoughts from my mind. No sense in dwelling. If she doesn’t want to talk about it, I can’t force it. I mean, who am I to demand that of her when I’ve been keeping things bottled up, too. I guess we have more in common than I thought.
The bench tunnel looms ahead. The only thing left on my list is setting up the hydration station. I stroll forward, more on reflex, as I watch players move to the ice. The sound of blades echoes off the concrete walls. When I put my attention back in front of me, I freeze, barely keeping myself from running into him.
Jackson. He hops by, his crutches thudding against the cement flooring. He’s flanked by a few guys, some I recognize from class and others I don’t. Every single one of them stares. Hard. Their eyes sharp with accusation, disgust etched deep in their brows. If looks could kill, I’d be face down in a pool of my own blood.
A chill licks up my spine, and the only thing colder is the pit forming in my stomach. They don’t speak. Hell, they don’t need to. The hatred is clear—pure vitriol. I try to ignore them and keep on my way, but before my feet can move, I see Christina.
Her squad of all glossy hair and perfectly rehearsed laughter saunters by, and I’m met with the same energy. It oozes fromthem—tight smiles and eye rolls. They don’t even know why they don’t like me. Just that their precious leader told them to.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise. It just sucks that it took me nearly being assaulted to finally see the validity in Gracie’s warning.
Christina is a mean girl, through and through.
She played the ally. Pretended to be friendly, inclusive, supportive. Until I injured her precious Jackson.
The moment that incident happened with Jackson, she showed her true colors. She joined in on the antics, getting just as big a laugh as anyone else when Jackson and his crew taunted me.
They move on, taking seats directly behind the bench tunnel, forcing the girls who were sitting there to move. I shake my head and suck in a breath, deciding not to let them get in my head. There are more important things for me to worry about.
“Waiting on me?” I hear a voice behind me and turn to see who it belongs to.
Aaron.
Uggh, I groan. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
