FIRST PERIOD
JULY
1.JP McQUAID- GOALS
2008
“Of course,” I grumbled to myself. Of fucking course our locker room was locked. The rest of my team was out on the ice—where I should’ve been—but I stupidly got a game misconduct.
Pulling off my helmet, I leaned my head against the cool door and squeezed my eyes shut, willing them to stop burning. I shouldn't have cared what those assholes on the other team said to me. I shouldn’t have lost my cool like that. But they somehow found the one thing they knew would make me mad and then they kept pushing me on it.
I should’ve been marching back out to the rink to watch the rest of the game from the boards, but I couldn't stomach it. If we lost, Coach would blame the whole game on me—stupid, but true—and then we’d slip in the rankings. We were currently just barely hanging on to ninth place in the league, and if we fell out of the top ten, we’d have to fight like hell to get a spot at Nationals. So, no, I would not watch. I’d stay right here, leaning against the locked locker room door.
“Are you okay?” someone asked, making me drop my helmet to the ground.
Fuck. I did not want company.
“M’fine,” I mumbled, hoping whoever it was would just move on. Admittedly, I did probably look a little weird standing in the hallway with my head against the door like a toddler put in time-out.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I said, my annoyance growing by the second.
“Okay, but…you don’t look okay.”
I finally opened my eyes, ready to argue, but as soon as I saw her, the words died in my throat.
Because it was a girl. A small girl. Based on her tights and dress and the way her blonde hair was pulled back in a low bun, she had to be a figure skater. She was definitely a year or two younger than me. She had a curious little birthmark between her nose and the corner of her mouth. Altogether she was cute. Really fucking cute. So cute that I couldn’t talk. As a freshman at an all-guys school, I hadn’t talked to a girl in what felt like years, and it suddenly felt like I forgot how.
Rolling her lips together, she squinted up at me. “You look like you’re crying.”
I shook my head.
“You're sure? Your eyes are all red. Right”—she reached toward my face, making my whole body jolt as she traced her delicate finger under my eye—“there.”
“I’m not.” I pushed her hand back to herself as gently as I could. Who was this girl? And why was she so touchy?
“Okay.” She shrugged. “Then why are younotcrying?
Shifting uncomfortably, I said, “People say shit, and I let it get to me. It doesn't matter.” I craned my neck to look out to the East side ice where this girl should’ve been practicing. “Aren’t you supposed to be out there?”
“Ahh.” Her brown eyes lit up like I just gave her the inside scoop. “So they’re chirping you? Don’t hockey players all chirp each other? Did you say something mean back to the other guy?”
“No, I didn’tsayanything, I punched him—a lot, which is why I got kicked out.”
A giggle bubbled out of her, and I couldn’t help it, the corner of my lips tipped up.
“How do you know about chirping?” I asked her.
“My dad’s a hockey coach,” she explained. “So, what did they say to you?”
I stared at her. Did she really think I was going to just say it?
“Well?” she pushed.
My eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Well, I’m not gonna repeat it.”
“Why not?” Her curious brown eyes were so large that she resembled a cartoon character.
