I think about Gianna living in her brother’s shadow. It’s fair for her to feel the way she does, and I get it, too.
“But don’t be sneaky, Lucy. Tell her before he does. She’ll respect you more.”
“Shouldn’t she hear it from her brother?”
Mara scoffs. “He’s a boy. It’s not the same. Us girls need to stick together.”
“You’re right.”
“I am always right.”
We walk to the rink at six-fifteen. The air is colder than it has been all week, and our Camdenth is making small clouds in front of us. Mara has on her own Wolves crewneck and the same eyeliner she did on me. Her hair is in two French braids. She is in a mood.
Halfway there, she nudges me with her shoulder. “You know Gianna and Benson’s parents are going to be at the rink tonight, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Do they know who you are?”
“Um,” I say. “I’ve said hi to her mom over the phone. They know I live with Gianna.”
“Right. We probably won’t see them anyway.”
I inhale. I hope not.
We get to the arena at six twenty-seven. The line into section 117 is a slow shuffle of Wolves crewnecks and the smell of nachos. Mara has decided that we are sitting halfway up the section on the right side becausethat’s the side they attack twice, Lucy, we are getting our money’s worth.
We are not paying for these seats. Mara’s logic remains. The seats fill in around us. The crowd noise is starting to build. The lights drop into the pre-game blue. The PA cuts in with the announcer’s voice. The team comes out of the tunnel.
I find him without trying. He’s third out of the tunnel in his jersey with the C on his left chest. He’s looking down at the ice,and even from halfway up the section, I can see how he’s in his element. He looks beautiful. He looks like a captain.
The team takes the blue line for the anthem.
Mara stands. I stand. Everyone in the rink stands. The girl behind us is singing, and she sounds pretty good. Benson has his helmet under his arm, looking at the flag. Then his eyes scan the crowd — quick, professional, the way I have watched him scan a room at a party — and they find me. My heart leaps. He just stares for a moment, and he looks back at the flag. The anthem ends. The crowd roars. The teams Camdenk up. He puts his helmet on.
Halfway through the first period, on a power play, Blue carries the puck up the right side and dumps it in behind the UCLA defenseman. Benson is there. He picks it up off the boards. He cuts to the net. He puts the puck on net, and the goalie kicks the rebound out. And it lands on Benson’s stick. He tips it up and over the goalie’s left shoulder.
The arena erupts.
Mara screams. I scream. The girl behind me screams in a singing voice. Benson is mobbed by Stanley and Blue and the other player I don’t know. The horn is going. The PA is announcing his name and number. The replay is on the big screen.
He skates past our section a minute later as the line is changing. He doesn’t look up. I know he’s choosing not to look up. I know he’s protecting what we have.
Wolves win three to one.
The handshake line forms at the end of the third. The teams move down the line. UCLA’s roster is about what I expected — except that Paxton Bowie is not in their lineup tonight. He was on the bench for the first period, and then I did not see him again. Mara leans into me at the start of the third and says intomy ear, ”Paxton is sitting tonight, by the way, in case you were wondering.”
I had been wondering. A horn blows. The guys shake hands. The lights come up. Music blasts, and the crowd starts moving toward the exits. Mara loops her arm through mine on the way down the steps.
I want to ask her if she’s going to be at the Hawthorne House tonight, but I’m afraid she’s going to ask me the same question, and I don’t want to lie.
We walk back to the apartment in the cold. The sidewalks are full of people in Wolves gear. A guy on State Street with a six-pack under each arm is yellingLET’S GO WOLVESat every other person who walks past. A girl in front of us is on the phone with someone telling them about Benson’s tip-in shot in detail.
At the stoop of our building, Mara hugs me. “I’m not coming up. I’m going home. I have a thing tomorrow.”
“A thing?” I question.
“A boy thing.”
