Having an unregistered copy of my neighbor’s dorm room key came in handy. I knew it would when I got it—even before Penelope moved in. But this... this is just perfect.
I can’t wait to see what she does to get back at me. She won’t let things lie, she can’t, she’ll need to respond. This stupid prankwar started as a pain in the ass but it’s becoming something more, something I look forward to, something fun.
It’s a shame we’re at war for some unknown reason. If only she could get over herself and give in to the gravitational pull of our chemistry, I could kiss her all the time. I liked kissing her. I think she not only liked me kissing her but it felt like she might have liked kissing me too.
Tonight, however, I can’t let my thoughts linger on kissing her. She’s taken up enough space in my brain today, and it’s hockey night here at UCR. Her fucking brother Oliver Lindstrom, a senior and one of the best defensive hockey players in the NCAA division II, is in our barn.
I learned a lot from the de la Peña twins about Oliver and Penelope Lindstrom, children of Mike Lindstrom, former NHLer who crashed out of a professional career with a severe injury. Played at the same time Dad did. I made a mental note to give him a call and get the skinny on her dad. Maybe I can find an ‘in’ with her that way, find some common ground.
Further digging and asking around via chatting with some girls from Pitstop’s classes while they gushed over Bacon, our adorable team mascot, got me the information about her ex, Richard. Dick. And her best friend, Chloe. Cheating, traitorous fucks. Long-term cheating, too. And it seems damn near everyone knew but Penelope. Ouch.
Focus, Tate. No more Penelope-on-the-brain on game day, remember?
Right.
I can’t afford to take Penelope and our baggage onto the ice tonight. I can’t afford to get my ass benched. And mistakes happen on the ice in a fraction of a second. If I don’t pay attention, someone could end up hurt, probably me.
It’s the first period of the game, we’re halfway in on the ice, the clock ticks down from ten minutes, and already my lungsare burning. Apollo picks one off at center ice but we aren’t able to turn it over, and for his troubles he gets knocked down by Thompson of the Wolves.
Fitzmorris for the Raccoons looks for McGuffin, McGuffin catches up to it but one of the Wolves bounces a quick one back toward the line. From the momentum on the ice, it’s clear the Wolves are going to start up. On the far side of the ice, the puck is fired off the stick of Artemis, it hits the glass and goes into the crowd giving us another stoppage of the game. Breaking their momentum, and ours, too.
The pace of the game so far, as suspected, has a lot of energy. We’re really fucking great on the back-check.
Fitzmorris snaps it toward the net but it’s out of the reach of the goalie. Another miss. We can’t buy a fucking goal right now no matter what we do.
Fitz doesn’t back down though, he takes my pass and sends it back toward the net.
Holy fucking fuck! McGuffin comes out of nowhere and slams one of the Wolves into the boards, he goes down, hard. That was a huge hit from McGuffin. Talk about catching a man with his head down. The dazed and confused Wisconsin Wolves player did not expect that, but McGuffin... sheesh.
That’s a solid body.
He’s not known for physical play, but that’s one of the best hits I’ve seen him throw. We’ll take more of that please and thank you—just directed squarely at the Wolves.
The game continues, and the puck is played toward the middle, it’s sent to Apollo behind our own net. He plays it through all the way to Fitz, who tries to put it in the basket at the far end of the ice, but he misses.
Instead it ricochets off the boards and into the corner where Penelope’s brother, Oliver, and I battle for the puck. The damn thing is stuck, so I’m chipping at it with my blades—skate andstick—trying to get it to come loose and something connects with my stick. That something was Oliver Lindstrom’s fucking face. Shit.
When Oliver grunts and the whistle blows, I know I’m in trouble. I turn around slowly. Oliver has his glove off, tucked under his arm, and his palm is covering his bloody face.
Shit.
Not good.
Blood seeps through his fingers.
Double shit.
Pretty sure Pitstop’s in the rink tonight, too. The general level of Tate-loathing in the arena hitches up a good hundred points when she’s sitting in the stands. And I doubt she’d miss watching her brother play on our ice. She’s probably wearing a Wisconsin Wolves shirt for good measure, too.
With fire in his eyes, and his mouth curled into a snarl, Oliver lunges at me, swinging his fist at my face, but a lineswoman interjects, pulling him back. The referee sends me to the box for butt-ending—hitting someone in the face with the top of your stick. Thankfully, I only got a double minor, four minutes in the box, instead of a major, or a misconduct that I could have easily been handed.
I toss my stick and gloves against the penalty bench in frustration, followed by my helmet before I plop down to sit for four minutes. My blood is boiling, my body hot. It was a fucking accident.
Feeling someone’s gaze warming my already hot face, I fight the urge to look toward where I sense she’s glaring at me from. It has to be her. The level of hatred went from one hundred to one million on the scale.
I don’t need to make eye contact with her to know that she’s skinning me with a very sharp knife in her brain.
After four painful minutes, the left side of my face burns from the seething glare Penelope is no doubt sending my way. I don’t have time to let her nestle any deeper into my mind right now. Instead, I explode onto the ice in a frenzy of movement, ready to get back into the game and make shit happen.
