“Thanks, Selena, but—” Remy starts, and my god, she’s thanking the usher while her heart’s being broken.
This guy never deserved her.
There has to be another way to get the control room’s attention off her.
I drop a stuffed fox onto the ice in front of me, swing my stick back, and launch that baby high into the stands. A few people in the crowd cheer as I make a game of this, and one of the camera guys on the ice to capture video for the Jumbotron feed swings his lens my way. Launching another fox, then another, I do what I despise—make myself the center of attention for anything other than the game itself.
“Here’s your feel-good news clip moment,” I growl.
Apparently, whacking a fox like it’s a puck does the job because the impromptu demonstration of my stick skills replaces the douchebag’s debacle on the overhead screen.
I send one more stuffed fox sailing into the stands for good measure.
Crisis averted, but only for now. The stuffed foxes are carted off the rink, and while we line up for the face-off, I steal a glance at the second row.
She’s gone.
There are two empty chairs, and not a bottle of champagne in sight.
I wish there were something I could do for her. For now, I dig in and channel my rage toward the opposing team. The instant the puck is free, I snag it, chasing it down the ice.
A D-man slams into me, or tries to, but I shove him away. Nothing is going to stop me now.
This puck is mine, and when I spot an opening, I sneak it past the goalie and score my second goal of the night. Another point to pad the total.
But even though we win, I’m not happy.
I can’t stop thinking about what happened to Remy. There’s nothing worse than people assuming they know you from what they’ve seen of you in public.
* * *
In the tunnel, Miller yanks off his goalie helmet. “What the fuck was that?”
“I know, right?” I shake my head as we trudge off the ice. “What a dick.”
That hardly covers it. If there’s an insult strong enough for that prick, I don’t know it. I need to spend serious time with a thesaurus—when I’m a little less angry.
Miller blinks, shoving a hand through his sweaty hair. “No, I meant—you were, ya know, fun and shit?”
I shoot him a look. “That’s what you noticed?”
But maybe it’s good he’s not focused on the breakup. Miller has eagle eyes, though it’s mostly for what’s happening on the ice. AndIwas happening on the ice.
“It’s nothing. We don’t need to talk about it.”
“But I kind of think we do, because it’s like you just peeled off a brand-new layer of the Lake onion that we didn’t even know existed,” he says.
“Nobody needs to know about my layers,” I warn Miller.
“Then you shouldn’t have been so fun in front of the whole arena.”
“I wasnotfun.”
“But you were, Lake Onion. You were.” He flashes a smile before he turns into the locker room.
But at least my fun side distracted him from what happened to my sister’s friend.
The whole time I’m untying my skates and shucking my shoulder pads at my stall, I think about how Remy must feel right now. Hurt, heartbroken, ashamed. I can’t believe some guy would be lucky enough to date her and then be dumb enough to let her go.
