I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
Translation:no. To both questions. There’s no way I want Adam knowing I was at the game stalking—I mean watching—him. And even if I did, I’m not playing postman for some hockey groupie.
But Face Paint Girl is undaunted. “Well, if you do see him, tell him Stacy will be at the Biscuit after the game tonight and she’d like to buy him a beer.”
“You’re Stacy?”
“No, she is.” Face Paint Girl points to a girl sitting on the other side of her, clutching a foam finger identical to Ian’s and staring at Adam with an intensity that matches my own. “I’m her wingwoman. Adam is in her world history class. She’s had a crush on him since the start of the semester. And if I have anything to do with it, tonight is the night she’s finally getting lucky with him.”
Okay, now I want to hitherwith the foam finger. And her friend. I want to scream to the rafters that Adam Serrano is off the market. That he’s mine, all mine. Put it up on the Jumbotron hanging from the center of the arena for everyone to see.
But I can’t do any of those things. So I swallow my jealousy—because yeah, that’s the only word for the green-eyed monster gnawing at my insides—and paste on a smile that I hope is Oscar-worthy.
“Well, good luck with that.”
I turn back to Ian and shove the finger at his chest. He lets out a lowoofand frowns.
“What’s got your knickers in a twist?”
“The game’s about to start. We should pay attention. Have you ever tried to follow hockey? It moves fast. And the rules are complicated. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand what icing is. And don’t get me started on what offsides means.”
“Oh, no. You’re not getting off the hook that easy.” He nudges me with his shoulder. Good thing he didn’t use that stupid finger again, or it would be in shreds. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous.”
“Of what?”
He shoots a not-so-furtive glance at Face Paint Girl and her friend. “If you’re going to date a hockey player, you better get used to the puck bunnies.”
“Number one.” I lower my voice and lean closer to Ian to make sure no one else can hear me. “I am not dating a hockey player. For crying out loud, we don’t even know if Adam bats for our team.”
I cross my fingers and say a silent plea that my nose doesn’t double in size at the lie. Lies, I correct myself. Iamdating Adam. Sort of. And I know which team—teams—he bats for.
“And number two,” I continue. “How do you even know what a puck bunny is?”
“Slapshot,” he answers quickly. “Paul Newman. Classic.”
Makes sense. Ian has a definite thing for Newman. The actor and his movies. I swear, he’s made me watchCool Hand Lukelike twenty times.
“Here.” I pull a pack of Goobers from my coat pocket—I’m wearing four layers of clothing because it’s so stinking cold in here—and drop it in his lap. “Eat these and watch the game.”
That ought to keep him quiet for a while. Which is exactly why I stuck them in my pocket on the way out the door. Ian loves Goobers. Personally, I’m more of a Raisinets fan. Dark chocolate is the bomb. Plus, they’re raisins, so that counts as fruit, right?
The chocolate-covered peanuts have their desired effect for a whopping total of ten minutes. But by the time he’s finished devouring them, Ian is totally into the game. Which means he’s forgotten all about grilling me about my love life. Or sex life. Or whatever-it-is-Adam-and-I-are-doing life.
Without Ian on my case, I’m able to get into the game too. The puck, the players, even the referees—everything moves at light speed. I have no clue what’s going on half the time—okay, more than half—but my heart is hammering, my palms are clammy, and I’m cheering like a maniac with the rest of the student section every time Moo U does something good. Or something I assume is good given that everyone else is screaming along with me.
Now I get why hockey is such a big deal here. It’s a total adrenaline rush, like the one I get from being on stage. And I’m not the one in the spotlight. I can only imagine how Adam and the other players out on the ice feel.
Of course, I spend most of the time watching the guy I came here to see. You know, the one I’m sleeping with on the sly. Game-time Adam is a thing to behold. There’s still joy in his skating, for sure, but now it’s matched by equal parts focus and determination. He’s like poetry on skates, whether he’s passing the puck, shooting at the goal, or battling against the boards. Even on the bench, he’s all business, studying the plays unfolding on the ice with an intensity that’s almost scary.
Moo U manages to eke out a 3-2 win, with Adam scoring the go-ahead goal in overtime. Ian and I scream until we’re hoarse, then he takes off for his work-study job at the campus fitness center, freaking out that he’s going to be late because the game ran long.
I’m in no rush to leave, so I wait until the crowd thins out before I head out of the arena. By the time I get to the main concourse, there’s only a few people milling around. Which makes it easy to spot Adam and a handful of his teammates coming from the direction of the locker rooms.
My first instinct is to turn and run. But that would probably look more suspicious than anything, so I decide to act like it’s no big deal and keep walking, even though it means Adam will know I came to watch him play.
“Hey, Adam,” I say as we near each other, giving him a wave that I hope to heck doesn’t look as awkward as it feels. “Great game.”
Adam looks like he’s about to lose his lunch, but to his credit he manages a pained smile and a polite nod. “Thanks.”
