I shake my head. “I’ve only been to a few games, but what I’ve seen is enough for me to know that this—” I wave a hand toward the ice, where Adam is being chased down by number sixty-three, who’s been on him like glue all night. The guy’s huge. He makes Adam look puny in comparison, and that’s saying something. “This isn’t normal.”
“I’m surprised the refs aren’t calling more penalties,” Ian adds like this is his three-hundredth Bulls game and not his third. Or maybe he thinks the foam finger he’s waving like a maniac makes him a super fan and, ergo, a hockey expert.
“Watch out.” Hannah snatches the bucket of popcorn out of Ian’s lap just as it starts to tip over.
He high fives her with the foam finger. “Nice save. You’ve got quick reflexes. Maybe you should be out there on the ice. Moo U has a women’s team too, you know.”
“I’m more of a fan than an athlete.”
“Same, girl. Same.” He high fives her again. With the finger, of course.
I roll my eyes at them and divert my attention back to the action on the ice. Number sixty-three is at it again, shoving Adam hard into the boards behind the Moo U goal, and a disturbing thought occurs to me, making the knot already in my stomach even tighter.
“Can I borrow those binoculars for a second?”
“Number one, they’re opera glasses, not binoculars,” Ian says. “Opera glasses are smaller and designed for indoor use, and the magnification is lower so you can see a wider view of the stage. Or, in this case, the rink. And number two, I thought we agreed that you have your own personal, private hockey butt to ogle.”
“You guys agreed, not me. And I don’t want them for leering at anyone’s butt, or any other body part.”
“Then why do you want them?” Hannah asks.
“I’m trying to read the name on someone’s jersey.”
She takes the binoculars—sorry, opera glasses—from Ian and passes them to me. “Let me guess. Number sixty-three?”
“How did you know?”
“He’s been all over Adam all night. It’s like he has a grudge against him or something.”
“Adam jumped ship from Hartfield to Moo U.” Ian lowers the foam finger. Finally. “Maybe his former teammates aren’t so happy he changed sides and is playing for the enemy.”
“I don’t know. It seems like it’s more personal than that, at least for sixty-three.” Hannah’s popcorn-filled hand freezes halfway to her mouth and she turns to me, her eyes wide as the puck flying around on the ice, the thought clearly dawning on her too. “Oh my God. Do you think he’s the guy who said Adam sexually assaulted him?”
“Someone accused Adam of sexual assault?” Ian, who speaks at eighty decibels in normal conversation, shouts so loud I’m convinced the fans on the other side of the arena can hear him, even over the noise of the game. “That’s serious shit.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I hiss, reaching across my stunned sister, ripping the foam finger off his hand, and smacking him with it. “Keep your voice down. You might as well announce it on the Jumbotron.”
Hannah’s puck-sized eyes get even wider. “You swore. You never swear.”
“There’s a first time for everything.” Like when you’re freaking out that, thanks to you and your big mouth, your boyfriend’s deep, dark secret just got exposed to a metric bleep-ton of college hockey fans.
Okay, so I guess I’m not completely broken of the no-swearing habit.
Ian snatches the foam finger back from me. “What happened?”
“With what?”
“With Adam, obviously. And the—” He looks around to see if anyone’s paying attention to us. They’re not, fortunately, because something’s happened down on the ice that has everyone cheering. He lowers his voice a few decibels anyway, to something slightly above a stage whisper. “Assault thing.”
“I’m not sure I should be talking about this.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “In fact, I’m sure I shouldn’t be.”
“I’m sorry.” My sister at least has the decency to look appropriately ashamed. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Another roar erupts from the crowd, and people start leaping to their feet. I glance at the scoreboard. Moo U has 1-0 lead. Part of me wants to know who got credit for the goal, but the bigger part is focused on dealing with the immediate threat of keeping my best friend and my sister from doing any further damage. If it’s not too late for that already.
“Please tell me he didn’t do it,” Ian says in his not-quite stage whisper. “That it was all some sort of big misunderstanding.”
Close enough. “It was, yes. And I can’t believe you think I’d date a sex offender.”
