“You never know.” Ian winks at me, so I know he’s teasing. Trying to lighten the mood and make me smile. “His ass is pretty spectacular. Not to mention his back and chest. And those eyes—”
Ian fans himself with the foam finger and pretends to swoon, slumping in his seat. I laugh along with my sister and let myself relax a little, thinking I’m in the clear until something in the row behind me just over my right shoulder catches the corner of my eye.
A guy who looks vaguely familiar is scribbling in one of those skinny notepads with the spiral rings on top. Who brings a notebook to a hockey game? And what is he writing?
I turn my head about ten degrees to get a better view without tipping him off that I’m watching him. That’s when recognition smacks me in the face, making my rib cage tighten around my heart and my stomach plummet to my feet. He’s a reporter for the school newspaper. He interviewed me when he covered the theater department’s fundraiser for Broadway Cares/Equity Fights Aids last semester.
I cling momentarily to the possibility that he hasn’t overheard our conversation. That he’s writing about the game. That fantasy comes to an abrupt halt when he sticks his pen between the spirals of his notebook, shoves both into his coat pocket, and stands, looking me in the eye and giving me a mock salute.
“Thanks for the scoop. My editor’s going to love this. It’ll probably be our lead story. Front and center on the homepage. I can see the headline now: ‘Is Moo U Hockey A Home For Sexual Predators?’”
Then he sprints up the stairs, taking all my dreams of a rosy, I-love-you-filled future with Adam along with him.
23
Adam
“Holy shit, man.” Cal claps me on the back then pulls off his helmet and tosses it into his locker. “That goal was sick.”
“Yeah,” Tate agrees, plopping down on the bench next to me and bending over to untie his skates. “Way to put us over the top in the last seconds of regulation and stick it to your old team.”
“Especially sixty-three. What was Thompson’s problem, anyway?” Lex asks, sitting on the other side of me and following Tate’s example by unlacing his skates.
I could tell Lex exactly what Chase’s problem is. But that would mean telling him—and the rest of the team currently celebrating our win by dousing each other with Gatorade—why I left Hartfield. And like I said, this is a celebration. I’m not ruining it by bringing up negative shit. Coach Garfunkle would be all over me for harshing our vibe. Or disturbing our chi, or whatever he calls it.
“Doesn’t matter. What matters is we showed them who’s boss where it counts. On the scoreboard.” Our 2-1 victory was a little too close for comfort, but at the end of the day, a W is a W.
I pull off one skate, then the other, and place them—not throw them, like some other people—in the bottom of my locker. I’m as jazzed about our win as the rest of the team. Probably more given that it was an added measure of payback for what my ex and the team and the school put me through. And I’m anxious as hell to shower and get into my civvies so I can see Kolby. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to take care of my gear. A hockey player is only as good as his equipment.
Lex nods and slaps me on the shoulder. “You got that right.”
The party atmosphere continues as we shower and change, guys laughing and singing and snapping towels at each other. We’ve got a lot to be happy about. We’ve just beaten one of our biggest rivals—if not the biggest. If we keep playing like this, we’ll be in contention to clinch the conference championship. Maybe even win the conference tournament and secure a guaranteed bid to the NCAA tourney.
“Last one at the Biscuit buys the first round,” Lex shouts as he shoves his arms through the sleeves of his jacket. He wags a warning finger at me in only my jeans, still barefoot and bare chested. “You better hurry up. I heard a rumor some of the guys are planning to order top shelf and really screw whoever gets stuck paying.”
I shrug and smile, reaching for the shirt hanging in my locker. “Fine by me. They deserve the good stuff after the way they played tonight.”
I may have scored the winning goal, but tonight was definitely a team effort. We wouldn’t have gotten the W if the guys hadn’t kept Chase off me long enough for me to get my stick on the puck for that breakaway.
Lex shakes his head and starts for the door, calling over his shoulder as he goes. “It’s your funeral, man. And your wallet.”
But his words bounce off me. I’m like that flying green chick in that musical Kolby’s always playing on repeat. Nothing’s gonna bring me down. Not shelling out top dollar for booze for my teammates. Not even the possibility of running into my ex. Especially when I know I’ll have Kolby by my side.
He promised to meet me outside the locker room after the game. The thought of him waiting for me in the hallway spurs me to move faster than a dent in my bank account ever could, and I’ve got my shirt and shoes on in record time.
“Hey, Serrano, your boyfriend’s outside,” Tate says, poking his head inside the locker room door just as I’m about to grab my coat and go find my man. Seriously, it’s like the dude can read minds or something. “He wants to see you ASAP. Says it’s important.”
I don’t even get the chance to respond before Coach Keller is calling my name. Or more like barking my name.
“Serrano. My office. Now.”
Shit. That’s his you-fucked-up-big-time voice. After what we did on the ice tonight, I can only guess that what’s got him riled up isn’t game related. Which means he’s going to chew me out for something else. Something personal.
My mind starts spinning, trying to figure out what I could have done to get Coach pissed off. I’m so preoccupied, I forget Tate is there until he clears his throat to get my attention. “Sorry. Tell Kolby I’ll be out as soon as I’m done.”
“Okay, man. Good luck with Coach.”
“Thanks.” I have a feeling I’m going to need all the luck I can get.
