Page 137 of This is a Kissing Book

I consider declining, but the alternative is another night alone in Linc’s penthouse, overthinking every moment of our relationship.

“Fine. But I’m warning you, I know absolutely nothing about this sport you call hockey.” I intentionally mispronounce it with a little French flair just to show my bestie that I’m not that far gone.

She laughs and I know I’ll be okay. I mean, I will. Right?

“Perfect. We can learn together.”

Though growing up with three brothers, this is more of an indulgence than anything, since I do know the rough gist of the game, emphasis on rough. But maybe a bit of rowdy skating with sticks is what I need right now.

47

JULES

The Chicago Breeze arena buzzes with energy that’s infectious even for people who can hardly tell a puck from a pancake—by the way, I wanted to bathe in the spiced whipped cream from brunch the other day. Yes, it was that good.

Oly and I order overpriced nachos and Nate tucks in with a couple of hot dogs.

“Okay, so what do we know so far?” Oly asks, helping herself to a chip slathered in yellow cheese.

“There are three periods,” Nate explains.

“That’s a good start. But I was talking about Juliana and Linc.”

“I thought we were talking about hockey,” her husband says.

Glad for a diversion, at least for now, I state the obvious, “It’s cold.”

Nate’s eyes swirl with the kind of frenzied excitement I’ve seen from my brothers. “And they fight each other.”

“Like, actually fight?” Oly asks..

“Sometimes. It’s encouraged.” He winks.

She grins. “I like this sport already.”

The arena fills rapidly, a sea of blue-and-white Breeze jerseys and team merch surrounding us. The energy is electric—music pounding, lights flashing, fans chanting in unison. When the players take the ice for warm-ups, the crowd erupts.

“This is intense,” I shout over the noise.

“And we haven’t even started yet,” Nate shouts back.

Oly leans over during a break in the music. “Want to play red flag, green flag while we watch?”

“Sure, but your potential boyfriends will be the Breeze players and mine will be the Outlaws.”

This is but another one of our games we used to play when we were both single. I know she’s doing it for my benefit now that she’s married and wouldn’t so much as dream about another man, But she knows I need to take my mind off Linc—he’s all I want to think about.

Speaking of green, I might be pining for the man I once despised.

“We’ll just analyze the players based on hockey skills and body language, then decide if they’re relationship material. Green flag for good boyfriend potential, red flag for run-away-fast.”

I laugh despite myself. “Oly, we can’t even see their faces through those helmets.”

“That’s what makes it fun.”

No sooner do we decide that the goalie for the Breeze seems sweet and wholesome, does the game begin with a fury and pace I wasn’t expecting. Considering they’re wearing skates, the players race across the ice at impossible speeds. My date with Linc sends me spinning in mental circles. He was a really good skater. We held hands. We joked around. I felt so far from hating him … did I ever really?

So much for red flag, green flag. The game zips along with the puck flying between sticks so fast I can barely track it. The crowd roars with every near-miss, every hit, every spectacular save by the goalies.