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“Fine,” she says, and shuts the laptop.

I squeal and hug her.

The rink is about two-thirds full, which Kenzie says is good for a midweek, and the student section stands for the entire first period.

Warmups are warmups. They skate in circles and shoot, and somebody’s always the last one off the ice. Nash comes past our end twice and doesn’t look up either time.

Paige says, “He’s not going to wave at you?”

I say, “Thanks for reminding me.”

But it’s not personal. I’m not mad.

Then the lights go down for the announcements and come back up, and they line up for the first faceoff. Nash is at center ice with his stick across his knees. He wins the draw in about a quarter of a second. And then he’s just—vicious.

That’s the only thought I’ve got as I watch him across the ice. He plays the first period like he’s mad about something. He’s hitting people. He finishes a check in the corner in the first two minutes that puts a Rubin defenseman into the boards so hard the glass shakes in front of the people three rows below us. He doesn’t even look at the guy afterward; he just takes the puck and goes.

He talks the entire time. He’s got his mouthguard in, and he’s saying something to somebody on every single shift—to the guy lined up across from him, to a teammate, to a Rubin forward he skates past on his way to the bench.

Halfway through the first, somebody catches Koda high along the boards, and Nash is there before Koda’s back on his feet. He gets a glove in the guy’s face and a fistful of his jersey, and they’re chest to chest. The refs are already coming, and Nash says something with about four inches between them, and then he lets go and skates away with his hands out.

Kenzie says, “Oh my God.”

Paige says, “He’s going to get thrown out.”

He doesn’t get thrown out. Nothing even gets called.

The whole time, I’m standing up with my hands over my mouth, and my heart is racing like I’m the one he’s fighting. I should probably be concerned about this. I know about his temper. I know exactly what it costs him. I sat next to him in a plastic seat while he watched a whole game in a suit with his jaw locked, because of it.

But this isn’t that, and even I can tell it isn’t.

This is just him at work.

Jesus Christ, that’s my boyfriend.

It’s 1–1 in the second when there’s a stoppage down in our end for a puck over the glass.

They all just skate around while the officials sort it out. Nash is at the dot already, bent over with his hands on his knees. Koda’s getting a drink at the bench. And Rafe drifts along the boards below us, close to the glass, turning slow circles with his stick in one hand. Then he looks up.

Rafe skates to a complete stop at the sight of us.

“Is Rafe looking at us?” Bianca says.

“Why would Rafe be looking at us?” Kenzie says.

He’s not looking at us. I follow his gaze, and it goes past Kenzie and past Paige and lands two seats down on my right.

Tessa’s looking at the ice with a dead stare, and the hair on my arm stands up.

Rafe taps his stick once against the glass. Just once, flat.

I look back down at him, and Rafe looks angry.

“Tessa,” I say.

She turns to me, that look she had a second ago gone. “Yeah?”

“Do you know Rafe?”