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“Fuck you, man,” someone yells from a row behind us and I let go of Erik’s arm as if he’d spontaneously caught fire. I also catch the gleam in Graham’s eyes at the bad word and I have to fight the urge to lecture the asshole on language usage in front of other people’s children. “That was such a dick move. Maroni clocked that guy. Totally illegal. The refs are fucking blind.”
“Wasn’t an illegal hit,” Erik repeats to the angry man whose red and black face paint is bleeding down his neck into the collar of his jersey.
“He hit him in the head!”
I might know nothing about hockey, but I want to agree on that one. A hit to the head seems like something that shouldn’t be allowed, even with helmets. My knowledge of football might be even less than my knowledge of hockey, but I know bad things happen to people who take too many hits to the head.
“Head wasn’t the intended point of contact and they both had eyes on the puck, not Maroni’s fault that Thompson had his head down.”
“Fucking traitor.” The guy yells back and I’m a little worried we’re going to have beer thrown at us, or something worse.
“Ignore him,” Erik says, which is easier said than done. He turns back to the game as the opposition finally intercepts a pass and the whistle stops play. The injured player has managed to get to his feet and a few of his teammates bolster him as he weaves toward the bench and off the ice.
“You know a lot about hockey,” I say as the thumping beat of classic rock pumps through the arena. “Are you a ref?”
Erik laughs, but it sounds off. “No. I never reffed, but I played for a while. Back in high school.”
“Why do I just know that is an understatement?”
He winks at me. Honest-to-God winks. But then he doesn’t look away. He’s holding my gaze and heat unfurls in my stomach like a shot of liquor. My limbs feel heavy. I feel the blush climb my neck and spread across my cheeks. This is unreal. It must be the thrill of being here, the energy of the crowd. Lust at first sight isn’t a real thing.
“I’m a man of mystery,” he says and then raises his hand to my face.
Erik’s fingers curl then flex as if he wants to brush them over my skin, but he’s stopping himself. Maybe there’s something on my face? I scrub at my cheeks.
A catchy fifties girl group belts through the loudspeakers and I recognize the song moments before the Kiss cam fires up again. They get three quick hits in succession as the image pans over the crowd. And yes, I’ll be the first to admit that it was adorable when a tiny woman with white ringlets grabbed the cheeks of the equally tiny man she was sitting next to and planted a smacking kiss on his smiling mouth. Not humiliating or weird at all.
“I have to warn you,” Erik says, his voice hushed and rushed. I turn my head to look at him and we’re so close our noses almost bump. “There’s a high chance they’re coming back for us.”
Coming back for us? I suppose it makes sense that they’d try again. The crowd had seemed almost manic with glee over the prospect of me and Erik being thrown together. And while I’m deciding what I’m going to do if he’s right, there we are again, framed in a pulsing red heart, my hair clashing with the animation. Erik is already looking at me, his face turned toward mine. The stadium erupts again, catcalls and jeering as people chant for us to kiss, kiss, kiss.
“They’re probably going to keep coming back for us until we fall in line.” Erik says and I can barely hear him over the pulse drumming in my ears.
“Fall in line,” I echo, my eyes dipping to his wide mouth. His lips are pale pink and they’re wet from where he swiped his tongue over them.
“Or we can just keep ignoring them. I can even resort to drastic measures and flip them the bird.” He tips his head down to find my eyes.
I snort at that, and Erik smiles.
“You can’t flip off the camera. There are children present.” And I don’t mind kissing him. I want to, actually.
“So you’re saying—”
I’m about to tell him to kiss me, about to grab his ears and pull his mouth to mine. His hazel eyes are flitting all over my face. His hair is falling over his forehead, making him look young and boyish and approachable. His jaw is rock hard, flexing as he watches me. I can see the muscles contract and relax. I would give almost anything to know what thoughts are running through Erik’s head right now.
“That’s right, traitor. Betray your team some more and kiss the Arctic-loving bitch.”
That’s the same angry fan as before. I not only recognize the voice, but I find it hard to believe Erik could have made multiple enemies in one hockey period. Erik sucks in his breath, his nostrils flaring, and I know he’s about to do something rash. Not entertaining, once-in-a-lifetime rash either, something heroic and probably stupid. On camera. I’m going to have significantly less fun if he gets himself ejected from this game.
The camera tires of waiting and moves on to another couple, but Erik doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes have gone glacial and his brows pinch together. His shoulders are tense. Other than my dad, I’ve never seen another person so angry on my behalf. The players hit the ice again and Erik doesn’t even notice.
“Hey,” I say, leaning closer and placing my palm on his granite thigh. He flinches at the contact, and I almost lose my nerve except that I’m desperate to distract him. “Joke’s on that jerk. I don’t actually love the Arctic at all.”
I get through to him, just like I intended.
“What?” Erik says with a laugh. He pulls back to look at me, but not enough to dislodge my hand.
I nod. “My dad’s the fan. This is his season ticket seat. This is his jersey for his favorite player—Victor Varg—and his hat. I’m here because he was going to miss his first game in thirty-five years and that was unacceptable to him.” Thoughts on the team aside, it was unacceptable to me, too.
