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“I’m watching the game. He’s got the puck. Where else would I look, up at the scoreboard? Those guys in the stands with their chests painted orange?”
“I’m amazed you even noticed them, the way you’re ogling his ass.”
I rolled my eyes and ignored him, but I felt my cheeks flaming. I had just been picturing Spencer naked. He’d been busy these past few days, gearing up for his game, plus Leon had taken the whole weekend off. I was starved for the feel of him, his warm Old Spice smell. Leon or no Leon, I’d have him tonight.
“You’re doing it again! There you go staring!”
I kicked out, frustrated. “I’m watching the game.”
“With those dreamy eyes! Don’t— oh, shit. Fight!”
I whirled back to the screen, and Enrique was down. Rodriguez was locked in a three-way pushing match, him and two guys from the opposite team. They’d formed a tight circle, shoulder to shoulder, and seemed to be trying to shove each other off-balance. More players swarmed in. The crowd chanted fight. The ref blew his whistle, then blew it again.
“Who started it?” said Leon.
“I didn’t see. Someone was distracting me, making up stories.”
Leon groaned. The fight heated up. Rodriguez went reeling into the boards. Spencer sailed in, arms spread wide, yelling something I couldn’t hear over the crowd. Whatever it was, the players backed off, and the ref sent the biggest one to the penalty box.
“Guess he started it,” I said.
“Yeah. I got that.” Leon grabbed the chips and tugged the bag open. It tore down one side, spilling chips on the couch.
“Nice one,” I said. “I’ll go get a bowl.” By the time I got back, the game had moved on. Spencer had scored, bringing the score to six-three. Leon seemed to have forgotten about me and Spencer, and was yelling at our goalie to move his ass, dammit.
“Get back in the crease! What are you doing?”
The goalie swung back and crouched in the net. The puck came sailing, and he slapped it away. Leon screamed go, and I screamed with him. Our bowl of chips bounced on the cushions between us.
“I can’t see what’s happening!”
“They’re all in the crease!”
“Now, that’s elbowing.” I shook the remote at the screen. “Did you see that? He’s elbowing. He just elbowed Spencer. Hey, asshole?—”
“Of course he only calls it when it’s on Spencer.”
“Blow your damn whistle! Elbowing! Elbowing!” I squinted, trying to see through the skirmish of sticks. The commentator was losing it, bellowing nonsense. The puck goes, Rodriguez, Rodriguez, now Nash, and it’s Spencer Nash, and he’s, no, he’s lost it! Johnson hooks back and it’s Johnson, it’s Johnson. He’s weaving, he’s moving, he shoots AND HE SCORES! That’s seven-three now, for you counting at home, and that’s a goal, a spectacular play, just stole it off Nash and drove back on in there?—
I flung myself back, nearly upsetting the chip bowl. “No way. No way. That was elbowing, right?”
“I mean, yeah, it looked that way.” Leon swigged from his beer. “Spencer’s gonna be pissed tonight. In one of his moods.”
“He could still pull it out. It’s only first period.”
The camera zoomed in on Spencer, and I tried to read his expression, but I couldn’t see much behind the cage of his helmet. Still, he seemed tense to me. Leon was right. He needed to ease up, let the past be the past. Quit dwelling on the last goal and focus on the next one.
“Come on,” I muttered, under my breath.
Spencer flubbed the next face-off, and I could see his frustration. It was there in his posture, in his fast, jerky movements. In the way his blades scraped and chipped at the ice. The horn blew for the end of first period, and he thumped the boards with his fist on his way off the rink. One of his teammates leaned in and said something, but whatever it was, it made Spencer’s shoulders go tense.
“These chips are stale,” said Leon. “I’ll go make us some snacks.”
I nodded without hearing him, still staring at the TV. Spencer was gone from the screen, but I kept hoping for a glimpse. Something to tell me he was doing okay. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Leon wasn’t lurking, then patted through the cushions till I found my phone.
It’s been a rough night for Nash, went the TV. He started out strong, but that first goal really threw him. The way Reece flew in, how he took the puck, he wasn’t expecting that. Never saw it coming. Something like that in those first five minutes?—
“Shut up,” I said. I muted the TV. I couldn’t think at first what to say to Spencer, what magic words might break through his funk. He’d seemed anxious this morning, now I thought back, in the two minutes I’d seen him on my way out the door. I’d held him away from me while I scouted for Leon, then leaned up and kissed him, a rushed little peck. He’d caught my wrist and pulled me in closer.
