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The ref signals a minor offense for number 21 of the Bulldogs. It sparks joy in me.
I figure being on a power play is better than what Coach Green had in mind, because he stopped screaming. At least for the duration of those two minutes. When it becomes clear we can’t even score when we have one extra man on the ice, he resumes the yelling.
The rest of the game goes even worse. When it ends, I’m glad we only lost by two goals, despite not scoring any.
I sit in the locker room, drenched in sweat and water. Coach Green has enough juice to scream at us some more, despite the obvious fact that he’s losing his voice.
“You all should be embarrassed!” He points around the locker room. “Do you wanna know what that looked like? Like a bunch of preschoolers trying out skates for the first time!”
Shit, I’m pissed off. Our little drama costs us this game. It might’ve been a friendly game, but the Bulldogs are at the top of the conference, and this sends a clear message that we’re at the bottom.
Leo’s face when the final buzzer rang is now engrained between the wrinkles of my brain. The self-satisfaction oozed from his pores, as if he expected no less than this result.
I bet my left butt cheek he’s texting his dad right this second about what a loser I am, and that in the next few minutes, my brother will call me with one of his condescending speeches. Cossimo Jr. only pretends to act like my eldest brother in moments like this, when he can be all sanctimonious. Otherwise he ignores me, and I prefer it that way.
I rip off my jersey like it’s the cause of all my problems. And yeah, maybe it’s not too mature of me, but it feels good to throw my pads on the floor with all my might.
“Jeez, you’re taking this hard.” Conor divests himself of his uniform like a regular person. “It’s only game one. We’re only going to get better from here on out.”
“I bet it’s because of his cousin,” Nate says, somewhat right on the money.
“Next time, we’ll win,” I grumble under my breath, peeling off my undershirt and slamming it on top of my pads.
“Anyway, while you process all of these emotions,” Nate says in a light tone as he checks his phone, “how about we crash a party tonight?”
I give him a look taken straight out of my mother’s book. A straight-up what the hell are you thinking, son? vibe.
“The Strikes won their game, and apparently, they’re all gonna hang out at some house party.” Since it’s clear I still don’t follow, he adds, “Let’s go ruin their party.” And he gives us all an unhinged smile.
“Bad idea. I’m in.” Conor laughs.
I have so much anger corroding my gut that instead of behaving, I feel my lips lift in a grim little arc and say, “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 8
LUZ
“Yeehaw!”
That may or may not have been me. I’m still reeling from our first win. Crammed in an Uber with half of the team shouting the lyrics of a pop anthem, there’s no way I’m coming down from this high.
I don’t even know whose house we’re headed to. Someone said the word party, and I was in. My back throbs like a toothache, but a good time will take care of that better than any over-the-counter painkiller. At least if I’m having fun, it’ll be easier to ignore the pain.
The lyrics artfully eviscerate trashy men, and someone screams, “Preach it, sister!” I bet the driver can’t wait to drop us all off and be free.
Dude halts the van in front of a Victorian house teeming with people, inside and out. There are people sitting on the windowsills, chatting with others on the porch or front yard, and passing drinks to someone inside. The bass coming from the house makes the asphalt vibrate beneath my feet. I don’t think my eardrums will come out unscathed from this. I still head over to the source of the noise. That’s where the fun is.
I lock arms with Chelsea, who stumbles in her heels as if she isn’t used to them. I foresee them being chucked out a window later tonight.
“Aight, ladies.” JT stops before the whole group, blocking our way to the entrance. “We scored a big win. Now, let’s rock this damn house tonight!”
I join in the chorus of hollers.
The second we walk in, every pair of eyes falls on us. Obviously, these Ivy League people have never seen a group of girls so hot in their lives.
I recognize the song playing on the speakers, and it gets my body alive. There’s a bounce in my step as I make my way through the crowd, closer to the speakers. A few people dance with beer in hand, swaying side to side to the tempo.
Someone grabs my hand, and I’m relieved to find it’s Brit. She gives me a grin that speaks volumes. Let’s show them how it’s done.
