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“I—yes. Thanks.”
“I’ll be in my office until practice starts.” He eyes the two of us for a moment. “Don’t overwork yourselves while I’m gone.”
The heck is that supposed to mean?
And why is she glaring at me like I’m the enemy?
She waits until Coach is out the doors to poke my chest hard enough to bruise. “What the hell was that, Cassiano?”
“What?” I rub at the sore spot.
“You interrupted me. As if you didn’t want to hear what I was just about to say.”
“It’s not that.” I frown. “I know you’re angry, but Coach isn’t the right target.”
“And who are you to decide that?”
I reel back. “I was just trying to help.”
“Well, don’t,” she snaps. Her eyes crackle with anger. “I didn’t ask you to. I was ignoring those creeps for a reason. Now I’ll have to be on my toes because they may seek me out for payback. But do you feel good that you helped?”
The way she spits out that last word lands like a slap on the face.
“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t think?—”
“Yeah, you didn’t. Men never do.” After one last glare that could melt steel, she pushes past me and marches right out of the gym.
I don’t know what to say, so I squeeze my jaws tight and stand there like the world’s biggest screwup. One thing is certain: I can’t possibly make this girl hate me more.
CHAPTER 18
LUZ
“Mierda.”
I turn into a statue just before dropping onto the ice. Max Cassiano is on the opposite goal, practicing his shots with military precision. A memory appears from the back of my mind of a news article I read a couple of years ago. It mentioned him along with the term sharpshooter, featuring a picture of Max in the middle of an incredible slapshot the opposing goalie had no chance of stopping. It broke a middle school record or something.
Back then, I got annoyed at all the fanfare. Where were the news articles about girls breaking hockey records?
Even worse, the bylines about my miracle recovery appeared in the health section and numerous medical journals. Not a peep in the sports section, though.
But that wasn’t Max’s fault. That was good ole institutionalized sexism. Just like how what happened with those creeps wasn’t either. I looked for him all week to apologize for overreacting, and no dice.
It could’ve been a coincidence. Both teams have been getting ready for major games tomorrow. Except it almost felt like he was avoiding me. Once I caught him changing tack abruptly the second he saw me heading over. On top of that, we haven’t texted since we exchanged phone numbers for the school project. But this week I sent him a couple of messages asking to talk, and the jerk left me on read.
Now, here he is. Suddenly. With no escape.
That’s probably because he hasn’t spotted me, though. There’s still a pile of pucks beside him, so he takes one and fires it like a cannon at the goal. Rinse and repeat without glancing back.
I make as much noise as possible when I drop onto the ice, even going as far as banging my stick against the boards. The noise catches him in the middle of picking up a puck. He turns over his shoulder and…
Well, I wish my opponents grew as pale upon my sight as he does.
“Hi.” I skate over until I stop at a reasonable distance. “Stop looking at the exit, and let’s talk.”
Those ridiculous blue eyes of his shift back to me. He clears his throat. “I didn’t think there was anything left to say.”
“Oh, now I know you’re being a brat.”
