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Kelly whips his head toward her. “What do you mean finally?”
“Didn’t you see them at the party?” Rach replies. “Dude’s eyeballs were glued to Lake.”
“Shut up. They were not,” I mutter. Even though, hearing that? I like it. I like it a whole lot. Wings of excitement flap inside my chest, gathering speed and strength. Is this supposed to be butterflies? Because it feels like something way bigger. Albatrosses or condors or pelicans. Yeah. It figures other people get butterflies, and I get pelicans.
“Good for you,” Rach nudges me with her shoulder. “You go and bang your brother.”
“He’s not my brother,” I say. “Would you please, fucking please, keep your voice down.” I’m already regretting bringing them, but it’s too late now.
Those feathered creatures that now inhabit my chest only seem to get wilder when the teams skate onto the ice.
“My bad. You go and bang your boyfriend,” Rach says with a shit-eating grin.
“For shit’s sake, learn to whisper!” I hiss. “You can’t out him! And he’s not my boyfriend.”
She snaps her mouth shut and looks suitably contrite for a second. Only a second though. Because then she’s on it again.
“Why not?” she asks, at least somewhat quieter now.
“It’s just… not like that,” I say.
“Well, what’s it like then?” she asks.
“Just watch the game.”
“It hasn’t started yet.”
“Hey, who are the other dudes?” Kelly extends his neck and saves me from Rachel’s interrogation.
“Uh… the other team?” Rach replies. “I know you’ve never been to a game, but that’s how these team sports events generally work.”
“I meant what school,” Kelly says.
“Notre Dame.” She gestures toward the ice. “It’s on their chests. In capital letters.”
“Huh. So it’s not a tribute to France?”
“No, idiot.”
“Have you ever considered becoming a teacher?” Kelly asks. “Because you’re so inspiring to curious minds. Let me paint a picture for you. You’d ask a five-year-old what two plus two is. They’d go, ‘Five.’ You’d say, ‘No, four,’ and then call them a useless bag of shit.”
“You can’t swear in front of children,” Rach says primly. “Even I know that.”
They keep bickering, but I’m not really paying attention anymore.
I find Ryker without any trouble. I don’t even have to see his jersey to know it’s him. I just know. The way he holds himself is familiar, and the way he moves is familiar.
Both teams skate around the rink for a bit.
The crowd gets progressively louder, the excitement even more palpable. It’s almost impossible not to get swept up by the atmosphere.
The rows behind us are up on their feet, singing and doing some sort of dance. Rach tugs on my hand, and I push myself to my feet, too. I don’t know the words, and I don’t dance because I’m terrible at it, but I sort of sway from side to side and when Ryker skates past our section, I put my thumb and forefinger in my mouth and let out a loud whistle, which, since I’m just the kind of person with that kind of luck, I time right for when everybody else has obviously read some silent cue that the game is about to begin, and they start taking their seats. So there I am, the only one standing, whistling loudly.
Ryker slows to a stop and glances toward our section.
And stares.
He cocks his head to the side for a moment, like he’s not sure he’s seeing right. His eyes are aimed straight at me.
