Because of course she has ankle boots in our school color.
She looks the part of a girlfriend even though she isn’t (not saying half the team hasn’t tried, though). Meanwhile, I’m in jeans and a sweatshirt that says “Pine Valley Gymnastics” because that’s the only school spirit-adjacent item I own. I squirm on the bench. There’s no way my mom is going to buy this story for much longer; it’s so shoddily put together I might as well be the pig who built his house out of hay.
My mom glances over at Tessa with a wide smile. “Roommate Tess! Oh hi!”
“Mrs. D’Amore, Mr. D’Amore, so nice to finally meet you in person.” My roommate extends her hand with a grace that would make her seasoned political New York family proud.
My mom pulls Tess in for a full-body hug over my lap. “This is the nicest surprise! We were so bummed that we were going to miss out on the chance to see you when Natalie said you had plans tonight and were going to be leaving early in the morning!”
“Me too! Imagine my shock when I learned Natalie was at a hockey game!”
Confusion replaces my mom’s general elation as she looks down at me. “You don’t normally come to the games, darling?”
“No, I uh—I mean. I do. Normally come to the games to see myboyfriend,”I glare at Tessa like don’t you dare laugh.“Coleplay. It’s just…”
“Unusual for me to see her.” Tessa adds, helpfully. “She’s usually down by the ice with the other girlfriends, like the doting partner she is toCole Sinclair, and I, a lowly college student fan, am left to cheer on my team in the student section.” She puts her hand on her heart as if she’s been wounded.
My mom peers down a section below us near the glass to a row of perfectly coifed and curled hair and bedazzled hockey-ware. “You mean she usually sits near the glass? Darling, we wouldn’t want to mess up Cole’s rhythm. You should go join your friends.”
Oh, we probably already messed everything up for him today.
“I wanted to sit with you and Dad; it’s fine. He’s not superstitious.”
Do I know that as a fact? No, but I imagine someone as arrogant as Cole would be arrogant enough to believe he doesn’t need lucky socks or other pre-game rituals to have a good game. If he has a good game, he’ll think it’s because he’s the best.
“What number is he again?” My dad asks as we watch the two teams stretch on the ice.
“Twenty-five. He used to be eleven, but he switched it sophomore year,” I say, like I didn’t just learn this fact two minutes ago.
A dreamy look comes over my mom. “Oh, he changed it to your birthday. How sweet.”
“It is her birthday, isn’t it?” Tessa stares at me, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “Because he’s your boyfriend. Cole Sinclair isyourboyfriend.”
I pinch the inside of her calf and mouth “shut up.” Obviously, there’s no correlation between his number change and my birthday, because why would there be? But at least that little detail supports our story.
“And boy, Mrs. D’Amore, you should see these two. They’re so cute.” Tess leans conspiratorially over me to continue this conversation with my mother as the warm-up music pumps up in volume. “So in love.”
My mom gently rests a hand on Tess’s. “Oh, I know. The two had me swooning all through lunch.”
“I could move so you two can sit together and continue to chat about me like I’m not here,” I say, leaning so far back on the bleachers I’m worried I’m about to fall off.
“I have to prevent myself from squealing all. the. time.” Tessa says, continuing to ignore me, a menacing grin still spread wide across her face. “Especially when they pretend to bicker. It’s like kiss already, we know you love each other.”
“Why aren’t you wearing your sweater, dear?” My mom asks, gesturing to the girls below us clad in their various custom sweaters. “With his number, like the rest of the girls.”
“Yes. Did you forget it, Natalie? You know how important that is to our dear Colie.” Tess leans further, so she’s practicallyhorizontal across my lap at this point. “It’s what she calls him. So adorable.”
When we return to campus Tessa is going to find the modern, less murdery equivalent of a horse head in her bed.
Maybe like a My Little Pony head.
No no. Still too gruesome. It’s not Sparkleprance Princess Cupcake’s fault that my roommate is a traitor. Maybe #3 Ticonderoga pencils on her pillow. Because Benedict Arnold was stationed at Fort Ticonderoga before he became a traitor.
Subtle. Convoluted. And she can’t use the pencils for an exam after so annoying, too. It’s perfect.
“I…bled on it,” I blurt. “The sweater, I mean. I haven’t had time to deal with the stains because of finals.” Yes. That’s a good excuse, Natalie.
Finals. Stress. The uterus from hell.
