CHAPTER1
Eloise
Ihate sports.
And I’m not saying that because my dad’s back in town and dragged me, damn near kicking and screaming, to the University of Cedar Rapids Raccoons hockey game tonight, though that might be a contributing factor. I’d rather be studying for finals.
It’s cold. I’m cold. All the way to my size seven feet. Can your bone marrow be cold? As a nursing student I should probably know the answer to that question, but I’m only a freshman. Maybe you learn that particular answer in your sophomore year.
Whether or not it’s possible, it’s happened. Maybe I’m the first ever person to have cold bone marrow, but I’m cold all the way through. I’m going to get frostbite on my fingers and nose.
I tug my coat higher on my neck, and the person sitting next to me glances over. Then stares. At least if my nose turned purple or black, people would have a reason to stare at my face other than the jagged scars.
Through a soul-deep shiver, I turn my face away and fluff my pink bangs to cover them. Pain stabs into my chest, stealing my breath for a moment and making it nearly impossible to swallow past the lump in my throat.
I can’t cry at a hockey game. From the looks of the swinging fists on the ice, there’s no crying in hockey. Plus, if I let myself cry, my tears will freeze my eyes shut. And that’s inconvenient.
Huh. It’s tempting though, considering how much I hate this experience.
Maybe if they played on a beach, where it’s warm and sunny and people could bring me fruity drinks with umbrellas in them while the athletes do their…sportsball thing, it would be better. I blow out a heavy breath and tuck my hands in my lap for warmth.
The fight escalates. Other players are literally dragged in by their shirts. One guy has his opponent in a headlock; another is gripping someone’s shirt so tightly that any time the trapped player tries to move he wobbles on his skates.
The only player not involved is the goal guy…goalie? Netminder? Keeper of the gate?
Whoever he is, he’s off to the side of the mob by himself despite the fact that the melee has broken out right in his space. If that was me, I’d be yelling “Get off my lawn.” He stands, face impassive, focused, leaning on the top part of his stick as he takes it all in. Is he bored, too?
The crowd is screaming around me, cheering the gladiators on in their battle. But the goalie stares on.
I wouldn’t be so calm if a fight broke out at my front door, but he seems so chill. What’s it like to be calm in the face of chaos? Or, you know, at all.
Dad covers my hand with his, stopping me from twisting the hem of my shirt between my fingers. My stomach’s churning. What if someone gets hurt?
Perhaps the goalie feels the same way I do. Not to call him a coward—I mean, ultimately, he’s crazy enough to put himself in front of a really fast flying…thing that people keep smacking toward his face—but right now, he’s all the way off by himself.
My heart ticks up as one player’s helmet tumbles to the ice a split second before he lands on his ass. Instead of moving to help, the goalie shuffles a little farther away.
I can’t see his face through his mask-helmet-thing, but his fuck-off vibes are pretty clear. He is not partaking in anyone’s bullshit. And he looks as though he might want to sweep them all the hell away from his goal with that broad stick of his.
I could be projecting, but he seems to be a loner, like me. Always on the edge of the action, but never participating. I’m not brave enough to step forward, but perhaps this guy is just uninterested.
Dad gently pulls my hand from my face, where I’ve been twisting the stud in my nose.
“This is part of the game, Ellie-Rae.” He pats my thigh in a bid to calm my anxiety. “They’re all going to be fine.”
When the game resumes, five players get sent to the time-out area, and yet their benches don’t look any emptier. The announcer starts listing off the reasons everyone’s been sent to the naughty step as the referee drops the disc between two players.
I can’t remember what the disc thing is called, but the players are now chasing it around the ice like labradoodles scampering after a tennis ball.
Something changes, because all of a sudden, the athletes that were on the bench with the other players a minute ago are throwing themselves over the barrier and gliding over the ice. Why the hell don’t they use the door like a normal person?
Okay, so less labradoodle, more elegant, athletic, brick walls on skates. In my periphery, the light over the goal blinks on and everyone is on their feet screaming.
I missed another one. There have now been five goals scored in this game, and I’ve missed all of them. Every last one.
It’s all too fucking fast.
The people around me start throwing their ball caps and hats onto the ice. Why would they do that? Hats are freakin’ expensive. I bought Dad a Hawkeye’s baseball cap for his last birthday, and it cost me thirty bucks.
