Eloise is so nervous her whole body shakes with excited energy. Or fear. I can’t quite tell. Whatever she’s got going on with the goalie is adorable. And as long as he treats her right, I won’t need to snap his neck like a pretzel stick.
I brought my camera. It’s an older SLR model, but it takes pictures just fine. I want to work on capturing some at-speed shots during the game. Taking a good photograph is hard enough, but while someone’s in motion, that requires a different level of skill.
Out of all the sports out there, I’m pretty sure hockey ranks as one of the fastest. Formula One is probably top of the pyramid, but if I can nail taking good shots of giants withknives on their shoes, I could start selling pictures to media outlets.
The first period passes with minimal fighting. I remember it being more aggressive when I was in high school. Did they change the rules? Not that I mind the lack of blood sport on the ice. It’s interesting how the game has evolved in the few years I’ve been away.
To my left there’s a guy mansplaining the game to a girl who seems to be his date. She’s wearing a hockey jersey, but it’s a Snow Pirates shirt, not a Raccoons one. Can’t hold it against her when I haven’t decided who I’m cheering for either.
About forty five percent of everything he says to the girl is utter bullshit. And for the most part, I ignore it. Not my circus, not my monkeys. I’m just here with my bestie so she can ogle her boy. I’m a snack-consuming spectator.
But when he gets a basic icing call wrong in the second, I can’t bite my tongue any longer. The truth is important to me, and this douche is talking out his ass. He has his chest puffed out while he points at the ice and commentates at the top of his lungs for everyone to hear.
And he’s fucking wrong.
About damn near everything.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I want to shove my pretzel in his mouth. And that’s not even a euphemism. When I’m not absolutely certain on something, I keep my goddamn mouth closed. I’m way too afraid of being wrong. I’m mouthy and confident, sure, but I’m generally not wrong, and if I am, I can be humble. Unfortunately, this guy doesn’t seem to suffer from the same affliction.
Leaning into his space, I speak quietly, slowly, using small words he should understand—assuming he shuts the hell up enough to hear me. “You’re wrong.”
A derisive snort is all I get in response.
When the play resumes, so does his running commentary.Would anyone notice if my elbow accidentally slipped and broke his nose? He’s such an arrogant prick. UGH.
A penalty is called, and this idiot makes up his own penalty explanation for his date. Since he’s not open to listening to the truth, I reach over to his date. “That’s not what it was. If you want, I can explain the game to you. He’s only right about half the time.”
She giggles, pulling a headphone out of the ear farthest away from me. “I know. That’s why I’m listening to the commentary.” She points up to the media box. “They’re not always right, but close enough.”
The guy between us goes bright red, stands up, and storms off, pausing for a beat to return and pick up his beer from the floor between our feet.
When he leaves, the girl moves into his empty seat. “Thanks for the rescue. Penelope.”
“Tori.”
She smiles, and I’ve made a new friend.
It’s almost the end of the period, which means I don’t have long to grab a few more shots. I’m not having much luck getting in-motion snaps. Gonna have to work harder on that, maybe spend a day in Wyatt’s daycare following toddlers around. Nothing moves faster than a toddler with something they shouldn’t have clutched in their tiny little hands.
I turn my attention to the bench to work on some more candid shots of the players. Focusing on the first guy, one of the de la Peña twins, I get a great shot of beads of sweat trickling off the tip of his nose. Don’t know them well enough to know who’s who, but one thing is for sure—they have beautiful genes.
I snap a picture of the line change, catching Twin One and Twin Two glove-bumping as they switch places. When Twin Two sits on the bench, someone leans across into the shot.
My stomach free falls with a jolt.
Those twinkling blue eyes, that firm jawline, the “everyone’s friend” casual smile that lights up the whole world.
Fuck.
It’s Wyatt’s father.
The lying fucker is a hockey player.
And he’s been here this whole time.
CHAPTER 11
