“Oh my god!” Alex shoots him a pageant-worthy smile and twirls her hair. “You think I’m famous?”
“You’ve got more Olympic medals than anyone in this arena.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” I pat his shoulder. “You’ve won some fighting tournaments.”
“Really?” Alex asks, clearly impressed.
“Video gamefighting tournaments. But I do have some mean grip strength.” He flexes both thumbs.
The Dingbats hit the ice for warmups—at least, most of the team is warming up. Terrence skates up to us, his body slamming into the plexiglass that makes a warbling sound like thunder. Alex jumps in her seat, staring at Terrence with wide eyes. His hands are high above his head, and with all his pads on, he looks more a massive-monster than Marucs.
He shouts loud enough for us to hear past the plexiglass. “ROD! You brought a girl?!” His eyes shift to Alex, lips curling to show off his full set of teeth. I don’t think Alex appreciates how impressive it is that all Terrence’s pearly whites are his own. His voice drops, and I have to read his lips. “Hey.”
I do my best not to groan through their introduction, shouting to be heard over the announcer. “Alex this is, unfortunately, my roommate, Terrence.”
In lieu of a handshake, Alex brings her palm to the plexiglass. “Nice to finally meet you, Terrence!”
Several teammates linger behind Terrence, watching him like he’s the big-ticket predator in a nature documentary, and they’re a herd of antelope who understand there is strength in numbers. I should warn him, but it would be wrong to interfere. Nature needs to take its course.
Before Terrence can shoot his shot, a defenseman hits him, knocking his mask against the wall.
The new guy shoots Alex a smirk before another teammate does the same to him. They all pile on top of each other, fighting for a look like Alex is some mythic beauty of legend. Not that she looks very elegant at this moment, fighting to keep herself from laughing.
At this point, Terrence has fallen to his knees, giving more space for his teammates to swoop in. Not that they have much of an opportunity.
Leroy rushes over, cutting a good amount of powder as he stops next to the dogpile of Dingbats. He shouts something, gesturing to their goalie, and corrals the guys away. Urging them with the edge of his hockey stick and even grabbing a few of them by the pads like he’s scruffling kittens. He leaves Terrence for last, picking up his limp body like he’s a toddler exhausted after a tantrum.
Despite all his scolding, he shoots Alex a wink before dragging Terrence away. Much to my dismay, this does something to my dear friend.
“What’shisname?”
Marcus practically raises his hand before answering. “Leroy. He's the team captain. He got a bunch of hockey guys to come to a GSA open house this year. Seems nice.” He half-heartedly pumps his fist. “Go team!”
The game starts, and over the roar of the crowd it’s easy to have little asides with Alex. Marcus is pretty invested in the game. Either because he’s scoping out his next campus crush or more likely because he’s just as competitive as the rest of us athletes.
“So, who's the coach?” Alex asks
I point to our home bench, Christos is standing near the gate with his arms crossed. He’s dressed like this is any other practice, which is disappointing. Old coach Finke wore suits and ties to games.
“A Minotaur?” She says it so loud and so scandalized I worry Marcus will hear.
“Shut up,” I whine.
Her voice drops back down to a whisper. “He’s cute.” Then she cups her hands around her mouth and shouts, “Go Dingbats!”
We’re maybe five minutes into the game when Terrence boards a guy so badly he nearly does a flip on the ice. It wouldn’t be a half bad element in a skating competition, but that doesn’t fly in college hockey. Not that I’ve ever been able to tell what’s unnecessary roughness in a sport that’s designed around roughing people up.
The game stops as Terrence is sent to the penalty box. The crowd boos. Christos shouts at a ref and the two argue on the sidelines. We’re too far to hear a word he says but his body language says plenty.
Alex is back in my ear. “Is it hot watching him argue?”
“Not really?”
I’m more fixated on this exchange than the game so far. Christos points at parts of the ice. His eyes and the corners of his mouth sharp, like he might use them to stab the ref in front of the whole stadium. “He’s never aggressive…”
I don’t know if I’d call it a turn-off, more jarring seeing him so domineering. Despite all of Christos’ arguing, Terrence doesn’t leave the penalty box.
“He doesn’t look like he regrets that play,” Marcus notes.
