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To the glass.
I swallow.
“Theo,” Lucy calls. “You can explain the game to Mel, right?”
He nods once.
“Sit between us.” She urges me to follow Theo into the first row.
We drop into our seats, and I let out a little huff of laughter. We’re right next to the penalty box. Whose, I don’t know. But across the ice are the players’ benches.
Kristy is standing in the open doorway, talking to the equipment manager. For a moment, I contemplate waving to her, trying to catch her attention. An impossible task, I think. So I sit back and smile to myself, and cast a good luck thought in her direction. For if she ever gets the nerve to ask the equipment manager out.
We’re just in time for the warm-up. I spot Jacob immediately, and we’re on the right side. The Titans skate by us, all of them seeming focused. Well, all except one, who slows and winks at me on his way by.
“Rhodes is a talented defenseman,” Theo comments, watching him pass. “He has a reputation.”
I frown. “What kind of reputation?”
“For being cold.”
My mind flashes to the other morning. “He’s not cold with me.”
“Just be careful,” Lucy murmurs. “You don’t have the best record when it comes to guys.”
“I don’t have any record,” I reply. “I’m a blank slate.”
Jacob shoots at the empty net. He fist-bumps a teammate and keeps going, skating around and making it look easy. Moving on the ice is natural, his body moving fluidly. His helmet obscures his dark hair, the long sleeves of his blue, mint, and white jersey hiding his tattoos.
Maybe he is a bad choice. As a friend, or whatever he is.
But I’ll have to learn the consequences on my own.
18
JACOB
Iskate hard for the puck, reaching with my stick. We’re down by two, damn it, and the clock is ticking. Four minutes left in the third period. If we lose this, we’re done. The Guardians will move on to the next round, and all our hard work will end in a disappointing playoffs run.
Not happening.
I catch the puck and guide it around with me sharply, casting a quick glance at my left. Knox is rocketing toward me, a fierce expression painted on his face. I pass the puck to my teammate, Scofield, a moment before Knox collides with me. We slam into the boards, and the feeling vibrates through me.
It doesn’t hurt. There’s too much adrenaline for that. I pick myself up and race after my best friend—although right now, he’s my enemy. Our goalie, Joel Haverhill—nicknamed Hammerhead—stops a shot from the Guardian left wing. It bounces off his pad and back into play. I slam into Knox again before he can regain control of the puck that skittered his way.
“Fucker,” he manages under his breath.
I steal the puck and put on a burst of speed in the opposite direction, taking it back toward the opposite end.
Knox and I have raced countless times. He’s faster.But I’m more agile.
I dodge around an oncoming Guardian, leaping over his stick and slipping the puck between his skates. I pass to Church, our team captain, who immediately takes a shot at the net.
It sails in.
The red lights over the goal flash, the horn blows. The crowd erupts. Relief and joy flicker through me, the screaming and cheering like a rush of wind in my ears. Our captain takes off in celebration, throwing his arms up in the air. I crash into him, slapping him on the helmet. We’re immediately joined by the others. It’s a mob of happiness for a brief moment, before Camden Church shakes us off.
“We need two more, boys,” he yells. “Focus. Let’s get it done.”
