2. My Fun Side
MY FUN SIDE
LAKE
I rarely pay attention to the Jumbotron. But as I’m skating casually across the ice, scooping up another stuffed fox, something on the screen snags my interest.
I’m sure I’ve seen the guy around the arena. Right now, though, he’s triple the size he should be and annoyingly earnest as he says to a girl not-quite on screen, “I can see it. You and me, hanging out, talking about our future partners.”
What the fuck? Is some douchenozzle let’s-be-friends-ing his girlfriend for everyone to see?
I drop a couple of foxes into a big laundry cart on the ice, then stop because…I know him. He’s that jackass who works at the bar here and has somehow managed to date Remy, even though he doesn’t deserve to lick her boots. And—fuck—that’s her sharing the screen.
Remy, the chestnut-haired beauty with the upbeat smile and the snappy comebacks whenever I grouse about some event she asks us to do. Remy, my little sister’s good friend. Remy, with the lone tear slipping down her shocked face.
Is the director in the control room ever going to cut to one of the other cameras for the Jumbotron? And why doesn’t this guy on screen have the common sense to shut the fuck up?
“You could help me set up my Date Night profile,” the fuckface continues with a too-sincere smile.
I bellow toward the control room, “Cut that off.”
But the horror flick keeps playing as my new mortal enemy says, in all his pixelated gigantic assholery, “And I could help you set up yours.”
Remy’s lips part, and devastation rains down her pretty cheeks, just as a curly-haired woman arrives at her row with a bottle of champagne.
“Thanks, Selena, but—” Remy starts, and my god, she’s thanking the usher while her heart’s being broken.
This guy never deserved her.
There has to be another way to get the control room’s attention off her.
I drop a stuffed fox onto the ice in front of me, swing my stick back, and launch that baby high into the stands.
A few people in the crowd cheer as I make a game of this, and one of the camera guys on the ice to capture video for the Jumbotron feed swings his lens my way.
Launching another fox, then another, I do what I despise—make myself the center of attention for anything other than the game itself.
“Here’s your feel-good news clip moment,” I growl.
Apparently, whacking a fox like it’s a puck does the job because the impromptu demonstration of my stick skills replaces the douchebag’s debacle on the overhead screen.
I send one more stuffed fox sailing into the stands for good measure.
Crisis averted, but only for now. The stuffed foxes are carted off the rink, and while we line up for the face-off, I steal a glance at the second row.
She’s gone.
There are two empty chairs, and not a bottle of champagne in sight.
I wish there were something I could do for her. For now, I dig in and channel my rage toward the opposing team. The instant the puck is free, I snag it, chasing it down the ice.
A D-man slams into me, or tries to, but I shove him away. Nothing is going to stop me now.
This puck is mine, and when I spot an opening, I sneak it past the goalie and score my second goal of the night. Another point to pad the total.
But even though we win, I’m not happy.
I can’t stop thinking about what happened to Remy. There’s nothing worse than people assuming they know you from what they’ve seen of you in public.
* * *
In the tunnel, Miller yanks off his goalie helmet. “What the fuck was that?”
“I know, right?” I shake my head as we trudge off the ice. “What a dick.”
That hardly covers it. If there’s an insult strong enough for that prick, I don’t know it. I need to spend serious time with a thesaurus—when I’m a little less angry.
Miller blinks, shoving a hand through his sweaty hair. “No, I meant—you were, ya know, fun and shit?”
I shoot him a look. “That’s what you noticed?”
But maybe it’s good he’s not focused on the breakup. Miller has eagle eyes, though it’s mostly for what’s happening on the ice. And I was happening on the ice.
“It’s nothing. We don’t need to talk about it.”
“But I kind of think we do, because it’s like you just peeled off a brand-new layer of the Lake onion that we didn’t even know existed,” he says.
“Nobody needs to know about my layers,” I warn Miller.
“Then you shouldn’t have been so fun in front of the whole arena.”
“I was not fun.”
“But you were, Lake Onion. You were.” He flashes a smile before he turns into the locker room.
But at least my fun side distracted him from what happened to my sister’s friend.
The whole time I’m untying my skates and shucking my shoulder pads at my stall, I think about how Remy must feel right now. Hurt, heartbroken, ashamed. I can’t believe some guy would be lucky enough to date her and then be dumb enough to let her go.
As I’m forced to talk to the media—where I give one-word answers that definitely don’t show my fun side—I’m wondering what Remy’s doing now. Is she curled up on her couch alone? Drowning her sorrows with friends? Torching the jackass’s things? That thought brings a sinister smile to my face.
But as I walk back to the locker room, post-media scrum, I spot a brunette in a Golden State Foxes ball cap and hoodie at the end of the corridor, head down as she counts a basket full of stuffed animals.
She’s…working.
That’s just not right.
I march right over to her. When she looks up, she squares her shoulders and adopts a smile, but her face is paler than before, like she’s washed off her makeup or something. Because that fucknozzle made her cry.
“Do you need a tissue?” I don’t have one, but I’ll find one.
But it’s like she didn’t hear me. She just turns up the wattage on her grin. “Hey, I didn’t know you were going to show off your stick skills tonight.”
Hmm. Didn’t expect a peppy response. “I didn’t either.” I narrow my eyes, trying to figure out how she’s really doing. “Are you okay?”
“Of course.” She pushes up the brim of the hat as if to show that she’s absolutely, definitely, totally fine. “Also, thank you—I’m so grateful. You were very helpful with your attention stealing.”
I call bullshit on her “fine” act. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Of course. I’m just sorry that you had to deal with that. I feel bad that my whole situation ruined the fox toss for you.”
That’s a deflection if I ever saw one. “I’m all good. I was asking about you.”
She waves a hand, like she can dismiss the whole night.
“It might have been worse if you hadn’t stepped in.
” Her tone is bright, with the no-big-deal-ness of, say, getting the wrong order at a coffee shop.
“The Jumbotron operator probably didn’t realize what was happening. I guess it seemed like a real—”
She can’t utter the last word, but I can do the math—one ring box plus a Jumbotron screening equals proposal. Instead of finishing the sentence, she looks down at the basket full of stuffies. “I should go home,” she whispers.
Her quiet voice twists something in my cold heart. I can’t fix the night for her. But I can offer some small crumb of help. “Do you need a ride?”
The way I want her to say yes is a little ridiculous. Or, really, a lot.