13. It’s just a jersey. Anyone can wear it.
13
"It’s just a jersey. Anyone can wear it. "
Aaron Miles
“Hey!” Angela smiles, pulling me into a small hug when Marissa and I approach. “How are you?”
“Good, and you?” I glance behind her, expecting to see a kid, but she’s alone. “Is your brother . . .?”
“Oh.” Her face falls. “He’s sick. It’s such bad timing. I didn’t tell him about the big surprise we had planned, but maybe we could do it another time?”
I scratch my head. “Um, sure.” I kind of want to ask why she still came if her brother is home sick, but that seems rude. “This is Marissa, my best friend.”
“Hi,” Marissa says, breaking into a grin. “Nice to meet you.”
“Oh, you’re the girl who bid against me at the auction,” Angela says with a smile that seems a little fake.
Marissa’s cheeks redden. “Right. Sorry about that. The guys had a bet on who would bring in the highest bid of the night, and I was just helping Aaron out.”
“Oh.” She frowns. “Well, I’m glad I could help him win.”
Marissa chuckles. “So, should we go?” she says, turning back around.
“I’m wearing your jersey,” Angela says to me as we’re walking back to the car, trying to catch up with Marissa, who’s a few feet ahead of us. I’m not sure what the hurry is, but I’m eager to get to the arena too. “I hope that’s okay?” she continues.
“Oh, sure. It’s just a jersey. Anyone can wear it.” Frankly, that’s not how I feel, but I’m still sensing strong flirty vibes from her, even though I tried to make my intentions clear last time. I don’t want to encourage her or lead her on in any way. We’re only doing this for her brother. Or were , I guess. But what can I do now? Ask her to leave?
We arrive at the arena, and as pr omised—even if it feels a bit weird now—I give Angela a tour of the facilities. Meanwhile, Marissa slips into her dad’s office, waiting for us there. I get it. When you come here every week, it’s not as exciting. Angela, however, is all “ah” and “ooh” every time I show her another room or piece of equipment. Since her brother isn’t here, I keep her out of the locker rooms. No need to subject her to that, not to mention I wouldn’t hear the end of it.
Finally, we’re done with the tour and approaching Coach’s office, where Marissa is waiting for us, leaning against the wall.
My heart crumbles like a ton of bricks as soon as I see her wearing a different number. “You’re not wearing my jersey?” My eyes rake her body up and down at light speed, matching the pace of my heart. In fifteen years of going to my hockey games, this is the first time Marissa hasn’t worn it.
“Had to change,” she says, biting her lip and looking down. “It got caught on something and ripped. So I grabbed another one from my dad’s office.”
“He didn’t have one of mine?” I ask, hearing the defensive note in my voice.
“Couldn’t find one. And anyway, I thought it was time someone showed Wilcott some love. You can’t get all the attention.” A sweet chuckle teases her lips. “So, are we ready to head to the concourse? I’m pretty sure you have to start warming up soon.”
“Right.” I nod. “I’d better go.”
I say goodbye to Angela and Marissa, not daring to look either in the eye, then trudge to the locker rooms. I need to find Wilcott and rip his head off, even though I know he didn’t do anything.
Is it possible she likes him? He’s not a big talker, but I’ve seen the two of them exchange a few words. I never really paid attention to it, because in my mind, Marissa always belonged to me.
“Who pissed in your coffee, dude?” Hawthorne asks, elbowing me as I trudge past him to reach my stall.
I grunt, unable to formulate a better answer. We ate, prepped for the game, and even played soccer, but the fact that Marissa doesn’t have my jersey on her back right now still seriously bugs me.
He steals another glance at me but doesn’t press further. Good. I’m not in the mood. Let’s just win this freaking game.
“We got this,” Hawthorne bell ows to the team. “Everyone's best, okay? Shift by shift. Period by period. Put pressure on them. Don't leave them any room.”
There’s a sea of nods and a few whistles and cheers. Then, Coach Martin enters, and the room goes quiet. “All right, gentlemen. We’ve got to dictate the pace here, play as fast as we can. Be quick and efficient with the puck. And as always, it's all about trust. Trust yourself. Trust the guy you're sitting beside. Trust the team.”
Everyone claps and cheers.
“Adler,” he says, handing him the lineup list to announce.
“Here we go, boys!” Adler says, walking to the center of the room. “We have Miles and Kraz in the back,” he yells, pointing at us, and everyone claps. “Frenchie Boy, Cap, and yours truly in the front. And Wally in the net,” he adds pointing at Wilcott.
A chorus of “Let’s go!” and “Come on!” fills the room as everyone stands up, bumping fists and high-fiving.
“We got this,” Adler says, slapping a hand on my cheek.
I nod, shaking his hand. “Let’s go.”
The national anthem fills the arena, along with the usual pre-game stuff, and finally, the puck drops at center ice. My focus narrows on the game, blocking out everything else.
Hawthorne wins the first face-off , and we’re on. After our loss last time, we’re not giving them any breathing room tonight. Everyone has their head in the game, giving their best. The bench encourages the players on the ice, Coach’s deep voice booming over the clamor, telling us to go to the net. And we do. Beaumont passes to me, but I’m blocked. I serve Hawthorne, who slaps the puck right into the bottom of the net.
“Yes!”
The crowd roars, and we gather near the boards, fans clustering around and tapping on the plexiglass. That’s what I love about playing for the Raptors. The fans are all in. All the time.
I skate away for a line change, feeling lighter than ever as the brisk air stings my cheeks. Peering into the audience, I give a small wave to Marissa. Her face is lit up and flushed, and she’s jumping up and down, Hayley and Angela equally ecstatic by her side. But I barely see them. How could I when Marissa is there? Even when she’s wearing a Wilcott jersey. Ugh.
“Good job, son,” Coach says, slapping my back loudly as I sit on the bench, and I’m grateful for the distraction. I need to get my focus back on the game. “All right,” he yells to the team. “Let’s keep it going. Stay in it.”
We hit the next period even stron ger, fighting our battles, winning them, and going strong at the net. But the Cavaliers haven’t had their last word yet. They fight back, stealing the puck whenever they can, trying to come back into play during the third period, even though we’ve dominated the entire time.
Number 42 of the Cavaliers gets a breakaway and flies toward our net. He’s too fast. I skate after him with all I’ve got, Krazinski on my other side, but he’s not going to make it either. He shoots, but Wally blocks it. The puck rebounds. There’s a scramble in front of the net now, everyone trying to get hold of the puck. I fight hard and touch it, trying to send it sliding in the opposite direction, but I’m blocked. I can’t see what’s going on anymore. Then, the Cavaliers yell and skate toward the goal in celebration. At the same time, Wilcott, Hawthorne, and Adler contest, yelling their guts out to the referee. Apparently, the puck got kicked into the net. More yelling and arguing ensues before the ref announces he’s going to review the video for possible kicking.
We take the opportunity to hydrate, skating some loops to stay active while Coach barks at us to maintain our focus and keep working. Adler is leaning against the board, checking the goal review with the referees as he always does. I swear, it’ll be his retirement gig.
I grab my energy drink and glance at Marissa, who’s anxiously watching the refs, awaiting their decision.
Adler shakes his head firmly, then skates toward us with a grin. “No goal. It’s obvious, man,” he says, grabbing a bottle.
Finally, the ref skates back to the ice and stretches his arms over his head. “No goal.”
Our entire bench jumps for joy, and both teams’ fans are vocal in the stands.
“Let’s go back to it, boys,” Hawthorne says. “Keep your focus.”
Marissa Martin
“Wait,” Angela says, loud enough to carry over the cheers echoing around us. “I don’t get it.”
I glance at Hayley, repressing a sigh. Angela is nice, but she’s been spoiling the game for us with all her questions. Clearly, she doesn’t know the rules of the game. Ironic considering she spent a fortune on a hockey player. I guess she’s just here for the view. I have to admit, it is a nice one—very nice. Especially right now, when Aaron is spraying water all over his face a few feet in front of us. Where was I going with this again?
“Didn’t it cross the line? Th e horn blew,” Angela presses.
Right, the game. “True, but the Cavaliers kicked it into the net. You’re not allowed to do that. It’s not soccer.”
Hayley adds, “they used the video to check whether the goal was scored with a distinct kicking motion.” She has a lot more patience than me, and I’m glad she’s answering some of the many, many questions Angela has asked about the game. “In this case, they decided there was one and disallowed the goal.”
“Okay. Never saw that before,” Angela says, her eyes back on the ice.
When the game resumes, there’s a line change. Aaron is back into play, and a smile tugs at my lips. My first reflex is to grab my phone and text him my commentary, but I haven’t texted him once tonight. It felt weird with his date sitting next to me. Plus, it’s kind of pathetic, and it needs to stop. All those little things we do are only rubbing more salt in the wound. Aaron and I will only ever be friends, and I have to come to terms with that.
Aaron steals the puck from a Cavalier and sends it flying across the ice to James. It lands smoothly on his stick, as if they were two magnets, and he moves fast, his skates carving into the ice. Their defense quickly forms, and he’s blocked. He passes to Hawthorne, who passes back to Aaron. He catches it easily, then sl aps it right between the legs of their goalie.
We jump to our feet as the horn blows. Dad is shouting at them with a big smile, telling them they did a great job—well, he throws in a couple of swears too—and Aaron skates to the bench to fist bump the guys. He skates toward us and fist bumps the plexiglass in front of us, the way he always does when he scores. Angela stands up quickly, slapping her hands on the plexiglass before I can even raise mine, reminding me of my place.
My heart clenches, twists, and falls, all at the same time. She’s here with him tonight, wearing his jersey, and I have to get used to it. Because even if I’m not sure they’re dating, judging from the interactions I’ve seen so far, he will date again someday. Aaron Miles is a real catch. He’s been single for so long, and I guess a part of me thought it would last forever. But it won’t. One thing that will last is the fact that he’s not interested in me. I have to finally get over him. For my own good.