3. Sydney
three
sydney
Game time.
I am buzzing with nerves and anticipation, mainly because I have no idea what’s going to happen. That’s why I’m not really a sports person—there’s so much fucking uncertainty. We could be the best team in the league and still lose in a shootout.
Or a tie , which seems even worse.
Secretly, I like hockey. It kind of kills me to admit it, especially since I like to pretend otherwise. My guilty pleasure is watching NHL games after they’ve already aired, once I know the final score. There’s something calming about the outcome already being determined, but still seeing it unfold for the first time.
But that can’t happen in real-life situations, so here I sit. Nervously.
The crowd around me is buzzing, too. We’re all wearing our black and maroon Seawolves colors. We’re in the shared arena between the two universities, but as the home team. It’s kind of funny how that works—both teams use the huge arena for home games and practices, somehow coming to an amicable agreement.
As in: a schedule worked out between the schools by an outside source that everyone has to adhere by.
The place was originally built by an SJU alum, but part of the funding came from an FSU donor. And so, when it was all wrapped up, no one really knew who had the rights to it. And given its location, right in the middle of the two schools, it was determined a second one didn’t need to be built.
Because of that, there are two permanent home team locker rooms—one for St. James and one for Framingham State. There’s a rink coordinator who schedules practice times and when each team can be on the ice. Not super convenient, especially since they also share it for home games.
I don’t want to think about the logistical nightmare it must be, but they make it work.
“You seem paler than usual,” Lettie comments. “Is it because you’re back with Masters and you didn’t tell me?”
I flinch. “We are absolutely not back together.”
“You kissed him. After dancing with that other guy.” She straightens. “Ooh, did that make him jealous? You dirty ho. I don’t feel so bad about letting you go with him.”
I knock my shoulder into hers. “Shut up. It was just a drunken kiss.”
Not our first… probably not our last.
Carter Masters is worse than a magnet.
A cheer ripples through the arena, and the lights go all dim except the crazy swinging spotlights. The players are introduced, and we all scream and clap when they take to the ice. The FSU crowd makes their displeasure known, unsurprisingly.
When the FSU team is called, we return the favor. On the opposite side of the rink are the FSU students, a big blob of purple and white.
I spot Oliver Ruiz, the royal-purple number eighteen emblazoned on his back under his last name.
Lettie nudges me, and I drag my attention away from him. Our other friends, including the vodka supplier, Marcy, are all around us. We’ve got the football team a few rows back, already flicking popcorn at the hot girls to draw their attention away from the hockey stars.
After a painfully sung national anthem, the game starts.
Right from the first puck drop, it becomes apparent that the SJU Seawolves have turned into fucking mind readers. The pace starts off furiously, with the Framingham State Vipers winning the face-off. But it doesn’t seem to matter, because wherever the Vipers put a player, the Seawolves are there.
The coverage is intense. My breathing catches when they slam into the boards.
Rivalries like this make the games exciting—but right now, I think I’d rather be anywhere else.
The players move into the Seawolves’ offensive zone. Carter has the puck at the blue line, quarterbacking the play. Less than ten seconds later, one of his wingers scores.
Our section erupts.
Lettie and I high-five, and she hugs the girl on her other side.
The game restarts.
By the time the horn blows at the end of the first period, the score is 3-0 in our favor. As soon as that horn goes off, a fight breaks out on the ice. I lean forward in my seat, trying to figure out who’s in the thick of it. One of Carter’s buddies and a Vipers winger have their gloves off, sticks and helmets tossed. The refs zoom in and try to pull apart the larger pile of hockey players, but they leave those two alone.
After a few punches, they’re separated.
I blow out a slow breath and follow Lettie up and out of the stands. We wait in line for concessions with a million other students. One of the football guys stays with us, seeming determined to get in Lettie’s good graces.
“There’s a rumor going around of a snitch,” he says casually, scratching his neck.
Lettie frowns at him. “What kind of snitch?”
“From FSU. Someone leaked their playbook, that’s why we’re crushing it.”
I scoff before I can stop myself.
“You don’t believe it?” He eyes me. “Aren’t you related to the FSU coach?”
“It’s a common last name.” I move up in line. I’ve had almost two full years of peace, and now someone makes that connection? “You think someone snuck over there and stole a playbook?”
He shrugs. “That’s what my brother said. His girlfriend goes to FSU.”
“So much for not crossing enemy lines,” I mutter.
The guy nods along with me. “Right? That player, Ruiz?—”
“Oh, shit,” Lettie exclaims. “I knew his name sounded familiar.”
“He was telling everyone that someone broke into his house. So it’s not out of the ordinary…”
Lettie’s gaze flicks to me.
I ignore her. My pulse has picked up, and a new clammy sensation breaks out across my back. If that’s the rumor, then I’m fucking screwed. He already thinks I stole something—is he going to put me and this together? Of course he will.
Fuck .
The rest of the game is a bloodbath. The refs eventually put away their whistles. The playoffs are single elimination, which really just means higher stakes for the game. Winner moves on. Loser goes home.
What’s happening now, on the ice, is purely psychological. The Seawolves have gotten into their opponents’ heads, and the rest is history.
In the last minute of the game, I glance over at my father on the bench. I had carefully not looked in his direction the whole game, but now I’m just in time for him to throw his papers down. He’s in a gray suit and purple tie. Unlike the last time I saw him, he sports a trimmed, salt-and-pepper goatee that he now rakes his hand over.
The hair on his head is still dark. Same shade as mine, I’d hazard to guess.
While Carter’s question from the party still rankles, I understand why I haven’t actually seen my father in a while. Mom lost her shit, and he got the courts involved. While she shielded me from it, I was twelve going on twenty. Forced to grow up way too fast. The trauma of it still seeped in.
It was something about custody. She would come home and shed the silk blouse and pencil skirt from her day job, wiggling into sweatpants and crawling onto the couch beside me. And she’d lie, saying everything was going fine. That my dad was just trying to get out of our once-a-month visits.
And before that, when we were actually a real family…
My father and I have the same mouth. The shape of it, the way we smile. Mom used to point it out when I was younger, tracing my lip. And then later, after Dad left, she’d whisper it almost to herself with a weird expression.
It wasn’t until I was older that I realized my smile hurt her. So I stopped smiling.
Mom’s eyes are brown, his blue. And mine were probably meant to be blue, but instead they’re somewhere stuck between gray and colorless. We have similar hair color. He’s freaking tall, I can tell even from here. And I remember it, looking up and up and up at him as a kid.
I passed Mom’s height in seventh grade.
The final horn blows, the game over. The St. James crowd around me leaps to their feet, while I am slower to rise. The score is almost painful to see.
St. James had a complete fucking shutout.
6-0.
“Celebration time!” Lettie sings in my ear.
Three hours after the end of the game, I’m blissfully drunk. The party rages around me, but I’ve got to the stage where I can’t really feel my toes. The rest of me is solid. And Lettie, knowing that glazed glint in my eye, hands me a bottle of water on her way by.
I sip it and people-watch.
Although people have been watching me, too. It didn’t bother me at first. Just a few glances. But as the night wears on, they become more… more . Itches on my skin in places I can’t quite reach, an uncomfortable sharpness to them.
Finally, someone drops into the chair beside me. A girl in a tight little dress, kind of like the one Lettie’s wearing and the one I wore to the last party. This time, I dressed fucking sensibly. Jeans. Sweater.
“You’re Sydney Windsor, right?”
I tilt my head. “Do I know you?”
“Not personally.” She leans in. “There’s a rumor going around, I just wanted to know if it was true.”
I’m beginning to hate rumors.
“Let’s hear it,” I say. “But it’s probably not true.”
“No, I think this one has some merit.” She leans in closer, almost hanging off her damn chair to get closer to me. “I heard that you stole the FSU playbook and gave it to your boyfriend.”
I stare at her.
If my brain wasn’t fuzzy, I might be able to think of a response. But instead, I’ve got nothing. My mind blanks out.
“I thought that had some truth to it,” she says in my silence. She stands, hovering over me. “This is for costing us the playoffs, bitch.”
Like a bad horror movie, she overturns her drink on my head.
Cold liquid pours down my front. It misses most of my hair and face, but instead drenches my sweater.
“Secret’s out.” She spins on her heel.
Her act has drawn more attention, and people jump out of her way to let her pass. Some watch her, but a majority focus on me .
If some random FSU girl has heard about it, then the rumor is about to solidify into fact.
I slump back in the chair, ignoring the uncomfortable wetness sliding into my pants.
The court of public opinion will now be hearing the case of Sydney Windsor…