14. Sydney
fourteen
sydney
Convincing myself that walking out in a bra and jeans is a fashion statement, I leave the office with my head held… not high , really. But not afraid.
I stick to the far wall and hurry to the stairwell, taking the steps a few at a time in my hurry to get down to the exit. I can’t risk going to the main level, where they sell t-shirts and jerseys. One, because I’m fucking poor. And two, because I’m pretty sure the doors have already opened.
Which means I’m going to fucking run all the way home, again , and pray that no one encounters me.
My bag is still in Penn’s car.
I make it outside without incident, shockingly, and glance around. I pause on the sidewalk, the cold air biting at my bare skin. Do I go for his car? The odds of getting all the way home without someone seeing seems impossibly low.
Once a thief, always a thief?
I debate it. I don’t know anything about cars, but I do know that Penn Walker is every bit as arrogant as he is good at goaltending. So when I find his car, I’m not really surprised that it’s unlocked.
I sit in it, debating, then pop the hood. His school bag is there, along with his FSU sweatshirt. His name and his number, twenty, are stitched on the right sleeve in purple. Well, maybe this is my safe passage. I pull it on and go back to the driver’s seat, pulling down the visor to examine my reflection.
Hair—a mess, but manageable. I rake my fingers through it. It’s my ruined mascara that really cements the mental image of a slut. Once that’s fixed, as in, wiped away with a few licked fingers and scrubbing under my eyes with the sleeve of the sweatshirt, I lean back.
The real question is, does he keep his wallet on him or in the glove box?
I flick it open and laugh.
There’s a banded wad of cash.
What a college kid does with that much cash is beyond me. Drug dealing, maybe? Running an illegal gambling ring? Planning on crashing a strip club after the games?
Either way.
I count all of it, my eyes widening every time I get through another hundred.
Two thousand dollars in low-denomination bills.
I take all of it, scrawling a note on the back of a forgotten receipt and leaving it in the money’s place.
You want to treat me like a whore, you better pay me like one.
Okay. Too much time spent here. I put everything back the way it was, minus the money, and hurry away from the vehicle with my bag over my shoulder. I go to the box office and get the ticket my father has held for me, go through security, and splurge on a bucket of popcorn. And a soda. And maybe, later, I’ll get something else.
Just because I can.
And if this is the worst they’ve got for me, I may as well actually enjoy the game.
The guys are on the ice warming up. Penn off to the side in his thick goalie gear, Oliver somewhere in the mess of swarming FSU players. The Seawolves are in their away colors, mostly white with black and maroon accents. It doesn’t take me long at all to find Carter.
Which should be a problem, right?
Because he’s just a guy I used to know, and now we’re on opposite sides of a rivalry.
I take my seat, crossing my legs and leaning back. I’m getting new looks now, but less so with loathing—which I’m actually expecting—but… confusion?
Someone takes the seat next to me, sees Penn’s name on the sweatshirt’s upper arm, and does a double take.
“You’re wearing his sweatshirt?” she asks, her eyebrows nearly in her hairline.
I just smile.
She turns to the girl beside her, and I catch a few snippets of words. Sydney Windsor, Penn, sweatshirt. Naturally, it spreads like fucking wildfire after that.
But no one throws a drink on me. No one touches me, or bumps into me when we stand to let more people into the row, or coughs out ugly names under their breath.
I pull out my phone, and shoot a text to Dylan.
Me
Does wearing a player’s sweatshirt mean the same here as it does at SJU…?
Because there, it means they’re exclusive. And I didn’t really think about that when I put it on, but the looks… the way people are behaving…
Dyl
Like, their personal one?
The one that has their name embroidered on it
omg.
[Brandon has been added to the chat]
Dylan
She’s wearing one of their personal sweatshirts.
Brandon
???
Dyl
SEND US A PICTURE.
I shake my head and lift my phone, making sure that Penn’s name on my sleeve isn’t legible.
Me
[IMAGE]
Brandon
Well, there’s your golden ticket.
Dyl
Although, if you were ever planning on hiding under the radar…
Brandon
Even Andi never got to wear Ruiz’s.
Shit.
I glance around and slink lower.
The arena goes dark. We stand for the national anthem, sang by the a capella group.
“So, you’re team Vipers now, right?” the girl beside me asks.
“Oh.” My gaze flicks to my father on the bench, behind the line of players not starting. “Yeah. Yes.”
She smiles. “Cool.”
I don’t know how to respond, so I… don’t.
The puck is dropped. FSU wins the face-off, sending it back into their defensive zone. Now that I’ve said it out loud, I realize it’s true. After everything my father has done for me, I want him to win.
That’s more than I ever thought he’d get from me.
Oliver and an SJU d-man slam into the boards. The glass in the corner warps with the impact, and the people at the glass seem to grow more animated. They battle the puck out of their defensive zone and fly toward the Seawolves goalie.
One of the huge, burly guys—Bear, I’m ninety percent sure—muscles the puck away from the other winger on Carter’s line. He sends it up the boards to Oliver, who takes it into the offensive zone on the far side.
A few passes later, everyone seeming to shuffle and grapple for position and screening, and Oliver delivers a wicked slap shot toward the goal. His teammate lifts his stick slightly and deflects it right past the goalie’s glove.
I look up at the scoreboard.
Fifty-six seconds into the first period. 1-0.
A remarkable difference from their last game, that’s for sure.
By the end of the first period, it’s 2-0 and SJU seems pissed . Their playing is getting increasingly aggressive, and it’s probably good that the horn blows before the players drop their gloves and go at it.
Unlike the last game, I stay in my seat until the second period starts. In fact, I’m not fucking moving until the game is over.
SJU comes out swinging.
I wince when Carter and Oliver collide on open ice. They both end up sprawled, the puck that they were chasing long gone. And then St. James scores.
The maroon-clad crowd erupts.
I watch Carter’s celebration, zooming to join his teammates in the far corner. They leave the ice, switching out for a shift, and I lean forward.
The next few minutes are slow.
But when the FSU first line comes back out, the SJU fourth line joins them.
I grit my teeth. The tension ramps up, winding everyone in the arena tighter and tighter. I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone was collectively holding their breath.
An SJU forward intercepts a pass and breaks away, streaking down the far side toward the FSU goal. Penn is ready for him, skating to the top of his crease. The forward tries to fake him out, but Penn doesn’t fall for it—and the trick shot meant to sail into an empty net lands right in Penn’s glove.
The whistle to stop play is blown.
I cheer before I can stop myself.
My lack of control only lasts a moment, and then I quickly sit back down.
“How long have you two been dating?” the girl beside me asks. “I didn’t think he was the settling down type.”
Huh?
Her gaze moves pointedly to my sweatshirt.
So, yeah, he’s going to kill me.
I’m going to kill me.
“Oh, uh…”
“I would’ve thought you’d want it to be more public,” she continues. “Immediately, I mean. But with the rumors about the St. James captain, I guess I understand wanting to wait.” She gives me a sympathetic knee pat. “Must be nice to have so many hockey players falling over you.”
I snort. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
I only met Carter because of Scarlett. I only dated him for what feels like a brief a moment in time. And then we stopped because it was… scary in its intensity.
Stones drop into my belly.
Now that I’m gone, and Scarlett is clearly anti-Sydney, is she going to try and have her way with him? That would be fucked up.
Luckily, my phone goes off and saves me from replying to the girl.
L.
[LINK]
??
My heart does this weird little skip.
It’s ridiculous that I react this way, when I don’t even know who I’m talking to.
I click on the link. It opens to the damn FSU gossip page, and there’s some write-up about me wearing a certain FSU player’s sweatshirt at the game. Which means Sydney Windsor is officially Team Viper .
Great.
They work fast, at least.
Me
Jeez, if that’s all it took to fix my image…
Wait. If this is the fucking magic talisman Penn joked about giving me, then it was in his damn car the whole time.
What the fuck, Penn?
Obviously it was a ruse to get me into the locker room. To get me in a compromising position…
At least, in the end, we traded. He kept my shirt. I keep this and start wicked rumors about us.
L.
Whose are you wearing?
You can’t be jealous if I don’t know who you are.
I’m not.
Really?
It’s coming across a little… envious.
Mere curiosity.
And I want to know how you got it.
You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.
So I don’t tell him. I stash my phone and cross my arms over my chest, trying desperately not to think about how Penn’s going to react to me stealing more than one thing from him.
A sweatshirt is one thing, but the cash burning a hole in my pocket?
The players restart.
FSU scores again.
3-1.
Exactly a minute later, SJU scores. It’s a filthy goal, and the player who made the shot ends up slammed into the glass. He falls to the ice, and suddenly, it’s like everyone just lets go of their control.
I jump up when Carter and Oliver collide. They shed their helmets and gloves, toss their sticks. Doesn’t matter that they really haven’t had anything to do with this most recent goal, it seems like the captains are just taking matters into their own hands.
“I can’t watch this.” I cover my face and peek through my fingers.
They trade blows until they both go down in a heap—but it’s Oliver who ends up on top. And the crowd around me goes fucking bananas.
“He can scrap with the best of them,” the girl beside me yells. “God, he’s so hot.”
And he was inside me only a few hours ago .
The refs give both players five-minute majors for fighting.
I don’t really need to see any more. In the end, it won’t matter who wins.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.