Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
“Your famous friend still coming?”
Marucs and I stand outside the rink on the edge of the gathered crowd.
There are a lot of purple and grey jerseys with numbers I recognize from the little hall of fame corner of the rink.
I should have worn the school colors or something.
Marcus isn’t much better in his flannel and graphic tee displaying some comic panels.
“Don’t call her my famous friend in front of her, okay? And yeah.” I pull out my phone. “She should be here in a few minutes.”
Marcus looks back at the crowd. “Want me to save us some seats rinkside?”
“Sounds like you want to sit rinkside. Want to watch the sweat hit the ice?”
“More like I want to make eye contact with my future husband right before he gets slammed into the wall.”
“Don’t you have a boyfriend?”
Marucs raises a scaly finger like the know-it-all he is. “We agreed, if I have an opportunity to play a round of tonsil hockey with a player, I should take it.”
I deadpan, “Wow.”
“I know.” He sighs dreamily. “He’s the love of my life.”
“Alright, Romeo, go get us some good seats. Try to get something by the tunnel.”
“Copy that.” He gives me a thumbs up before approaching the crowd. Like most Dragonfolk, Marucs is pretty tall. It’s easy to spot the back of his crested head as he makes his way to the front before disappearing into the building.
Now, with a bit of privacy, I send Christos a quick ‘good luck’ text. I consider following it up—to let him know he won’t need it since I’m here, but I think better of it. No need to fluster the man when he’s at work.
Alex runs up to me. “Sorry I’m late! Parking was impossible—there’s so many people here.”
There are fewer stragglers now, most of the crowd having moved inside the venue. “My friend Marcus went and got us seats,” I tell her as we follow the herd and move inside.
“I thought you said this team sucked?”
Some old-timer wearing a Dingbats beanie makes a face.
“I’m not sure what answer you’re looking for…”
She clarifies, “Why are there so many people here?”
“First home game of the season. And we don’t always suck.” We pass a trophy case, not stopping to admire, but I point Alex in the direction of the old cups.
“Okay full disclosure, I don’t know anything about hockey.”
I shrug. “Our team is purple and we want them to score. Can you keep up with that?” Alex continues to follow the crowd, so I take her hand and lead her the long way round, entering the rink at the ground level.
Once again, Marcus’s big, scaly head is easy to spot, sitting right up in front of the plexiglass.
“Aren’t there fistfights? Do you get points for that?”
“Unfortunately, no.” We’d be champions if they scored the fights.
Marcus stands when he spots us and we settle right next to the tunnel leading to the locker room. “Marcus, is is this Alexsandra. Alex, Marcus.” I take my seat between them.
With Marcus’ height, he has no trouble looking over me to speak to Alex. “Roderick said I shouldn’t call you his famous friend.”
“Oh my god!” Alex shoots him a pageant-worthy smile and twirls her hair. “You think I’m famous?”
“You’ve got more Olympic medals than anyone in this arena.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” I pat his shoulder. “You’ve won some fighting tournaments.”
“Really?” Alex asks, clearly impressed.
“Video game fighting tournaments. But I do have some mean grip strength.” He flexes both thumbs.
The Dingbats hit the ice for warmups—at least, most of the team is warming up.
Terrence skates up to us, his body slamming into the plexiglass that makes a warbling sound like thunder.
Alex jumps in her seat, staring at Terrence with wide eyes.
His hands are high above his head, and with all his pads on, he looks more a massive-monster than Marucs.
He shouts loud enough for us to hear past the plexiglass.
“ROD! You brought a girl?!” His eyes shift to Alex, lips curling to show off his full set of teeth.
I don’t think Alex appreciates how impressive it is that all Terrence’s pearly whites are his own.
His voice drops, and I have to read his lips. “Hey.”
I do my best not to groan through their introduction, shouting to be heard over the announcer. “Alex this is, unfortunately, my roommate, Terrence.”
In lieu of a handshake, Alex brings her palm to the plexiglass. “Nice to finally meet you, Terrence!”
Several teammates linger behind Terrence, watching him like he’s the big-ticket predator in a nature documentary, and they’re a herd of antelope who understand there is strength in numbers. I should warn him, but it would be wrong to interfere. Nature needs to take its course.
Before Terrence can shoot his shot, a defenseman hits him, knocking his mask against the wall.
The new guy shoots Alex a smirk before another teammate does the same to him. They all pile on top of each other, fighting for a look like Alex is some mythic beauty of legend. Not that she looks very elegant at this moment, fighting to keep herself from laughing.
At this point, Terrence has fallen to his knees, giving more space for his teammates to swoop in. Not that they have much of an opportunity.
Leroy rushes over, cutting a good amount of powder as he stops next to the dogpile of Dingbats.
He shouts something, gesturing to their goalie, and corrals the guys away.
Urging them with the edge of his hockey stick and even grabbing a few of them by the pads like he’s scruffling kittens.
He leaves Terrence for last, picking up his limp body like he’s a toddler exhausted after a tantrum.
Despite all his scolding, he shoots Alex a wink before dragging Terrence away. Much to my dismay, this does something to my dear friend.
“What’s his name?”
Marcus practically raises his hand before answering. “Leroy. He's the team captain. He got a bunch of hockey guys to come to a GSA open house this year. Seems nice.” He half-heartedly pumps his fist. “Go team!”
The game starts, and over the roar of the crowd it’s easy to have little asides with Alex. Marcus is pretty invested in the game. Either because he’s scoping out his next campus crush or more likely because he’s just as competitive as the rest of us athletes.
“So, who's the coach?” Alex asks
I point to our home bench, Christos is standing near the gate with his arms crossed. He’s dressed like this is any other practice, which is disappointing. Old coach Finke wore suits and ties to games.
“A Minotaur?” She says it so loud and so scandalized I worry Marcus will hear.
“Shut up,” I whine.
Her voice drops back down to a whisper. “He’s cute.” Then she cups her hands around her mouth and shouts, “Go Dingbats!”
We’re maybe five minutes into the game when Terrence boards a guy so badly he nearly does a flip on the ice.
It wouldn’t be a half bad element in a skating competition, but that doesn’t fly in college hockey.
Not that I’ve ever been able to tell what’s unnecessary roughness in a sport that’s designed around roughing people up.
The game stops as Terrence is sent to the penalty box. The crowd boos. Christos shouts at a ref and the two argue on the sidelines. We’re too far to hear a word he says but his body language says plenty.
Alex is back in my ear. “Is it hot watching him argue?”
“Not really?”
I’m more fixated on this exchange than the game so far. Christos points at parts of the ice. His eyes and the corners of his mouth sharp, like he might use them to stab the ref in front of the whole stadium. “He’s never aggressive…”
I don’t know if I’d call it a turn-off, more jarring seeing him so domineering. Despite all of Christos’ arguing, Terrence doesn’t leave the penalty box.
“He doesn’t look like he regrets that play,” Marcus notes.
“No, reflection is not his strongest quality.”
He argues, “Can’t hate on a man of action.”
Eventually Terrence is released from the penalty box, but Christos benches him for the rest of the period.
We manage to score with thirty seconds left on the clock.
The crowd loses it—Marcus and Alex bolting up from their seats to join the raucous celebration.
I stay in my seat, watching the bench as they hype each other up with shoves and shouts.
The period ends, and the guys all walk back to the locker room. I spot Terrence’s number and shout, “Try not to get boxed next period!”
Terrence groans, “Fuck you, dude”
“How is it my fault? And if you’re about to say something gross about Alexsandra—”
“Coooooach!” He rolls his head all the way back like a wolf howling at the moon. “I’m being harassed by a fan!”
Christos turns around, his bows knitted together like he’s ready to tell off some old-head fan. I give him a wave. He surprises me by walking back down the tunnel and meeting me. I get up, standing on the steps and leaning over the railing. “You’re distracting.”
“Me?” I flutter my eyelashes innocently. “I’m just here to show my support. Athlete to althete.”
The corner of his lip twitches, shattering his oh-so-serious shell.
I add, “Not to state the obvious, but you are winning.”
“Two things can be true at once. We can be winning despite the distraction.” He looks past me. “Who’s your friend?”
“Alexsandra Ozerskiy.”
His eyes go wide. “That’s why everyone is so hot-blooded?” He runs a hand down his snout. “You’re killing me, Roderick.”
I shrug. “Thank me after you win?”
“I’m not counting this as a win just yet. Battles versus wars and whatnot.” He turns back to the rink looking out over the ice like the battlefield it is. This, I do find hot. Watching Christos in his element, deep in silent contemplation.
“I’ll try to be less distracting.”
“Maybe try distracting the other team. See if your friend can pitch in.” He smiles at me before disappearing down the tunnel.
Back at my seat, I relay the interaction to Marucs. “Can we get fined for gay chicken?”