Chapter 4
I’m at the school library Friday evening, where I’m supposed to be working part time. But I’ve somehow managed to convince Mr. Ames, my boss, to let me work almost every shift when I’m not in class. Since all my work-study hours go toward housing, I need more for on-hand cash.
It’s convenient though. This place has become a second home for me. When I’m not working, I’m at my usual table tucked into a corner, surrounded by books nobody’s touched in years.
It’s there that I study, do homework, and read an embarrassing amount of spicy fantasy romance. Definitely not the kind of books stocked on these shelves.
“Isla,” Mr. Ames pauses mid-stride. “Isn’t your shift over?”
Caught off guard, I blink. “Uh, it is. But I…offered to cover for Claire today. She’s going to the hockey game, I think?”
He sucks air through his teeth. I hate it when he does that. It usually means he’s about to tell me something that’s uncomfortable for him. Which he can probably tell also makes me uncomfortable.
He rounds the circulation desk and punches some buttons on the screen. “That would put you over thirty hours this week. I…can’t have students working—”
“But I promised Claire I’d—”
“It’s fine. No one’s coming in here tonight anyway. Everyone’s going to the Knights game.”
I sigh. “So I…guess I should go home.” I hate this part of the night. I hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Obviously, my roommates being unbearable isn’t his fault or concern.
He glances up from running a report on the register. “Go to the game. Everyone else is.”
A hockey game? Me? Thousands of people in one room. Deafening cheers and crowded aisles?
Why would I ever do that?
Bree’s voice creeps into my head. Join a social circle.
Didn’t she say something about a sporting event?
This would certainly fit the bill.
Almost everyone on campus has been talking about the Northwind Knights Friday night game.
I’m not sure what the big deal is, especially since it sounds like they lost the last one.
“Aren’t those things usually…crowded?”
“Will be tonight. Especially since it’s against our biggest rival—Highland U Titans.”
I start cleaning up my space. “Isn’t every college hockey team a rival?”
He almost laughs. “Not like the Titans. They’re too local.
Too competitive. Worst of all, they play dirty.
And not just on the ice. These guys have no boundaries when it comes to winning.
Anyway,” he smiles, tight and ingenuine.
“You should go. Probably won’t get a good seat this late though.
But you’ll see just as much action from the back—and for half the price. ”
A seat in the back, for a fraction of the cost? And I get to tell Bree that I went to one of these without passing out? Works for me.
“Okay,” I huff out. “I guess I’ll go.”
“Have fun,” he calls, marching to his office with the printed reports. “I’ve got to hold up the fort, but I’ve sent my love.”
Sent his love? To who?
Shaking my head, I gather my things and muster over whether I should go or not go.
A hockey game, I repeat. If that’s not a group of people getting together with similar interests, I don’t know what is.
Wonder if Bree will let me get away with this one. Or if she’ll argue that “attending an event” is not the same as “participating in one”.
I hug my jacket close as I weave through the crowd in the long hall, eyes fixed on the ticket in my hand like it’s a map. There’s a sharp chill in the air and it smells like cold metal and…popcorn?
The mix makes me nauseous.
Yep. That’s what’s making me nauseous. The smell.
Not the people swooshing past me like I’m barely an obstacle to get inside.
Tugging at my sleeves, I push forward through the steel double doors behind a group of people.
The arena opens up and noise slams into me. The music. The skates carving into the ice. Fans already shouting incoherently, their fists pumping in the air as players emerge from the tunnel and approach the glass. Girls woohoo’ing with their phones in the air.
I better get out of everyone’s way.
Where’s my seat?
Did I miss it?
My stomach knots, my pulse spikes, and I’m convinced that at any moment, I’m going to vomit.
Deep breath. Exhale. Two, three, four.
I keep counting but it’s making me lose track of where I need to go.
I glance at my blurry ticket again.
The nausea swirls, threatening to force itself out.
Since my mind isn’t listening—dead set on beating this social anxiety beast—my body is taking over. Reminding me I’m not ready for this. I can’t be here. And that I need to leave—now.
With a shaky hand, I shove my ticket at someone’s chest like it’s about to sting me and flip back toward the exit. It’s not like this person can use it—we’re already inside. But I certainly don’t need it anymore.
I spot the big steel doors beyond the crowd and draw a passage for myself before sprinting forward. But the guy holding my ticket grabs my arm, making me jump.
What the—who just grabs people? Seriously.
Has he mistaken me for someone else?
Someone who doesn’t need three to five business days to prepare for such human interaction.
“Hey, your seat’s up there.”
I turn back, confused, with my heart in my throat. My eyes are at his chest level. The guy is wearing a red jersey, when I know our colors are deep blue, and white. When my vision clears, I see the name Titans across his chest.
I only blink in response.
“You came down too far. Come on, I’ll help you.”
The crowd around us erupts as two players skate over. My gaze travels to the rink.
Shit. He’s right.
This is definitely too far down. Too close to the rink.
My heart thunders as if to compete with the roar of females cheering around me.
Is it me, or did it get insanely loud over here?
I follow everyone’s gaze through the glass.
The first thing I see is the number stretched across a broad chest.
Nineteen.
Then…his face. The bars of his helmet hide most of it, leaving only a pair of lightning blue eyes and the sharp line of his jaw.
His steady gaze roams over the crowd with a slow grin and I can’t help but watch. The second he reaches mine, he lingers.
It’s sudden—the way everything stills the moment our eyes lock.
Or maybe the way it shifts. Not in any grand, dramatic way, but with that slow, dizzy pull that drags you under before you even realize it.
I…can’t look away.
But after a long pause, he does. All too quickly, his eyes flick to the guy in the red jersey. To where he’s holding my arm.
Shifting his gaze, he waves to the fans holding up their phones like they’re trying to show him something. Cheering and screaming the name Kane, like it’s their favorite song.
The buzzer echoes through the rink as the players glide toward the tunnel, blades hissing against the ice.
The guy in red says something.
“Umm…what?” I mutter, barely looking up at him.
“Hype lap’s over,” he shouts over the cheering. “Game’s starting, come on, I’ll get you to your seat.”
I blink and follow him, noticing my elbow still in his hand and I’m not freaking out. I also seem unfazed by the multiple brushes of chests and forearms as people rush to their seats.
My hand flies to my chest, checking for a beat.
Steady, normal.
Butterflies still swirl in my stomach, but…I can breathe.
The guy points to an empty seat between two girls. “That’s you.” He smiles warmly. “Enjoy the game.”
I meet his eyes. “Thank you.”
He shrugs. “I’m not with the home team, so took me a minute too. Turns out I’m in the wrong section,” he chuckles, then gives me a wave. “Try not to get trampled on your way out.”
Trampled?
Oh, I’ll be leaving before the game ends, thank you very much.
I slip past two sets of knees to get to my seat and sink into it, my head still spinning from number nineteen’s lingering gaze.
Granted, I was caught staring first.
But I couldn’t help it. There was something in his eyes that made me pause. Something that cut through all the noise. It wasn’t his expression. Or his stance. It was more something I sensed than actually saw.
Like he didn’t quite belong in the spotlight. Or he was experiencing some kind of…imposter syndrome, maybe?
Every time I try to fit into a conversation—and actually succeed without coming off awkward—I feel like that too. Like a fraud.
But now?
I feel guilty for it.
Like he caught me seeing something no one is supposed to.
Granted, I could be way off here. But when he looked at me—it was almost like he was confirming it. Or maybe calling me out on the same damn thing.
He wouldn’t be wrong.
I’m a total imposter. Partaking in a social circle just so I can cross it off my list.
And half-ass’ing it at that.
So, what do I feel guilty about?
My eyes drop to my elbow, where the Titans fan was holding onto me moments ago.
And number nineteen noticing.
He didn’t like it. That much was clear.
Was it an ego thing? How does he know I’m not from Highland U?
And why the hell am I all anxiety-ridden over a seven second interaction with a freaking hockey player?
“Ugh.” Why do I feel like I’ve done something wrong by letting the guy touch me?
“Oh, I’m sorry, did I step on you?”
I blink, my head snapping to the blonde on my right.
“Huh?” Oh no. I sighed out loud, didn’t I?
“No, no. I was just…” What was I doing? Obsessing?
Stressing? Falling down a rabbit hole of scenarios about why the hockey player was looking at me when he very well could have had something in his eye?
I force a breath out and smile sheepishly.
“Wishing I was closer to the action, that’s all. ”
Way to go, Isla. Your luck, this girl will sneak you up front and then what’ll you do?
“Ugh, I know.” She whips out her phone. “I wish I got tickets earlier. Tonight’s game is going to be wild. The app is out of control, hundreds of messages and still going. Think he’s still checking it? I’m wondering if I should send mine.”
I blink, trying to keep up, but none of it’s registering. “I’m sorry…app?”
She looks at me sideways like I’m confused. “The app,” she emphasizes. “You think he’ll check it?”