Chapter 2
Two
Denise
If someone were to ask me what age I went to my first hockey game, I’d only be able to give them an answer solely because my dad keeps a picture of said game in his wallet.
That may have been my first experience in the hockey scene, but it definitely hadn’t been my last because hockey has always been my dad’s entire world—aside from me and my younger sister, Amiyah.
When he got injured, coaching hockey then became his life.
And then when I had my own injury, of course Amiyah and Dad thought that hanging out in the stands either during games or practice would somehow fix all my problems. As if watching my dad come back from his injury would dull the ache of my ended ballet career.
Kingswell Griffins vs. Boston Blue Jays.
The last game of the season and even if someone wasn’t a fan, they could feel it in the air.
I sit in the stands of the Kingswell hockey stadium, squished between my two best friends Bethany and Sarah. My hands are shoved into the front sleeves of my puffer vest, the cold nipping at any exposed skin I might have.
Around us, the crowd is either cheering or cursing out players for missing shots that I know they couldn’t have made, even if they tried. The smell of artificial butter slaps me in the face every time Bethany or Sarah pass the popcorn over me to the other.
In hindsight, it was a terrible mistake to bring the two along because they have no idea what’s going on. They’ve spent most of the game either asking me a thousand questions about what’s happening or asking what players on the team I can set them up with.
“You’re both annoying,” I huff, my breath drifting through the air.
Having to continually brush off fallen popcorn from my jeans hasn’t been as annoying as Sarah and Bethany asking me all night which players have girlfriends.
I don’t think they quite understand that I try to keep away from the hockey team as a whole. My dad coaches. That’s it. I don’t give a fuck about the players.
Not a single one of them.
“Don’t act like they’re not hot,” Sarah laughs, tying her long brown hair into a braid that now rests over her shoulder.
“I never said they weren’t hot but I’m also not drooling over them.”
We both look over at Bethany, who hasn’t taken her eyes off number eighteen, Matthew Creshaw, famously known as Moose because he was born in Canada and apparently the meatheads aren’t very creative.
Sarah tosses a few pieces of popcorn at Bethany, who hasn’t even noticed we’re watching her ogle the junior defenseman. Even as my dad rips his ass for not successfully blocking a shot.
“Hey!” Bethany swats her hands in the air, preparing for more popcorn to be thrown at her face.
“Close your mouth, Beth.” I tap her chin. “Flies are starting to swarm.”
“I’m invested in the game, is that not what you wanted?” she asks, knowing damn well that’s not at all what has her attention.
Sarah scoffs. “I think your investment has more to do with thinking whether or not you should hyphenate your name or just change it completely to Creshaw.”
Bethany can’t help but smile, turning in her seat to fully face us. The guy next to her glares when her ponytail swats him. Bethany either doesn’t care or doesn’t notice.
“You have to admit,” she begins. “Bethany Creshaw has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
Oh, I’m sure her Japanese parents would just love for her to take the name of a white man instead of hyphenating like they complained about with her last serious boyfriend.
Granted, his last name was Bottom.
Bethany Bottom doesn’t sound too appealing, I suppose.
“You’re insufferable.” I laugh while stealing a sip from Sarah’s diet soda.
She doesn’t say anything about me insisting earlier that I didn’t want one. Instead, she flicks my jean-clad thigh but allows the theft to happen.
“I might have to fight your dad though, D.” Bethany reaches over me yet again to grab the popcorn from Sarah. “He keeps yelling at my future husband.”
I take a few more sips before answering, “Yeah, well tell your future husband to do his job.”
“Which is…?”
“Blocking shots, intercepting passes, supporting the goalie—”
“Oh.” Sarah’s eyes narrow in the direction of the game happening out on the ice. “Yeah, I’m no expert but you sure he should be your pick of the litter, Beth?”
Bethany apparently takes the comment personally, although she’s never spoken to the guy, because she’s now the one throwing popcorn.
I’m sure the people sitting nearby hate us but I don’t care enough to try and put a stop to it. I just lean back instead so that I’m not in the crossfire.
My gaze falls back onto the game, eyes scanning the ice until they land on Lucas, who I’ve been trying really hard to ignore. But it’s kind of hard to do that when he’s The Griffins’ golden boy, and for good reason.
The black and gold uniform somehow looks better on him than anyone else. The number eight sprawled out on his back and the way he effortlessly glides across the ice make it hard not to do anything but look.
I can feel his energy even from the stands.
Lucas has no problem with being the life of the party. No hesitation in talking to any and everyone but it just amplifies when he’s out on the ice.
Even from here and past his helmet, I can see the intoxicating smile on his face whenever the Griffins make a shot. Or the way he never makes the game about him, despite being the fan favorite. He works alongside his team. Not overtaking the game.
The rare moments he is sitting on the players’ bench, he’s encouraging his team from the sidelines. Arm thrown over a teammate’s shoulders, sparkle in his eyes, head thrown back in laughter that I can’t hear over the crowd but can clearly picture it if I closed my eyes.
Fucking pisses me off.
Needing to bring myself back down to reality and out of whatever Lucas fantasy I’ve been finding myself in recently, I take the popcorn bucket from Bethany’s hands and put a few pieces in my mouth.
Both Sarah and Bethany look at me but I don’t have the energy to explain a damn thing to them. Not that there’s anything to explain, of course.
Instead, I shrug my shoulders and gesture with my free hand at Moose, who’s now sitting on the players’ bench. “In my dad’s defense, Moose has been out most of the season,” I say.
Bethany gasps, no longer interested in her attack on Sarah. “What happened?”
“He tore his rotator cuff.”
Bethany’s eyebrows furrow and she opens her mouth to speak but I beat her to the punch, already knowing the one hundredth question of the evening is going to be asked.
“You’re gonna have to look that one up, Beth.”
She rolls her eyes but goes to pull out her phone from her back pocket, regardless. The crowd boos and I look away from Lucas to see that number nineteen, Preston Nole, checks one of the opposing players into the boards harder than necessary. The referee blows the whistle.
Bethany covers her ears with her hands and Sarah nudges me.
“What’s happening?” she asks.
“Nole got another penalty.”
“That means he’s going into that box?” Bethany asks and I nod my head.
Sarah doesn’t look away from the game. “He’s a defender too, right?”
Once the question passes Sarah’s lips, I slowly turn my head, fighting back the urge to flick her in the forehead for not paying attention yet again.
“Defenseman,” I correct her.
“Oh, yeah. That.”
I sigh, rubbing my temples. “Is this how you feel when we watch volleyball with you?”
“Yeah.” Sarah grins, patting my thigh. “Pretty much.”
The rest of the game goes the same way. Bethany acting like Moose getting boarded hurts her too, Sarah asking questions she just asked to get a rise out of me, and me reminding myself that Lucas isn’t the only player on the ice.
When Lucas makes the winning shot of the season, I pull Sarah and Bethany up with me, cheering along with the rest of the crowd.
“Did we win?” Bethany shouts over the crowd and I nod my head.
It’s then that the two clap their hands alongside me while shouting out things that purposely show they don’t know what the hell is happening.
“Touchdown!” Sarah cups her hands over her mouth, screaming at the top of her lungs.
Bethany joins in, cheering for the wrong team. “Go Blue Jays!”
About a group of four guys in front of us—men in their mid-forties who clearly have no patience for college-aged girls—look over at us, eyes narrowed and lips pulled back in disgust. They catch me staring at them, arms crossed and not threatened at all just because they’re men.
That fact alone just makes me want to walk down a few steps and kick them in the balls.
I only refrain because I don’t think my dad would appreciate getting a call from the school on what’s supposed to be an exciting end to the season.
But oh, do these shitheads test me.
“Is there a problem, sweetheart?” the one with hair that’s slicked back due to grease and not gel, asks.
“I don’t know, you tell me, fuckwad.”
“Okay!” Bethany tugs my arm and holds my seat down for me, while Sarah is laughing unapologetically. “Why don’t we sit down.”
The men shake their heads, deciding to walk toward the entrance.
Good, because it wasn’t going to be me.
I let Bethany tug me back down but as the men pass in front of us, I make sure to hold both of my middle fingers up, lips forming into a tight line. Bethany grabs my hands and forces them onto my lap.
Sarah waves as they walk away, a smile on her face.
She’s usually the one to find my temper hilarious.
Bethany, on the other hand, might just die from a heart attack one of these days from how often she has to break up fights and arguments between me and whoever decides to push my buttons.
It’s not that I want to start fights, it’s that I don’t know any better way to handle a situation or a person I don’t like. Besides, having people know that I’m not afraid to punch them in the fucking face prevents less instances of me having to resort to that.
Bethany sighs. “Must you always resort to violence?”