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I wasn’t wrong for getting her car fixed for her, was I?
Of course I wasn’t! Without her car, she’d have to pass up another acting opportunity that she deserves to take advantage of.
And it meant nothing for me to do it. Compared to the money my parents make available for me to spend, paying for her car repairs was no bigger a deal than buying your buddy a drink at the bar when you’re hanging out.
Maybe that sounds arrogant, but I’m not bragging. It doesn’t make me feel like a big shot or anything. It’s just a statement of fact.
Players from the other lines finish up the second third of the game for us. Rhys isn’t playing his best tonight, either. Not as badly as I am, but he’s still below his normal standard.
Might have something to do with how Lane mentioned that his little sister, Maddie, has a date tonight. Second date in a week with the same guy, someone she met in her Biology class.
The glare that flashed in Rhys’ eyes and the way his jaw muscles flexed made it clear to everyone looking that he wasn’t happy hearing that news—clear to everyone except Lane, that is.
We’re trailing 2-3 when we trudge to the locker room for the break before the last third of the game. It’s not a position we’re used to being in this season. Coach tears us a new one during the break, and when my blades slice back onto the ice for the final third of the game, I’m determined to keep my head clear and focused on hockey.
I’m almost successful. I score an early goal after stealing the puck from an Everwood U defender, a regular opponent of ours from the Portland region in Maine.
But I’m not entirely successful. Towards the end of regulation, I have the perfect opportunity to slam the puck into the net. The goalie is totally out of position, and the puck is rocketing over the ice in my direction off a pass from Sebastian. It’s the perfect opportunity to slice a one-timer shot past the goalie’s right side.
But just before my stick contacts the puck, I remember Olivia’s sarcastic insinuation that we’re not even friends. I hit it at the wrong angle, and my shot goes wide, ricocheting off the edge of the goal.
With a score of 3-3 as regulation time expires, we’re heading into overtime.
It’s a nail-biter, especially on our end. Everwood’s offense is skating with a vengeance, peppering Hudson with shots on goal. He’s blocking them like a man possessed, though.
It’s Carter who bails us out, intercepting a pass between Everwood defenders and then firing off an outrageous shot at distance, sending the puck slamming against the back of the net before the goalie even realizes what’s happened.
We eke out the win, and it’s the very definition of eking out a win.
Normally we’re rowdy and pumped-up when we celebrate a win in the locker room, but this time none of us feel like we really earned it.
Coach steps into the locker room, his hands on his hips as he levels us with a stern gaze.
“I almost wish we’d lost out there,” he says, “so I could really give you boys the dressing down that performance deserved.” He reserves especially cutting glares for me and Rhys.
He spends a couple minutes drilling home how important it is for us to remember that the playoffs are right around the corner, and that they’re going to be an entirely new level of competition. Telling us that if we play like that in even a single game during the post-season, we can forget about the Frozen Four championship that everyone here wants so bad they can taste it.
Then, after his spiel, he drops news no one is excited to hear.
“You all know about the NECA gala,” he begins. Brumehill is part of the New England College Association, which hosts a fundraising gala every year. “They want a representative of the hockey team there. One of the first line players.”
We all groan. All the NECA colleges send students they like to show off to the gala. Some mixture of academic geniuses, students who’ve started successful businesses or nonprofit organizations, students with compelling backgrounds, and, of course, athletes.
“I know none of you are excited at the prospect and I’m not going to get any volunteers. Trust me, they make me go to the damn thing, too, and it’s not exactly a date on my calendar I have circled with a heart. So, we’re gonna do this quick and fair.”
He holds up his cell phone. “I downloaded an app where I can enter in names, and it’ll choose randomly. I put in all your names, so here it goes.”
He presses a button on his screen, and we all wait to see which of us is going to be subjected to a night of mingling with rich donors and aging academics, wearing a stiff and uncomfortable tuxedo.
“Rhys,” Coach announces.
Rhys groans. The rest of us sigh in relief. Then the rest of us start ragging on Rhys about having to go.
“Look on the bright side,” Lane says, jabbing him in the arm. Rhys’ best friend wears the smile of a man who just dodged a bullet. “Maybe one of those rich donors will be some old widow. You can seduce her and get yourself a sweet place on her will.”
“Stop trying to vicariously live your cougar fetish through me,” Rhys grumbles.
“Hey, it’s not like you had anything better to do on a rare Saturday night when we don’t have a game,” Carter needles him. Rhys holds up his middle finger.
