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“One thing, boys,” Coach says. “I get that you don’t want them to get away with this. And hey, this is hockey after all, not soccer. I came up playing this game and I’ve thrown some left and rights in my time. Take my advice—get it out of your system early, and then wipe the floor with them.”
We’re throwing smirks at each other while Coach walks out of the locker room. I’m pretty sure we all got his message loud and clear.
Looks like tomorrow’s game is starting with a good old fashioned line brawl. And I know just which Withermore piece of shit I’m lining up with to exchange blows.
41
OLIVIA
Summer and I are waiting on the stoop of Tuck’s house when the guys get back from the game. When he sees me, he rushes up and kisses me like he won’t be able to breathe if he doesn’t.
An awkward smile flits on my lips when he pulls away, his eyes beaming concern at me. Not just concern, but appreciation. He looks at me like he cherishes me, like I’m a precious jewel in his eyes. He always does, but it’s sharper and more immediate this time.
“I was hoping we’d be able to get through these two games without you realizing it was … him,” I say.
Tuck’s jaw muscles pop at just the reference to Ryan. “At least I got to punch him in the face,” he says, rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. “Not as many times as he deserved, but still.”
I force a shallow smile. “I just don’t want to talk about him. Or think about him. Okay?”
Tuck dips his chin. “Yeah. Plenty of better things to talk about. Like what’s our least favorite public bathroom in Cedar Shade.”
“Definitely the one at Pucelli’s,” Sebastian chimes in, referring to the run-down old pizza joint that only stays in business because it’s open until four in the morning on Fridays and Saturdays to sell overpriced slices to drunk Brumehill students.
“Eh,” Rhys ponders, “Pucelli’s is the filthiest, no doubt, but at least it’s got a lock on the door. The bathroom at Tall Mike’s Bar is just a single toilet, and the door doesn’t even have a handle. You try to take a leak and people are walking in on you every five seconds.”
“Ugh,” Summer groans. “You men and your filthy bathrooms.”
“You realize you guys have yourselves to blame, right?” I say as Tuck loops his arm around my waist while we walk into their house. “Women would never let their bathrooms descend into such a state.”
“The cleanly among us are oppressed by the slobs,” Lane says.
“Why do I feel called out by that?” Tuck shoots back.
I nuzzle my head into his side as I laugh. With Tuck’s arm around me, tugging me close, it’s easy to forget about my ex.
Easy to forget I was ever hurt.
And maybe not quite easy, but at least possible, to begin to dare to let feelings blossom that I promised myself I wouldn’t have so soon.
The atmosphere in the arena is insane.
The air is thick with energy and anticipation. People are buzzing, talking about the fight between Tuck and Ryan last night that made national news, wondering whether there’s going to be a repeat tonight.
Plenty of people are speculating what the fight was about, and every time I pass a conversation where I overhear a theory, my cheeks burn, knowing that I’m the reason why.
I was tempted to not come here tonight. Very tempted. But I decided that Ryan just isn’t good enough to be a reason for any decision I make.
For years since we broke up, Ryan dictated how I handled my heart, even at a distance. Now, I’m not even going to let him dictate how I spend my Saturday night, even though he’s here in the flesh.
Maybe it’s silly, but it feels like a win. And you know what? Whenever you feel like you’ve racked up a win, I think it’s good to celebrate it. Silly or not.
“Fuck Withermore!” some guy shouts out a couple rows behind us as Summer and I take our seats, drawing raucous cheers from everyone in our section.
As a group of students wearing Black Bears jerseys take their seats in the row in front of us, I overheard their conversation.
“What do you think made McCoy snap like that last game?” one guy asks. “That dude never starts fights on the ice.”
“For real,” another guy replies. “Everyone knows Rhys Callahan has a hair-trigger temper, but McCoy’s usually mellow.”
