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The idea of some journalist desperate for clicks and views digging through social media and talking to Withermore players to find the real story grips me. I just want to forget Ryan and move on, leaving him totally in the past, but suddenly I’m imagining his name and mine mentioned side by side on national TV. The thought makes my stomach churn.
Tuck’s beaming from ear to ear as he skates to the Sin Bin, a look of pride on his face like he’s just defended my honor.
I don’t feel defended. I feel embarrassed. Frustrated. Maybe even a little angry.
A massive team vs. team brawl like that happening right at the puck drop had to be premeditated, and this is after I told Tuck that I don’t even want to think about Ryan anymore.
I try to pay attention to the game once it gets going, but it’s a struggle. It’s a good game for Brumehill, at least, with the first third ending 2-0.
When Summer and I go to get something to drink in between periods, it seems like even more eyes are pointed in my direction. Even more people are whispering to each other as I walk past.
At the concession stands, there are two lines, and when Summer and I are in the middle of ours, I hear a girl in the line next to us gasp and say, “That’s her,” her eyes clearly pointing at me.
My stomach feels heavy for the rest of the game. Summer tries to cheer me up and tells me to ignore the gossipers, but as I feel the weight of even more eyes, I start to feel like the whole story’s gotten out. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised with social media, and how willing the Falcons players were to talk about the fight between Tuck and Ryan on it last night.
I just want to leave, but it feels like that would be admitting defeat. I stay for the whole game, as uncomfortable as I feel and as slowly as time passes.
Luckily, by late in the third period, the Black Bears are leading 6-1 and the crowd is so jubilant and so interested in heckling the Falcons that people start paying less attention to me.
Still, I feel exhausted and embarrassed. I just want to go home.
The buzzer sounds, and the Black Bears rack up a decisive win. All the guys are jubilant while they’re celebrating on the ice, none more than Tuck.
I’m glad he’s happy. But after he started the game doing the one thing I didn’t want him to do, and I spent the game dealing with the results of it, I’m not.
42
TUCK
The only damper on the euphoric atmosphere in the locker room is that we don’t have a bottle of champagne to pop.
We’re all hyped up about a crushing win, the lopsided W made even sweeter by the fact that we got a couple good swings in on the Withermore assholes beforehand.
They’re not going to come into our house and disrespect us like they did again anytime soon. And no one’s going to disrespect Olivia in front of me and get away with it—I don’t care whose fucking house they’re in.
We shower quickly, still buzzing and talking about the game. The two goals I scored were almost as sweet as the jab I sliced through Ryan’s guard that caught him right on the point of his chin.
When I get back to my locker, I grab my phone and send Olivia a text.
Meet up at Loser’s to celebrate?
I put my phone on the metal shelf inside the locker while I get dressed. Once I’ve pulled on a shirt, I check my phone to see Olivia’s response.
Olivia
I’m tired. I’m just going to stay home.
My stomach sinks. Even though it’s just a text message, just words on a screen, something feels … off about it. There’s a gnawing sensation right at the base of my neck that something’s wrong.
I tell the guys to go ahead without me while I go check on Olivia. When she opens the door of her house for me, the small weight in my stomach grows bigger and pulls it lower.
Something is wrong, I can tell immediately.
“What are you doing here?” is the first thing she says to me. Not exactly a greeting that puts my nerves at ease.
Still, I force a smile on my face and the usual smooth drawl into my voice. “Visiting you, what’s it look like?”
Her lips don’t even twitch a fraction of a centimeter.
