Page 93 of Half Truths (Secret Society 1)
“Come on, let’s stand on the other side where the actual media is.” Max laughed and tugged on the strap of the lanyard around my neck.
We shouldered our way through the crowd until we made it to the other side. Max let out a relieved breath.
“There are a lot more people here than last year,” he said. “It’s Fitz’s last year, so it was bound to be crazy.” He pointed to the other side of the arena, where we’d just been. I’d seen people waving something around, but I wasn’t paying attention. Now that I was on the other side, all I could see were huge foam gloves that said FITZ on the bottom.
“He’s not even the goalie.”
“I know, but Fitz’s Mitts.” Max nudged me. “It’s a Canadian thing, I gather. We call them gloves, they call them mitts, so yeah, Fitz’s Mitts. Get it?”
“No.” I frowned. Just when I thought I was getting the hang of hockey, these people threw something else my way. “I thought they were called gloves?”
“Those are his Canadian supporters,” Max explained. “They call people who have good stickhandling Nifty Mitts, hence, Fitz’s Mitts.”
“Oh. So they’re like . . . his groupies?”
“Fan base, but yeah.” Max laughed.
“Hm. It’s cute.” I repeated it in my head: Fitz’s Mitts. It actually was cute, though I wouldn’t say it aloud.
“Wait until he skates onto the ice. It’ll be mayhem.”
“It’s pretty loud already.”
“This is not loud in comparison to when he comes out,” Max shouted over the noise. “Do you still hate each other?”
“No.” I blushed. “Water under the bridge.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good, because Fitz is the kind of guy who could make your time here a living hell if he wanted to.”
“How would he do that?” I raised my brows. “Our school has a zip code. It’s not like I have to see him.”
“You take pictures of sports events for the paper.” He shot me a look. “You’ll see him. Besides, as big as campus is, I bet you’ve seen all of them around everywhere.”
“True.”
“And I’ve heard the way girls talk about him. Cry over him.” He shot me another look.
My heart pounded, but I tried to keep my expression neutral. I did not want to hear anything about my boyfriend’s past. I’d convinced myself to get over his partner at The Eight from last year and stop obsessing over the thought of him with anyone else before me. It was a dumb thing to think about anyway. It wasn’t like I could change any of that. I put it out of my mind as the crowd got louder, cheers and screams sounding as the music was lowered and the announcer started announcing the team. First, he introduced the coaches, who walked out on the ice in a large group and waved. I snapped a picture.
“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for . . . this year’s hockey team!” the announcer screamed into the microphone.
The crowd roared. The lights shut off and spotlights shone on the ice, moving back and forth as the music started up again. Players were introduced as they skated onto the ice, and I clicked photos of each of them. The crowd seemed to get louder with each one. I wondered if they’d done it on purpose, given them an order of popularity to come out in. If so, I felt bad for the first one. Nolan was introduced. Nolan Chadwick Astor. It was a long, important-sounding name. I wondered if his mother was waiting for him to grow out of the long hair and inappropriate comments phase and grow into his name or if she’d given up hope.
Logan was last. “Logan ‘Fitz’ Fitzgerald!” The crowd went crazy, pounding on the glass, stomping on the floor, climbing on their seats, and I had to pause taking pictures to look around because I really thought they’d bring the house down. The noise vibrated through me as I stood there, and I smiled as I lifted the camera up and snapped a picture of the crowd first, and then Logan as he skated out on the ice. It got louder when he was in full sight. Unlike his teammates, who did a wave and stood in line, Logan skated around the ice and waved. It was then that it hit me. He really was popular. He really was sort of famous. And yeah, he was arrogant, but not as arrogant as you’d expect someone with this kind of following to be. When he skated toward my section, I braced myself, pressing my face to the camera and holding it tighter, as if it would somehow fall out of my hands at the sight of a close-up. I took a breath. I needed to calm down.
This was Logan, for God’s sake. When he reached us, people pounded on the glass. I stood closer to it and snapped, snapped, snapped. I didn’t want to miss him if he went by really fast. Suddenly, it seemed almost quiet, as if the crowd around me was waiting in anticipation of something. When I blinked into the little window of the camera, I saw his face right in front of me, staring into the lens—into me. I licked my lips, and he grinned, a slow, sexy grin that made his green eyes sparkle with mischief. He knew I was flustered. I lowered the camera but kept my finger on the button in case he did anything film-worthy. He nodded at me. I smiled, shaking my head. What was he doing? And then he did something I would have never expected in a million years. While holding my gaze from the other side of the glass, he opened his hand and kissed his palm.
