Page 6 of Rival Season
My phone immediately starts ringing and I look down to see Chadwick’s name on the Caller ID. Bile rises in my throat again, as the temporary high of letting out my anger wears off and reality creeps back in. I cannot believe I did something so unhinged—it’s not like me to be so rash. Chadwick will be devastated…
No, wait. Forget that.
Why should I care about his feelings? Chadwickcheatedon me.
He doesn’t love me. He probably never did to begin with. Our families—who were so excited we got together—will be heartbroken.
I turn off my phone.
As I walk back inside, music from the loft above me starts to thump rhythmically. The vibrations from the base rattle Jeffrey and Violet’s expensive art on the living room walls. If I wasn’t already having an existential crisis that has completely derailed my routine today, I’d go up there and give Playboy—er, Penn—another piece of my mind. But I simply can’t muster up the energy to deal with another idiotic manchild right now.
CHAPTER 3
PENN
Not to brag,but I wear the hell out of a suit. And today’s game day get-up is no exception: navy blue with a razor thin, barely visible pinstripe, paired with a crisp white shirt and a light blue tie that Fisher’s suit guy said “brought out my eyes.”
Yes, Fisher has a suit guy. Seemed like the douchiest thing in the world to me at first, but I’m now the proud owner of multiple suits bought from the same designer, which I guess meansIhave a suit guy now, too. How times have changed.
I stride into the Lions’ arena, my tailored suit making me walk with a little extra swagger. Fisher and Noah are by my side, both of them also looking dapper as hell, and cameras start to flash.
Fisher grins and winks like he’s a celebrity who was born on the red carpet. Noah gives a tight, close-lipped smile, barely keeping the irritation off his face.
I smile, because although I’m on edge today, I’m relatively at ease with the attention—not lapping it up like Fisher, not gritting my teeth and tolerating it like Noah. To me, it’s still kind of a novelty. Another reminder that I’m really here, living a life I never dared to dream was even possible for a kid like me.
“You okay?” Noah asks me once we’re at the end of the hallway and in our dressing room. “You look a little tense.”
“Yup.” I set my bag down on a bench and look over at my Lions jersey hanging in my cubby. Number 82, turquoise with purple trim and a roaring golden lion on the front. The sight of it fuels my determination. “Just ready to kick some ass.”
I usually love game days. The adrenaline rush. The ear-piercing noise of the crowd. The high of chasing awin.
But facing off against the Sacramento Fire Cats is another story. In particular, facing off againstoneof them, who’s like the Ghost of Penn’s Past, always coming back to haunt me. As if reading my mind, Noah smirks and asks, “Itching to kick Chad-dick’s ass?”
“Hell, yes I am,” I say, remembering with pleasure how pissed that asshole was when we wiped the ice with them back in November. Immature as it is, nothing brings me more petty pleasure than beating that guy…reminding him which one of us is still the better player.
Fisher points a finger at me, smirking. “I find your little rivalry with Weatherbyveryinteresting. I know you love a tussle, but one mention of that guy and you get your panties in quite the twist.”
“I like winning,” I say. “What’s so wrong with that?”
“Don’t bullshit me, Matthews. I’ve never seen you take as many penalties as you did in our last game against them. And they all involved Weatherby. What did he do, steal your girlfriend or something?”
“Yep,” I say bluntly.
Fisher’s eyes widen in shock at being right, and Noah—who already knows this story and me and Chadwick’s history—coughs out a laugh at Fisher’s expression.
“Puck. Sorry, man,” Fisher says. Never saying the F word—instead replacing it withpuck—is one of our hockeysuperstitions. It started years ago on Noah’s and my college hockey team, and the two of us carried it forward when we got drafted. When we moved in with Fisher, he adopted it, too. Sounds kinda stupid, I know, but dumb superstitions are just a part of hockey. And pretty much all players respect them.
I shake my head. “It was a long time ago. High school drama that’s all water under the bridge now.”
“You’ve known him sincehigh school?”
“Yeah. He was a dick back then, and he’s still a dick now, but honestly, I mostly can’t stand him these days because he’s a dirty player who makes up for his lack of talent with cheap shots when the refs aren’t looking.”
Noah nods in agreement. ‘Did you see that flop he used to draw a penalty against Raleigh last week?”
“Exactly. He’s an embarrassment to our sport, so I enjoy beating him.”
“Same.” Noah crosses his arms, and I smile at his support.
