Page 69 of Rival Season
“What’s up?” I ask, as chill as I can manage.
“What’s up withyou?” he throws back. “You were a million miles away in the locker room, and you’re all over the place out here. Did something happen?”
I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck with my gloved hand. Noah and I have been friends for years, and he gets me in a lot of ways—he lost his parents as a kid and was raised by his older sister. I’ve always been an open book with Noah…lying to him about Hazel is starting to weigh on me.
“Did you have a fight with Hazel?” Noah presses. “I noticed you didn’t say hi to her when we got out here.”
“No…I,” I hesitate, wondering how to phrase this without giving everything away. “I guess I’m just scared.” It’s just a small piece of the truth, but it’s a relief to finally say something to Noah.
Noah’s eyes soften with understanding. “Of being in another relationship after what happened before?”
“I think I might like her more than she likes me,” I blurt out, grateful to finally admit some of what’s been going on in my mind since the party.
I expect Noah to respond with sympathy, or wise words or some shit, so I’m thrown off when he grins. “I don’t think you need to worry about that, you dummy.”
My mouth twists in confusion. “Why not?”
“Use your damn eyes, Matthews.” Noah points towards the crowd, and I look in the direction he’s pointing.
Hazel and Ally are standing together in the front row, hands pressed up against the plexiglass. Ally is wearing one of our alternate jerseys with Noah’s number on it and a purple ribbon in her hair, but I barely notice her standing there because my full, undivided attention is immediately locked on Hazel.
Her curls are tumbling around her shoulders, and she’s wearing the jacket I gave her. It fits her like a glove, hugging herslim frame. She left the jacket unzipped so her purple button-down peeks out the front. She looks comfortable and completely herself. I’m so glad I didn’t give her a jersey to wear, because the outfit she put together is even better.
Hazel’s eyes sparkle as they meet mine. A pink blush dances over her cheekbones and the tip of her freckled nose as a shy smile meets her lips. She’s so damned pretty it almost hurts to look at her.
“Hi, Penn,” she mouths at me.
“Hi, Hazel,” I mouth back stupidly, still staring at her.
She breaks eye contact and scoops her hair over one shoulder, holding it up and out of the way as she spins around, revealing the back of the jacket.
My jaw nearly hits the ice before I school my expression.
The one-of-a-kind vintage jacket she loved and wanted so badly is now customized with huge turquoise lettering—her back emblazoned with MATTHEWS and my number, 82, below it.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I murmur as Hazel spins back around, grinning at me. I have to bite down on my lower lip for a moment to contain the emotions that move through me, seeing the girl I like too much standing in the front row of one of my games, wearing something so special and unique, just for me.
Our eyes hold for another loaded second—so much unsaid stretching between us—before Noah jostles into me.
“See?” he crows. “You guys are equally obsessed with each other. Happy now?”
“Yes,” I admit, still feeling a bit stunned.
When warm-ups are over, we skate back to the locker room, where Coach Anderson and Coach Slater are waiting.
“Okay, boys, listen closely,” Coach Anderson says, wasting no time with niceties. He unbuttons his suit jacket and then crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m going to keep this short and sweet.”
Beside me, Fisher snorts—which I get, there’s nothing sweet about Coach Anderson. As if to prove that point, Coach swiftly silences Fisher with a glare.
“We’re the better team. We’re on home ice. And we’ve had a few days of rest to recover from our stint on the road. So we have no reason not to win this thing.” Coach looks us all over with his intense stare, as if he’s daring us to disagree with him. “Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” we all chorus.
Beside him, Coach Slater smiles as he adds, “Play your best, keep your heads in the game, and it’s already in the bag. Now let’s go get ‘em!”
“Kick their sorry asses,” Coach Anderson adds with a growl, and everyone cheers as they get to their feet, ready to get back out on the ice and win.
Before I can take two steps, Coach grabs my arm. “Matthews, what the hell was that out there during warm-ups?”
