Page 68 of Rival Season
“Damn right you are.” Fisher holds up his hand for a high five. And I—super obnoxiously—high five him back before turning away, hoping the guys bought my nonchalant bravado.
“I live with children.” Noah rolls his eyes. “Now hurry up; we need to be out on the ice in like, one minute.”
“Yes, Dad,” I say as I reach for my jersey and tug it on over my padding. We’re wearing our alternate jerseys for tonight’s home game, and they’re pretty cool—white, with turquoise trim, and the lion logo on the front in purple.
Management gave us a few extra jerseys each with our names and numbers on them, and I thought about taking one downstairs to Hazel this morning for her to wear, but I changed my mind. I didn’t want her to feel pressured to wear my name and number—and after our picnic on Monday, I’ve been trying to reel myself in. Remind myself what this really is between us, like she was quick to remind me. We might be hanging out and even stealing a few kisses, but I’d do well to remember we’re not reallygoing outwith each other. Some rules might be okay to break, but others clearly aren’t. Whatever it is we have right now still has an expiration date.
In my defense, I wasn’t trying to act overly romantic. I wanted to bring her food because I know she forgets to eat when she gets in the zone with her writing. As for the jacket, Ally told me she’d love it, so I wanted Hazel to have it. Simple as that.
But since then, I’ve been second guessing myself. Wondering if it was too much. If I came on too strong and made her believe I think this is something it isn’t.
Kissing her breathless can be chalked up to acting on our undeniable attraction to each other, but picnics on mosaic steps and gifts packaged in Valentine’s wrapping? Those are things real boyfriends do.
“So what were you saying a minute ago, anyway?” I ask Fisher, trying to push my thoughts away from Hazel.
“I wanted to mention there’s a special midnight bonus trivia round at Big Ed’s tonight.”
“Do we have to go?” I groan. Our game will be over by ten, so we can easily make it, but I don’t feel like going out.
“Yes!” Fisher and Noah say in unison.
“We have to make up our overall score for missing last week when we were on the road,” Noah adds.
“Okay, fine,” I say with a sigh. I still hate trivia, but at least Big Ed’s has beer. And I’m going to need a beer or six after this game because my head’s a mess. I don’t know what to do about the way I’m feeling towards Hazel right now, but what Idoknow is that I can’t—and won’t—end up being the idiot who starts falling for their fake girlfriend while she’s still getting over someone else.
Finally ready, I grab my freshly taped stick, and the three of us join the line-up of guys in the tunnel. When we skate out onto the ice a few moments later, the arena is already packed and buzzing with energy, but while I know Hazel is out there watching, I summon all of my self-control not to immediatelylook for her in the crowd. Instead, I’m going to use this warm-up time to re-center myself and focus.
I skate a couple of quick laps then drop down on the ice to stretch my hips. Fisher is doing the same but exaggerating the movements so they look downright sexual.
“Having fun over there?” I ask with a snort.
Fisher looks up, his green eyes dead serious as he replies, “I invited a girl I met at a bar last week to tonight’s game.”
I burst out laughing. “And you want to impress her by dry-humping the ice?”
“Yes, obviously.” He stares at me like I’m an idiot. “What better way to show off my best moves in advance?”
“If we had a douchebag jar, I’d make you put twenty bucks in it right now.”
“It’s not my fault I’m irresistible to women,” Fisher responds with a wink, hips still gyrating.
“Well I’m getting out of here before I’m scarred for life,” I say as I push off the ice and stand back up on my skates.
A couple of the guys are taking shots on net, so I snag a puck and skate towards the goalie, taking a shot. The goalie easily blocks it. I take another and miss the net completely this time.
What the hell is wrong with me?My focus is non-existent.
Noah skates up beside me, neatly sinking a puck in the back corner of the net with an effortless-looking flick of his stick.
“Hey, Matthews,” he says.
Irritated, I take another shot. It flies off the bar.
“Penn,” Noah tries again. I start to skate for another puck nearby.
“Would you stop for a second so I can talk to you, for puck’s sake?” Noah demands.
I freeze. Noah’s the least hot-headed person I know—he hardly ever raises his voice. So, I finally look at him, and I’m surprised to see him looking at me with a concerned frown.
