Page 47 of Patrick
“Shut your fucking mouth.” He points a finger at some poor sucker, probably a freshman since I don’t recognize the voice. “My office in ten.”
I let out a breath of relief that coach doesn’t add a team reprimand. I should feel sorry for the stupid fucker because I’ve been there, but I wasn’t that stupid, so I don’t feel bad. Some guys need to learn the hard way.
What the coach does to me isn’t teaching. It’s a grudge and that’s on him.
We file out of the room after Coach finishes his non-inspirational speech. Behind his back, Bog, Sully, Van, and I call it the drag down talk and actively work at not letting the negativity get to us.
After practice I’m surprised, but in a good way, to see Fifi near the rink’s gate standing out in the crowd of reporters and photographers. My mind immediately spins to making up an excuse for my parents about why I’m not going home again tonight—not that I need one, but they’re already teasing me about having a girlfriend, and I don’t want to add fuel to that fire.
If I’m not careful, Mom will assume I have a girlfriend, and she’ll clue in my dad. Then I’ll have to decide what to tell them when they start asking to meet her. The truth? Or make up more lies, deeper lies, a whole web of flimsy lies. Shit.
The consequences of getting involved with Fifi—no, Sofia Rossi—are falling on me too fast. But as my skates hit the rubber when I step through the gate, I school my expression to erase the scowl I know has taken up residence on my face.
The last thing Fifi deserves from me is a frown because her showing here lights me up like a puck lighting the lamp when it hits the back of the net.
“Fifi.” I nod, realizing my teammates are watching. Double shit.
Her smile might require sunglasses today, and I’m suddenly worried about the health of my retinas.
She surges forward, touching my sweat-soaked jersey as I take my gloves off. To her credit, she doesn’t cringe. I spot the assistant equipment manager and toss her my helmet and gloves. She catches them and jogs away to take care of the smelly items, but there’s nothing I can do with the rest of me.
“I hope you don’t mind that I came by. I didn’t realize there’d be so many people and cameras.”
“It’s press day, but don’t worry about it.” I step aside behind a trio of freshmen who aren’t on the press’s radar, and she follows. Someone calls out my name, and I duck. One of the young players turns to me and starts to say something, but I put a finger over my lips, letting him know to keep my whereabouts quiet.
He nods, going along, probably because of coach’s comment to me about grandstanding.
Fifi bends and whispers, “What are you doing? Shouldn’t you be talking to the press? They’re calling—”
“Not now. I’d rather talk to you.”
She grins. And then the sunshine in her expression literally disappears like a cloud suddenly decided to hover.
“What is it? Something wrong?”
“No—I mean yes, technically. But it’s not too bad.”
Wiping as much sweat off my hands as I can on my pants, I dare to get closer and put my hands on her arms—or rather on the furry pink coat covering her arms. “Tell me.”
“My parents are coming to the game and insist I go to dinner with them and Vince after the game, so—”
“No big deal.” I grin, letting go of the tension across my shoulders, nearly slumping with relief. “My parents are taking me to dinner—my whole family really. So we’ll meet up after that. You can text me when you’re done, and I’ll come over—”
“Except there’ve been quite a few social media posts of us together. Sorry—Nina can’t help herself.”
“And?”
“People on campus know we’re together.”
“And?” I say this, but my shoulders coil with tension, and I feel the sting because I’ve been holding back on my friends like I was doing the right thing, keeping us quiet.
“I’ve heard comments. Gossip. One of Ricci’s friends works at the rink, and they said they’re going to try and catch us together and put us on the jumbotron.”
“Fuck. This whole thing is so fucked up.” The words escape before I think. A glance at her expression tells me she’s upset. “Shit.” I take a deep breath and let it leak out, taking a moment. “Sorry, it’s—it’ll be fine.” I swipe my hand through my hair, scowling in frustration.
“I just thought I’d warn you. We won’t be seen together, so they can’t take our picture—”
I wave a hand in front of me, indicating the crowd of press all with cameras as we stand here together. Fuck.
