Page 55 of Patrick

Vince steps closer and grabs Sofia’s arm. “Okay, enough with the pleasantries. Let’s get out of here.” He tugs on Sofia to guide her away. “Watch your back, Jennings.”

The way he manhandles her sends a violent ricochet of fury through my system. Dropping my hands from Pammy, I clench my fists and force down the urge to run him down and punch his face into oblivion. Gritting my teeth so hard I’m already worried about the dentist bill to replace them when they crack into a million pieces, I hold back the promise of violence, barely, as I stare after them.

Fifi pulls her arm from his, saving me, and saving her brother from bloodshed. Breathing in, I wrangle enough control to speak without sounding like a murderous lunatic.

“Thanks for the warning, Vince,” I shout belatedly. “Real decent of you.”

Vincent turns and snorts, darting his eyes between me and Pammy before he disappears around a corner with Fifi. He’s escorting her to the elevator bank that goes to the stands as if he doesn’t trust her, or me. Not that he should.

Pammy clears her throat.

Calming, I give her a reassuring smile and pat her arm.

Who knows if Vincent believes she’s my girlfriend? She might come across as unexpected, definitely not my type from Vincent’s—or my teammates’ point of view.

Her glasses sport a wad of tape wrapped around the bridge to pad her nose. She’s wearing a knit UNH cap pulled low with two long brown braids sticking out the sides, and her oversized jersey tightens around her ample midsection and covers the top of her thighs but doesn’t hide her sweats. Glancing at her feet, I admire the LL Bean duck boots because I’d love to be able to afford a pair.

“What the heck-a-palooza is going on?” She asks a reasonable question. “Was that… the girl, the one to whom you gave the poetry?” She sounds like she’s in awe, or maybe it’s disbelief.

“She’s the one to whom,” I tease, or try to. I heave a breath, but it’s not nearly enough to calm my still stammering heart after the close call with Vincent.

I feel like I’m recovering from a hit by a stun gun. Not that I know what that’s like from real-life experience, but I have an imagination.

It’s a good thing I do, or I wouldn’t have dreamed up the idea to pull Pammy into my tight-wire act and make her my pretend girlfriend for a scene.

“So…,” Pammy says, touching my arm to get me out of my head. “Why did you lie about me being your girlfriend with her standing right there? And what’s with Vincent? Did you drown his kitten? No, I take that back. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who would have a kitten. Any sane kitten would rightly run the other way.”

“Slow down, Pammy.”

“Sorry, I ramble when I get excited.”

I laugh. “Thanks for going along with the fib. You bailed me out.”

“Out of what?”

I hear a whistle, and I realize the guys are heading our way to the locker room to dress.

“Later. I’ll explain everything. I promise.” As the team catches up to us, Pammy skitters out of the way. I see Bog and join him.

I call to Pammy, “Enjoy the game.”

She waves, wearing a bewildered expression as I walk away.

“Who’s that?” Bog asks. “She doesn’t look like your type.”

She’s not my type, not for a girlfriend, but that’s my fault because I’m a superficial fucker, but that doesn’t stop me from needing to defend her as a friend.

“Pammy is serious. She’s a certified genius and cool as fuck.” I realize too late that my tone may have sounded defensive. Not surprisingly, since I was trying to defend her.

He widens his eyes and gives apologetic vibes. “No offense meant.”

“Besides,” I lighten up. “I don’t have a type. You know that.”

He laughs. “Whatever you say, man. I’ve seen all types of girls throw themselves at you. I’ll give you that.”

“Pammy didn’t—” I’m about to defend her again as we enter the locker room, but I stop myself. The less said about Pammy, the better. Posing as a couple with her was a one-time fix for Vincent’s eyes only. I don’t need to make a deal out of it with Bog.

It’s bad enough that I owe Pammy an explanation, but I owe Fifi an explanation about who Pammy is too. Fuck.

This is not what I want to be focused on before a big game.

We file into the locker room, and Vaughn jumps up on a bench, waving his arms to get everyone’s attention. He shouts, “Who wants the first shot at Vincent Rossi?”

I’m in the process of raising my hand, one of those animal instinct responses about self-preservation hard-wired into men, when Bog catches my arm and pins it to my side in an impressive wrestling move.

I look at him. “Since when did you join the WWF?”

He narrows his eyes at me, trying to squelch his usual laugh, and whispers, “Don’t even think about it.”

Half the team jumps at the chance with enthusiasm before Sully takes over and picks a couple of candidates, Van being one of them.

“I’m up for throwing a punch,” Bog raises his voice. I elbow him and give Sully a look that says no way in hell.

Sully laughs. “You’re the only other person on the team who we can’t afford to lose.”

Bog’s a kickass goalie specializing in clutch saves, especially in big games, like today. If he weren’t so dead set on building bridges and shit when he graduates, he might be able to play in the pros.