My movements have Lucas finally looking up at me, seemingly not the least bit alarmed or even bothered.
“Try not following me out this time, okay?” I huff.
He shrugs, casual. In control. “Can’t make any promises.”
I don’t hesitate to flip him off and blame the shallowness of my breath on working out and not because Lucas has the powerto fluster me. Ever. This earns me a deep chuckle and a smile I desperately want to slap off his face.
It’s bad enough that I have to see Lucas during Kingswell’s hockey season with my dad being the head coach and all, but to still have him hanging around my circle is apparently a guaranteed way of pissing me off.
Sure, having his eyes on me is nice. I mean, what can I say?
A guy practically eye-fucking me every once in a while boosts a girl’s ego. The problem just ensues when he finally opens his mouth.
Two
Denise
If someone were to ask me what age I went to my first hockey game, I’d only be able to give them an answer solely because my dad keeps a picture of said game in his wallet.
That may have been my first experience in the hockey scene, but it definitely hadn’t been my last because hockey has always been my dad’s entire world—aside from me and my younger sister, Amiyah.
When he got injured, coaching hockey then became his life.
And then when I had my own injury, of course Amiyah and Dad thought that hanging out in the stands either during games or practice would somehow fix all my problems. As if watching my dad come back from his injury would dull the ache of my ended ballet career.
Kingswell Griffins vs. Boston Blue Jays.
The last game of the season and even if someone wasn’t a fan, they could feel it in the air.
I sit in the stands of the Kingswell hockey stadium, squished between my two best friends Bethany and Sarah. My hands are shoved into the front sleeves of my puffer vest, the cold nipping at any exposed skin I might have.
Around us, the crowd is either cheering or cursing out players for missing shots that I know they couldn’t have made, even if they tried. The smell of artificial butter slaps me in the face every time Bethany or Sarah pass the popcorn over me to the other.
In hindsight, it was a terrible mistake to bring the two along because they have no idea what’s going on. They’ve spent most of the game either asking me a thousand questions about what’s happening or asking what players on the team I can set them up with.
“You’re both annoying,” I huff, my breath drifting through the air.
Having to continually brush off fallen popcorn from my jeans hasn’t been as annoying as Sarah and Bethany asking me all night which players have girlfriends.
I don’t think they quite understand that I try to keep away from the hockey team as a whole. My dad coaches. That’s it. I don’t give a fuck about the players.
Not a single one of them.
“Don’t act like they’re not hot,” Sarah laughs, tying her long brown hair into a braid that now rests over her shoulder.
“I never said they weren’t hot but I’m also not drooling over them.”
We both look over at Bethany, who hasn’t taken her eyes off number eighteen, Matthew Creshaw, famously known as Moose because he was born in Canada and apparently the meatheads aren’t very creative.
Sarah tosses a few pieces of popcorn at Bethany, who hasn’t even noticed we’re watching her ogle the junior defenseman. Even as my dad rips his ass for not successfully blocking a shot.
“Hey!” Bethany swats her hands in the air, preparing for more popcorn to be thrown at her face.
“Close your mouth, Beth.” I tap her chin. “Flies are starting to swarm.”
“I’m invested in the game, is that not what you wanted?” she asks, knowing damn well that’s not at all what has her attention.
Sarah scoffs. “I think your investment has more to do with thinking whether or not you should hyphenate your name or just change it completely to Creshaw.”