“No, reflection is not his strongest quality.”
He argues, “Can’t hate on a man of action.”
Eventually Terrence is released from the penalty box, but Christos benches him for the rest of the period. We manage to score with thirty seconds left on the clock. The crowd loses it—Marcus and Alex bolting up from their seats to join the raucous celebration. I stay in my seat, watching the bench as they hype each other up with shoves and shouts.
The period ends, and the guys all walk back to the locker room. I spot Terrence’s number and shout, “Try not to get boxed next period!”
Terrence groans, “Fuck you, dude”
“How is it my fault? And if you’re about to say something gross about Alexsandra—”
“Coooooach!” He rolls his head all the way back like a wolf howling at the moon. “I’m being harassed by a fan!”
Christos turns around, his bows knitted together like he’s ready to tell off some old-head fan. I give him a wave. He surprises me by walking back down the tunnel and meeting me. I get up, standing on the steps and leaning over the railing. “You’re distracting.”
“Me?” I flutter my eyelashes innocently. “I’m just here to show my support. Athlete to althete.”
The corner of his lip twitches, shattering his oh-so-serious shell.
I add, “Not to state the obvious, but youarewinning.”
“Two things can be true at once. We can be winningdespitethe distraction.” He looks past me. “Who’s your friend?”
“Alexsandra Ozerskiy.”
His eyes go wide. “That’s why everyone is so hot-blooded?” He runs a hand down his snout. “You’re killing me, Roderick.”
I shrug. “Thank me after you win?”
“I’m not counting this as a win just yet. Battles versus wars and whatnot.” He turns back to the rink looking out over the ice like the battlefield it is. This, I do find hot. Watching Christos in his element, deep in silent contemplation.
“I’ll try to be less distracting.”
“Maybe try distracting theotherteam. See if your friend can pitch in.” He smiles at me before disappearing down the tunnel.
Back at my seat, I relay the interaction to Marucs. “Can we get fined for gay chicken?”
“Marcus, they don’t penalize spectators.” Though maybe they should—not for heckling, but for spilling their beers or blocking the view.
He pats his pecs. “I could flash them in the next period.”
“We can’t distractbothteams.”
There’s a clear energy shift in the second period. The Dingbats defense is like a stone wall, Terrence opting to box guys out over outright slamming them. They’re so good, our goalie looks bored, with only one Hail Mary shot from the end zone. It’s an easy block, but the crowd loves it.
Halfway into the second, period I ask Alex.,“Are you going to be disappointed if there’s no fights this game?”
She gasps, “Oh my god, yes!”
Marcus cackles. “Too bad fights are banned in the college league.”
“Seriously?” She pouts. “That’s like, all I know about hockey. They punch each other.”
“It still happens, but players get suspended for it. That’s what happened to Terrence, right?”
“Yup,” I deadpan. “Went gloves off on some forward and got suspended for the rest of the season.”
“Made him a legend on campus, though,” Marcus points out. “And guys still beat the shit out of each other. They just gotta make sure the puck is nearby.”