My heart races as the opposing team skates into place, followed by Cross and his guys. I’ve been to my fair share of games in my time, but the stupid player parade seems to drag longer than it ever has.Get on with it already.I need this nightmare over, one way or another.
Number 11 makes a show of sliding right up to me, and hazel eyes wink as he spins back into place. “Later, darling.”
I shoot him my middle finger, and the fans around us chuckle, some of them completely misreading the situation.
“Is that his girlfriend?” some girl gasps.
“Of course it’s his girlfriend,” I hear the guy she’s with retort. “They never have anyone in the family seats other than that punk chick.”
The punk chick must be Dez.
It takes all my strength to not turn around and explain in painstaking detail how I absolutely am not anyone’s girlfriend and certainly not thatdick’s.
The Dragons captain practically screams, taunting the Beasts. “Ready for, what, your twentieth loss in a row?” I hear him yell, to the delight of the visitors, who hoot from the stands. “Have you guys ever won, actually?”
“Do you ever win anything except the games we let you take?” Cross retorts, earning some cheers.
He has the home turf advantage: most of the arena wears their blue and silver.
And finally, the referee gets them to shut up long enough for the game to start.
Palms clammy, hands shaking, I lean in, my eyes following the puck with more attention than any of the high school games played by my ex-boyfriend by home, any pro game he paid a lot of money to watch.
Our Beasts immediately dominate, passing the puck towards the goals, and the moment the Dragons manage to take it, number seven rams into their defense with enough force that sends the poor guy packing. Blood splatters across the smooth ice as the beast of a man thrown by seven skids and falls.
I watch in speechless horror.
“Come on, that’s bullshit!” I scream, along with everyone else in the arena.
Except, they’re cheering.
“That’s an infraction!” I yell, but the only reason the game’s paused is to make sure the idiot didn’t get a concussion.
“That was completely normal body checking,” the guy behind me, who pronounced me Cross’s girlfriend, counters. “What team are you with, anyway?”
“Anyone but the bloody Beasts,” I grumble.
The puck crosses the goal line less than fifteen seconds after the game restarts and the crowd goeswild. No one expected it. Frankly, it’s a miracle the arena’s more than half full, given that every spectator here is used to seeing the guys lose. I supposethey are into the glittering elites of Thorn Falls, regardless of their actual skills on the ice. But today, something has changed. They don’t have a clue what.
Unfortunately, I do.
The Dragons, confused, start to insult each other, our Beasts, and the crowd, but it doesn’t change the fact that they barely get half a second with the puck.
There’s only one guy on defense: number seven. He’s enough. He’s more of an enforcer than anything else, happy to play his part of a one-man army, a loose cannon inflicting injuries to whoever so much as thinks they’ll actually play. Everyone else is center and wing, driving the puck into the away team’s goal again and again. I have to feel sorry for them after a while.
And for me.
I grow silent as everyone else screams louder.
By the halftime, the away team hasn’t scored once, and we’re at forty-three goals.
Number seven removes his helmet, slowly skating around the rink with his hands up in smug victory. Markus Goltz. Of course.
For the first time, I spot Dez, on the other side of the rink, closer to the changing rooms. If I’d known she’d show up, I might have sat with her. Then again, she might have questioned what I was doing here—and why I’m so mad our team is pulverizing the guests.
I decide the only reasonable solution is day drinking, and make my way to the snack stands. I’ve only taken a few steps when the security guard who indicated my seat is back in my face. “Ms. Trueman, the crowd can get rowdy.”
“Duh.” I roll my eyes. “It’s a hockey game.”