I’m squished between Hope and Carin, with D’Andre sitting on Hope’s other side. I don’t know if we have good seats or not. Carin says yes, but I would’ve preferred to be sitting right behind the home bench so I could stare at Tucker all night. Instead, I have to satisfy myself by watching him on the ice.
Hope told me that his jersey number is 46. I guess she found that out on the school website too. So I glue my eyes to the black-and-silver jersey that reads #46, marveling at the way he confidently wields his stick. I don’t think I could ever hold on to a hockey stick while I was wearing those bulky boxing gloves.
When I mention this to my friends, D’Andre laughs his ass off. “Those are hockey gloves, baby girl. Not boxing gloves.”
“Oh.” I feel stupid now.
In my defense, I’ve never been to a hockey game before, so why should I be expected to know what the equipment is called? I know there are sticks and pucks and nets. I know some players are forwards, because that’s what Tucker told me he was. And I know other players are defensemen, because that’s what Beau told me Dean was.
Other than that, I’m completely ignorant about this game. There was no reason to ever study up on it, since hockey players have been on my hell no list.
So have boyfriends, for that matter.
Argh. I can’t believe I let my friends talk me into this. I don’t have time for a boyfriend. And even if I did, Tucker isn’t the guy. He’s too nice. And sweet. And amazing.
That trickle of shame I felt when Ray interrupted us having sex still flutters through me every time I think about it. It was so humiliating. And even though Tucker assured me that it didn’t make him think any less of me, a part of me thinks less of me.
I hate where I come from. I hate Ray. Sometimes I even hate my own mother. I know I’m supposed to love her because she gave birth to me, but the woman abandoned me. She just left.
“You got this, boys!” an enthusiastic fan shouts, jerking me out of my bleak thoughts.
I glance at the ice to see Tucker skating again. The night we met, he’d admitted that he was slow because of an old knee injury, but holy hell, he doesn’t look slow. He’s a blur of motion, getting from one end of the ice to the other before I can even blink.
His teammates are equally fast, and I can barely keep up with the puck. I thought Tucker had it, but then the crowd roars with disappointment and I swivel my head to see the black disk bounce off one of the net posts. I guess someone else had it, but Tucker scoops up the rebound. He passes to one of his teammates. When the guy slaps it right back to Tuck, I find myself bolting to my feet so I can get a better view of him taking a shot.
He misses. I groan in frustration. Carin laughs as I flop back down in my seat, but she doesn’t make fun of me for my sudden burst of fangirldom.
The game remains scoreless all the way into the third period. I can’t believe we’ve already watched thirty minutes of hockey and no one has scored yet. You’d think I’d find it boring, but I’m on the edge of my seat, wondering which team will draw first blood.
It’s Briar.
As the lamp over the net lights up, a rock anthem blasts over the PA system and the home crowd screams in celebration. The announcer calls the goal for someone named Mike Hollis and the assist for…John Tucker.
I jump to my feet again, cheering loudly. This time, my friends do say something.
“She’s got it bad,” D’Andre remarks.
“Told you so,” Hope says to her boyfriend.
“What?” I mutter defensively. “That was a very nice scoring maneuver.”
Carin doubles over. “Scoring maneuver?” she echoes between giggles. “Jeez, B, get with the program. It’s called a goal.”
“You’re called a goal,” I retort childishly.
D’Andre snickers. “Good one.”
I sit down and watch the fast-paced game with bated breath. To my relief, Briar holds the other team off, and we win 1-0 when the final buzzer goes off. Everyone is in good spirits as they shuffle out of the arena, myself included.
I’m happy I came tonight. And as unsure as I am about whether to get involved with Tucker, I can’t deny I’m excited to see him and give him a hug and tell him what a great game he played. He’ll hug me back. Thank me. Maybe he’ll suggest we get in that truck of his for some celebratory sexytimes…
If he does that, I honestly don’t think I would say no this time.
“Apparently all the bunnies hang out outside the locker rooms,” Carin whispers to me as we file into the main lobby. “So let’s wait for him outside. It’ll be less crowded.”
“The bunnies?”
“Puck bunnies. Hockey groupies. Whatever you want to call them.” She shrugs. “You know, the chicks looking to get nasty with a hockey player.”
“Ah. Gotcha.” I shrug back, because I have nothing against girls who want that. After all, my own requirement for hookups is athletes only.
But when the athlete I’m waiting for finally emerges from the building, he’s not alone.