I laugh. “You joined spirit club?”
“I would, if Watonka High had one. I’d be the president of that piece. Holla!”
I return her double high five and flip through the rest of the pile. “This is awesome. Thank you.”
“Thank me later,” she says. “Let’s eat so we can bounce.”
With a little bribery of the Andrew Jackson nature for Mrs. Ferris and the Mom-radar jammed under the guise of a French study session at Dani’s house, my best ami and I hit up the Wolves game. The task of finding good seats proves completely unchallenging. Aside from us, the hockey boys, the opposing Raptors, the coaches, two refs, and the AV club freshman who films the games, there aren’t many people here—a handful of families and girlfriends—twenty spectators at most. The highest section is closed off with yellow rope, and only one side of the concessions wall is open.
“Welcome to Ghostville,” Dani says.
I hush her as the buzzer sounds and the ref drops the puck between the opposing teams. Raptors take it first, the center forward rapidly slicing his way to the Wolves’ goal zone. Amir stops him, cradling the puck and knocking it into Raptor territory. Raptors take it back. Then Wolves. And on it goes for several uneventful minutes until the end of first period, when Josh finally takes a shot at the net—first attempt of the game. The Raptors dude saves it, ending round one.
From the penalty box, Coach Dodd consults his clipboard, calling out an occasional pointer or swapping players with as much enthusiasm as Trick remaking my screwed-up orders. He doesn’t seem to notice the obvious, plain as the white of the ice: Despite the scoreless second period, the guys are skating great. For the first time in a decade, they’re not losing. They’re holding it down in the goal zone, and other than a few recoverable mistakes, they’re keeping the puck away from the Raptors’ offense, weaving around the other team, unpredictable yet balanced, aggressive yet controlled.
“I think they listened to me,” I say. “They’re really keeping it together out there.”
“You surprised?” Dani asks. “I’m not trying to join the Wolf Pack Fan Club or anything, but you’re an amazing skater, Hud. They should watch your DVDs.”
“Yeah, but I never thought they’d—wait.” I lean forward to scope out the seats across the rink where a group of girls just piled in. “Is that Kara?”
“Yep. Looks like she’s with Amir Jordan’s girl,” Dani says. “Ellie something, I think? She’s in my English class.”
“I know who Ellie is, but what’s Kara doing here?” Kara jumps from her seat as the Wolves slice their way toward the goal again, beaming as if Will can see her enthusiasm from the ice. “She and Will are as over as Monday’s chicken à la king.”
“Eww, don’t remind me. My hair still smells like cream sauce.” Dani shrugs. “Anyway, she’s probably still friends with the other hockey wives. The players, too.”
“But—”
“For someone who’s supposedly not crushing on these boys, you’re getting a little worked up about this.”
I lean back in my seat and sigh. “I just think it looks desperate, that’s all. I feel sorry for her.”
“Mmm-hmm. Watch the game. You’re missing your hot little protégés take out their anger on the ice. Quite a sexy display, if you ask me.” She pulls out her Nikon and zooms in for some action shots. “And hello, number thirteen. Who is that?”
“Frankie Torres. He’s in our lunch period.”
“Guess I never paid much attention. Mental note: Pay much attention.”
I laugh and pat her on the back. “You drool over Frankie. I’m going down for hot chocolates.”
Concessions is at rink level, a long stretch of orange shutters that slide up like garage doors to reveal a counter and snack bar. Tonight only the far left side is open, the sweet, dreamy scent of powdered chocolate mix floating down the hall.
I order two cocoas with marshmallows, a bag of salt ’n’ vinegar chips, and some Reese’s Pieces. After about four hours the half-asleep concessions guy gives me change and piles everything into a little cardboard flat, which, now that I’ve mastered the fine art of tray-carrying, I can one-hand. I slide it onto my palm, shove the change in my pocket, and turn back toward the stairs that lead to our row.
But I’m not alone.
“What are you doing here?” Kara asks, hand on her hip. Red-blond hair spills out from under a baby-blue cable-knit hat, and I want to hate her. I really do. It would be a whole lot easier if she was a cheerleader or something. The all-American bubblegum kind with a prom budget that rivals a celebrity wedding and a red VW Bug convertible with a big pink ribbon dangling from the rearview. It would be easier if her name was Brooklyn or Brianna or Britta or Bree and if she wasn’t president of the math club. If her parents were on the boards of elite charity golf tournaments rather than in the Southtowns Ramblin’ Rollers competitive bowling league. If she didn’t have to endure, perhaps even more tragically than the annual tri-state mathalon, their undying love of Buffalo Sabres lawn decorations.
It would be easier to hate my ex–best friend if it wasn’t my fault she was my ex in the first place. Ex. Former. No longer.
“Sorry,” I say, “but I could ask you the same thing. I thought you and Will broke up?”
Hurt ripples across her face, but she recovers quickly, lips twisting into a scowl. “Unlike some people, I have friends on the team, and I’ve been at every game to support them.”
“And I’m sure they appreciate it.” I stalk past her, envisioning a mean-girl-style shoulder bump, but the only thing I do is brush her arm, so lightly it might as well be an accident. She doesn’t say anything else, but still, after I turn the corner near the stairs, a shiver passes through me and my neck prickles with guilt, eyes aching from the effort of holding back tears.
“What took you so long?” Dani asks when I reach our seats. “Stop for a quickie in the penalty box? Have to admit, five-six is smokin’ tonight.”
“Ha-ha. No, apparently the concessions dude had to take a nap before he could make the hot chocolates. Hard work, you know?” I pass her a cup and the potato chips.
Back on the rink, Josh, Will, and the rest of my hot little protégés are holding off the Raptors with a combination of strength, intimidation, and a few new tricks for which I’ll take full credit. In the final seconds of the game I cling to Dani’s arm as Josh runs the puck toward the Raptors’ goal, totally unhindered. Closer and closer he gets, Raptors scrambling to reach him as the goalie tries desperately to predict the shot.
Josh passes to Will …
Will takes the puck and …
If Baylor’s Rink were a movie set, everything would melt into slow motion. The seats would be filled with classmates and parents and pro-hockey scouts and other adoring fans, all leaning forward to see the action, and as the buzzer signaled the end of the game, everyone would jump up and spill their drinks and scream and howl and hug the total strangers around them.
Because Will, confident and controlled, taps that beautiful black puck right into the net.
Ladies and gentlemen, he shoots. He scores. The buzzer sounds. The Wolves win.
And the crowd goes …
To be perfectly honest, the crowd doesn’t go much of anything. For the first time in more than a thousand days, the Watonka Wolves have won a game, and that kind of straight-up, balls-out insanity takes a minute to translate. Even Dodd looks stunned, his mouth hanging open while his brain undoubtedly replays the last five seconds. Dani and I climb down to the edge of the ice where the guys are all hugging and high-fiving, deer-in-headlight grins all around.
“Did that just happen?” Brad asks.
“Hell yeah that just happened!” I pull him into a hug. “Congrats. You did it.”