by Kitty Parker
"Sieve!" shouted a trumpet player as soon as the band had finished, pointing a finger at the USA goalie.
The rest of the fans in our section quickly joined in. "Sieve! Sieve! Sieve! Sieve! Sieve!"
"Hey Murray!" someone shouted, noting the name on the back of the goalie's - er, sieve's - jersey. "Why don't you go home so your mommy can tuck you in? It's way too late for you to be up."
"Oh, I get it," I laughed. "They're under eighteen."
The pep band conductor cupped his hands around his mouth. "For the next set, have up 'Any Way You Want It,' 'Birdland,' and 'Let's Groove!'"
The bandies fished around in their folders for the appropriate music, clipping the pages to the tiny holders attached to their instruments.
Suddenly, Murray took off his mask to take a drink from the water bottle he had stored on top of the net.
A chant of "Ugly! Ugly! Ugly!" immediately started up.
I snorted with laughter before joining in on the taunting.
As soon as Murray caught on and put his mask back down, everyone cheered.
"Keep your mask on, Murray!" shouted a short little blond with a saxophone strapped around her neck. "Your face frightens small children!"
"You are HIDEOUS!" a trumpet chimed in.
I gave Mischa a grin. "This is hilarious!"
"It gets even better when the game starts," he replied, his blue eyes twinkling.
"'Any Way You Want It,' horns up!"
"Oh!"
With that, the band began to play.
Enjoying the music, I turned my attention to the Cornell players at the other end of the rink. They were taking turns shooting at Scrivens, who skillfully deflected the majority of the pucks. I would have shouted and waved to Tully, but I doubted he would see me. I decided to save it for when he was closer to me.
"Which one is your friend?" Mischa inquired, leaning close to my ear in order to be heard over the band.
I shivered involuntarily as his breath hit my neck and pointed to Tully. "Number twelve."
Mischa watched him, cerulean eyes studying him as he moved. "He is very talented."
I smiled. "He is."
"Will he play in the professional league someday?"
"Probably not. I don't think that's what he wants to do with his life."
He nodded in understanding.
Eventually, both teams left the ice and returned to their respective locker rooms, waiting for the game to start. The Zamboni backed onto the ice.
Imagine my surprise when I noticed that the driver was dressed up like a pharaoh.
Mischa chuckled at the expression of complete confusion on my face. "That is Dave," he told me. "He wears a different costume for every game."
"Cool!" I exclaimed as Dave drove slowly around the rink, waving to the fans as he went.
More people started to trickle in as face off time drew nearer. By the time the players re-took the ice (serenaded by a rousing rendition of 'Davy,' of course), the empty seats had nearly disappeared.
"This is a pretty good turnout for an exhibition game," I commented.
"Just wait until the regular season," Mischa replied. "There will be so many people that you cannot move."
I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"Here." The girl behind me handed me a piece of newspaper.
Recalling what Lars had told me, I grinned and thanked her.
"Good evening, hockey fans!" a voice bellowed over the loudspeakers.
Everyone cheered.
"Tonight's game is a matchup between the US Under Eighteen Select Team…"
The rink was filled with loud booing.
"… and your Cornell Big Red!"
The booing was replaced by eardrum-shattering cheers.
"And now for the lineups. For the US…"
The voice was muffled as everyone whipped out their newspapers and began to rattle them.
"Booooooring!" we chanted. "Booooooring! Booooooring! Booooooring!"
Mischa pretended to actually read his newspaper while shouting along with the rest of us, and I chuckled at his antics.
As soon as the lineup was finished, those around me began to crumple up their papers and toss them onto the ice. Mischa and I followed suit.
"And now, the starting lineup for your Cornell Big Red!"
"Yeah Red!" I screamed, joining in with the rest of the fans.
"In goal, a junior from Spruce Grove, Alberta, number thirty, Ben Scrivens!"
The crowd went wild as the pep band played the first few bars of 'Davy' and Scrivens skated out of the line of players at the far end of the rink to the center of the ice.
"Starting at forward, a sophomore from Kamloops, British Columbia, number fourteen, Riley Nash!"
The band played the next few bars of 'Davy' and we all cheered again as Nash bumped fists with Scrivens.
"Also starting at forward, a freshman from Dallas, Texas, number eight, Locke Jillson!"
Jillson joined his teammates as the rink erupted in a cacophony of sound.
"And starting at forward, a freshman from Gloucester, Massachusetts, number twelve, Tully McFadden!"
I screamed so hard I thought I was about to pop a lung. "Yeah, Tully! Tully, woo!"
Mischa chuckled at me. "You will lose your voice by the second period if you do that."
I waved him off, giving Tully one last cheer as he went to stand beside the other starters.
As the announcer called out the starting defenders ("a junior from Düsseldorf, Germany, number five, Justin Krueger!" and "a sophomore from Scituate, Massachusetts, number two, Mike Devin!"), I shifted anxiously, wanting the game to start.
The band played both the Canadian and American national anthems, the crowd enthusiastically shouting the word "red" in the phrase "rockets' red glare."
Finally, the forwards skated to the center of the ice, Riley Nash preparing himself for the face off.
There was a tense moment before the referee dropped the puck. The players fought for it, Nash finally managing to scoot it out to Tully, who started to move it down the ice toward the goal. Faced with an opposing defender, he passed to Jillson.
Suddenly, number four on the US team, Fowler, came flying out of nowhere and checked Jillson into the boards. There was a skirmish for the puck, a US forward coming up with it and heading for Scrivens.
Krueger quickly blocked him, getting the puck away from him and sending it down to Tully.
Skillfully maneuvering around two opposing players, he took a shot at the goal.
Ping!
The puck ricocheted off of the goal post.
"Goalie, sieve, post!" the crowd began to chant, pointing at Scrivens, Murray, and the net, respectively. "Goalie, sieve, post! Goalie, sieve, post!"
As a US player paused with the puck behind the net, the teams took a moment for a line change. Numbers fifteen (Greening), eighteen (Kennedy), and twenty-seven (Gallagher) quickly replaced Tully, Nash, and Jillson, who skated back to the bench. All this took place while the game was still in play. I was amazed at the pace.
The US player finally darted out from behind the net with the puck, Greening making a point of getting in his way. He wriggled past him, only to be checked violently into the boards by Seminoff (who had switched in for Devin).
The crowd cheered at the loud thud.
Getting control of the puck, Seminoff shot it out to Gallagher, who made a beeline for the goal. All of a sudden, he was sprawled on the ice and the referee had blown his whistle.
"Ahhhhhhhhhh…" the crowd began to shout, waving their hands as number twenty-one on the US team skated toward the penalty box. And as soon as he'd stepped inside… "See ya, you goon!"
Never having heard of this tradition, I chuckled as the pep band played a short theme from Dragnet.
"Do they do that every time there's a penalty on the other team?" I asked Mischa.
He nodded. "Mhmm."
"Nice."
There was a chant of "Let's go Red!" as the team prepared th
emselves for the power play.
A voice boomed over the loudspeaker. "Penalty against the US on number twenty-one, David Valek. Two minutes for tripping. Penalty at 2:49, first period. That's Valek, two minutes for tripping, 2:49 first period."
The atmosphere in the rink turned tense as the power play began, the players getting into formation around the US net, passing to each other and trying to score. Number twenty-four, Brendon Nash, took a long shot all the way from the blue line. It missed, clanging off of the glass.
We all groaned in disappointment.
"Come on, Red!" I shouted.
The time of the power play ticked away, and soon Valek skated back onto the ice, quickly being replaced by some player named Lynch.
"US returns to full strength," the announcer boomed.
"And they still suck!" the crowd replied.
The game continued in this fashion, back and forth with no one actually scoring. Four more penalties were called, but neither team was able to take advantage of the power play. I personally was getting quite frustrated by the time the first period ended.
"Tully!" I shouted, waving my arms around as the players skated off the ice for the break.
Number twelve pivoted his head around, searching the rink for the source of the noise. Finally, he noticed me and gave an excited wave back before being shoved off the ice by his teammates.
"Are you having fun?" Mischa asked me.
I turned around to smile at him. "Yeah. I'm glad you came with me."
His blue eyes twinkled. "I am glad you invited me."
We chatted pleasantly about the game as the pep band played an arrangement of "Buddy Holly" by Weezer.
"I am very impressed with Tully," Mischa commented. "He is a wonderful player."
I grinned. "He's been playing since he was six. We grew up together," I added, noticing the confused look on my companion's face. I didn't feel like going into any more detail.
"Ah, I see." He gave me a calculating look, as though deciding whether it was wise to ask his next question. "You care for him?"
"Of course. He's my friend."
Mischa blushed. "No, I mean…"
I caught his drift. "We're not a couple, if that's what you're asking."
He nodded, visibly relaxing. My heart started to beat a little faster at the thought of Mischa actually caring about my romantic status. Maybe he was interested…
The adrenaline in my veins was on full blast by the time the second period began. The teams had switched sides, so Scrivens was down closer to where Mischa and I were sitting.
"You're a wall, Ben! A wall!" the pep band shouted together, encouraging him as he stretched.
Riley Nash took the face off once again, maneuvering around to take a shot that Murray managed to deflect with his knee pad.
A US defender got a hold of the puck and passed it down to one of the forwards. After a skirmish against the boards, a second US forward came up with it and made for the goal.
He shot.
Scrivens dived, making a spectacular save with his glove.
The Lynah Faithful roared their approval.
"Yeah, Ben!" I cheered.
One of the trombones played the opening bars of the Superman theme song as the players regrouped.
The seconds ticked by as the puck flew back and forth, changing possession so quickly that I had a hard time keeping up. Players switched around like a dizzying carousel. The tension in the rink built up to a level I'd never felt before, when suddenly…
"Argh!"
The fans let out a collective groan as the US team scored.
"Let's go Red! Let's go Red!" we chanted, trying to boost the team's confidence.
The loudspeaker came on as play resumed. "The US goal was scored by number twenty-one, David Valek…"
"SUCKS!" we all shouted.
"… assisted by number fourteen, Kevin Lynch…"
"SUCKS!"
"… at 11:45, second period."
"SUCKS!"
"Okay, we need to score now," I told no one in particular.
"Word," the guy in front of me agreed.
After another minute or so, Schafer subbed in number thirty-five, Garman, for Scrivens.
"Why'd Schafer take out Scrivens?" I asked Mischa, incredibly surprised.
He shrugged. "It is only an exhibition game. Garman will probably not play much during the regular season. Perhaps Schafer wants him to practice now."
"That makes sense, I guess," I replied as the referee blew his whistle, calling a penalty on a US player for slashing.
"Ahhhhhhhhhh… see ya, you goon!"
"This time, we must really use the power play," Mischa commented.
"Mhm." I nibbled my lower lip nervously.
I needn't have worried, however. Only fifteen seconds had passed before Tully sent the puck sailing past Murray.
The crowd went wild as the pep band played "Davy" enthusiastically.
"Yeah, Tully!" I screamed, already feeling my throat getting hoarse. "Tully! Tully! Woo!"
"One, we want more!" the fans shouted when the band had finished. We then turned our attention to Murray…
"Sieve! Sieve! Sieve! Sieve! Sieve! Sieve! Sieve!" we chanted, pointing our fingers at him. "It's all your fault! It's all your fault! It's all your fault! It's all your fault!"
Cheering like mad, everyone around me began to high five each other as the announcer came on.
"The Cornell goal was scored by number twelve, Tully McFadden…"
"McFadden!" the fans echoed, pumping their fists in the air.
"… assisted by number twenty-four, Brendon Nash…"
"Nash!"
"… and number twenty-seven, Blake Gallagher…"
"Gallagher!"
"… at 13:28, second period."
"Second period!"
I continued to high five my neighbors. When I turned to Mischa, however, things were different.
He didn't high five me.
He threw his arms around me and kissed me full on the lips instead.
I was still in shock when he pulled away with an "oh-shit-I-can't-believe-I-just-did-that" look on his face.
I stared at him for what must have been a good twenty seconds, just trying to form words, my mouth opening and closing like that of a fish.
He just gaped at me in return.
That's when the awkwardness hit me full force.
And I ran.
* * *
At a quarter to midnight, I poked my head out of the front door of Olin Library. I'd been hiding out in the stacks there ever since I'd run from the hockey game.
A pang of guilt shot through my stomach. I'd probably made Mischa feel like shit. He'd probably just gotten caught up in the moment.
Sighing, I headed out across the arts quad. Despite the late hour, I decided to take the long way home over the suspension bridge. I needed time to clear my head. Plus, there was the added advantage of being less likely to run into anyone I knew.
Naturally, my plan backfired in a major way.
When I reached the bridge, I noticed that not only was I being followed, but I was being followed by none other than the guy I'd been avoiding.
He must have seen me walking home.
"Evie, wait," he implored.
I stopped and turned around, waiting for him to catch up with me.
He was silent for a minute, looking down at his feet awkwardly.
"I apologize," he finally spoke. "For… what happened."
I stayed silent and gave him a questioning look, hoping that he'd provide some sort of explanation.
"I was, I think you would say… carried away. I am sorry." He raised his gaze to my face and the intensity in his blue eyes nearly knocked me over. "But I do not regret kissing you. I have wanted to for some time now."
My breath hitched in my throat.
Mischa took a small step toward me. I was powerless to back away, even if I'd wanted to.
"I like you, Evie," he whispered, lightly brus
hing the backs of his fingers across my cheek. "Very much. Will you give me a chance?"
I was completely flabbergasted. As I searched my brain for something - anything - to say, my phone beeped softly, indicating that it was midnight. An idea popped into my head. I had my answer.
I grinned. "Well, I can't very well say no, can I? Legend says that if you're asked for a kiss at midnight on the suspension bridge and you say no, it'll fall into the gorge. And it's midnight now. We wouldn't want to be responsible f- mmph!"
I was effectively silenced as Mischa (who had correctly interpreted my answer as a yes) gleefully embraced me and pressed his lips to mine.
Wrapping my arms around his neck, I smiled into the kiss.
"Ya lublu tvoyu ulibku," he murmured.
I practically melted, even though I had no idea what he had said. The Russian just sounded so nice. I pressed my lips more firmly against his.
He tentatively ran his tongue along my bottom lip, asking my permission to deepen the kiss.
I obliged, opening my mouth to let him taste and explore me.
"Ahem!"
Mischa and I sprang apart abruptly and bashfully faced the middle-aged woman (most likely a professor on her way home) who had caught us.
"Mind if I pass?" she asked, a slight edge to her tone.
I blushed, realizing that Mischa and I had been completely blocking the bridge. "Sorry, ma'am," I hastily apologized, scooting over to the side with Mischa following suit.
Still somewhat disgruntled at the PDA she'd been forced to witness, the woman made her way past us, shaking her head. "Kids!"
Chapter 12: The Mating Habits of the Cornellus Toolus
"EVIE!"
"Oomph!" I grunted as my ten year-old brother rammed into my midriff. "Nice to see you, too, Jamie."
"Oooo, my baby!" my mother squealed, climbing out of the green mini van my family and the McFaddens had rented for parents weekend and dashing over to me. Jamie sensibly got out of the way and let her engulf me in a bone-crushing hug.
"Hi Mom," I gasped as she all but squeezed the air out of my lungs.
"Helen, you're going to crack her ribs."
I chuckled as my mother let me go. "Hey, Daddy."
"Hi, sweetie," he replied, embracing me and giving me a kiss on the cheek.
