by Sara Hubbard
“That’s not normal, right?”
Emily laughs. “Of course not. But this is for fun. They don’t stand a chance against our boys. Half of the grad team are also varsity.”
Yet the turned net doesn’t make a difference. Ozzie skates down the ice, moving faster than all the others. He’s like lightning, streaking across the ice. When he reaches the net, he curves around before turning and slapping the puck in the net as he skates backward. The crowd goes wild, and his hand is in the air, pumping his stick.
“Does that count?” I ask, serious.
Emily laughs at me and rolls her eyes. She pulls our linked elbows in closer. “It’s frigging cold in here.” She shivers, letting out a loud “brrrr.”
“Emily, this is great, but this doesn’t help my article,” I whisper-yell.
She leans in and puts her hands up to cup my ear. “No, but it got you out of the dorm, didn’t it?”
I glare at her, but am unable to be angry. Instead, I chuckle and shake my head. I pull out my phone and get a few shots of the game, panning the camera around to follow Ozmore as he moves. I don’t think anyone notices until Sam’s eyes meet mine. I lower my camera and swallow hard before shoving my phone in my pocket. She tips her head to the side, looking confused.
When Emily leaves to pee, a good ten minutes later, Sam sidles up to me. I smile at her and keep my eyes on the game, but her eyes are on the side of my face and they aren’t moving. As much as I try not to notice, it’s impossible.
“Hey, Sam,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. Enjoying the game?”
I shove my hands in my pockets and avoid eye contact. “Sure. It’s fine.”
“Hmm. Hockey’s my favorite sport. My brothers play—all four of them—so I’ve been in rinks since I was a toddler.” She laughs lightly, tossing her hair back.
“You...uh...dated one of them, right?”
She eyes me. “Sure. Ozmore.” She points to him as he passes the puck to another player. “We dated for like eight months or so.”
“The crowd seems to like him,” I say nonchalantly.
“You noticed, huh? I guess it’s hard not to.” She folds her arms over her chest and rounds her shoulders. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold.
“Did you part on good terms? I mean, are you guys still friends?”
She turns in to face me head-on. “Why the sudden interest in Ozzie?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I’m not. Not at all. God, I don’t even know him.”
She laughs lightly, shrugging it off, though a minute ago I thought she was ready to go to war. “That’s good. Really good, actually. I would hate to see you hurt.”
Okay, Sam. I’ll bite. “Why do you think he’d hurt me?”
“He pretends to be this super nice guy who cares so much about you, but he’s not. He’s so secretive. Like more than anyone I’ve ever met. I’m sure he was cheating on me, though he denied it. Denies it still. Watch out with that one, Charlie. He’ll break your heart.”
“Like I said, I don’t even know him.” I swallow hard and look to the left, totally giving myself away.
Ozzie steals the puck from one of the professors and races down the ice, the crowd screaming at him, chanting his name. He maneuvers around the opposite team, sliding in between them as they try to catch him.
“He’d chew you up and spit you out,” Sam says as she watches him. “You’re a nice girl, Charlie. I know we’re not besties or anything, but we girls have to look out for each other. You know? Women united? You’d do the same for me, right?”
She glances at me, fluttering her eyelashes. An attempt to charm me? To follow her lead? I don’t know. To me, it seems like her motives are not what they seem. Why does she even care that I was taking videos of Ozzie? And why would me taking them automatically make her jump to the conclusion that I’m interested in him? I would have told her about the story if I thought it might help, but I know it won’t. Emily thinks I should keep the story quiet, and as much as I’m against that idea, when faced with the thought of it getting out, I hold my cards in tight against my chest. Sam is not my friend. I can’t trust her. And I need Clay’s story for my own curiosity and for the paper.
The game continues for much longer than I expect. A full two hours. At the very end, they shake hands and announce they’re going to bring someone down onto the ice from the crowds. Something about wining money for charity by scoring on the net.
“For every goal this lucky person makes, the university will donate an additional hundred dollars to the Halifax Children’s Hospital Foundation.”
The crowd claps, me included. That certainly is a nice thing to do, and I hope they find someone who is good enough with a stick to keep getting goals so they get as much as they possibly can.
“So, who’s the lucky crowd member?” A guy in a blue jersey says as he stands in the center of the ice, holding a microphone. The crowd cheers. I look around, wondering who they’ll pick.
Then my best friend becomes my enemy as she hops up on the boards, her hands on the top of the Plexiglas. She screams, “Over here! Over here!”
What the hell? Emily can’t play hockey. Why does she want this so bad? Her motive is clear. She points a finger in my direction and my eyes go wide. What the effing fuck? My well-meaning friend is trying to get me on the ice, and I’m about to completely pee my pants. Given that my bladder is full, I swear it’s going to happen.
But they won’t pick me! Lots of people are pointing, and lots of people are screaming, “pick me, pick me!” so I relax just a little—but not a lot. My heart is pounding against the cage of my chest, and I have a cold sweat on now that the chilly rink temperature can’t even fix.
Ozmore stares right at Emily, his glance faltering for a brief moment as he spies Sam to Emily’s left. But then his gaze lands firmly on me, and as I bite my lip and look around, hoping he forgets about me, he doesn’t. When I look back at his smiling face, he points in my direction, and the weight of an entire rink’s stare is on me. I’m light-headed. How bad would it look if I turned and ran out of here? I feel I may pass out. All my life, I went unnoticed. I don’t like attention, partly because I never got a lot of it so I don’t know how to handle it, but also because it makes me feel incredibly self-conscious, like people are picking me apart, counting my flaws. I’m probably overreacting, but there it is.
He skates toward us, a smirk on his lips and a gleam in his eye.
He climbs over the boards to the penalty box and points to me again, then waves at me to come forward. Of course, I shake my head, yell at him to pick someone else, but everyone around me is nudging me now, and not just my friends.
I am in so much trouble.
And I hate my best friend.
Chapter Five
I don’t know how to get on the ice. Or, I do, but I don’t know which route is the best one to take except the main one that leads to doors near the exit to the main lobby. There’s no way I’m climbing over the Plexiglas. Wonder Woman might be able to tackle that, but not me. Emily grabs my hand and leads me to where the players come out. There is no glass there and Ozzie skates over, his arms outstretched, waiting to catch me as I climb over the wooden boards.
He takes off a glove, and I take his hand, surprised at how comfortable mine feels in his, and how less concerned I am with the crowd than with him now at my side. I look up at him. On skates, and with all his equipment on, he’s like Superman standing next to me.
“This is a bad idea,” I say loudly, over the cheers of the crowd.
He bends at the waist to whisper in my ear. “I’ll catch you if you fall.”
“Is that supposed to reassure me?”
He laughs, and we walk along the rubber matting toward the ice.
I hate ice.
As a child, my parents tried to involve me in every activity known to man. They did this for twelve long years before they realized I didn’t excel in any activity other than reading and writing. Baseball, socce
r, figure skating, majorettes, gymnastics—I quit all these activities after trying them for a few months each. Sometimes, my instructors even encouraged me to quit. I remember in dance class, my teacher told my parents quite bluntly, “You can’t teach a child rhythm.” And they were right.
So, as I stand on ice in my tennis shoes, I try and remember the few lessons I was taught at age five—and I forget every single one of them. If Ozzie weren’t holding my hand, I would be on my ass and the rink would laugh at me. But I don’t fall. He keeps me steady. I’m not the rock right now. He is.
He leads me to the blue line between the one in the center and the net. The guy who talked on the microphone glides over and sets a puck down and hands me a stick. I take it, holding it firmly like it’s a lifeline, and I set the end down to use as a crutch.
“All you got to do is get it in the net,” the guy says, flashing me his pearly whites.” His green eyes sparkle, and I recognize him from one of my classes. Like Emily, he’s always arriving late.
I thank him and awkwardly hold the stick. Ozzie lets go of my hand. I’m okay on my feet for now. When I grip the stick with two hands, some of the guys laugh at me, and Ozzie takes it upon himself to show me how to hold it. When one of his hands touches my hip, I feel tingles in my belly. He instructs me to bend at the waist. I don’t mind his hands on me. In fact, I like it more than I should.
The cheering crowd breaks through my concentration. They all chant, “Goal, goal, goal!” The pressure is on. I can’t fail. I want to make this goal. It’s for charity, right?
“Eyes on the net. Just keep looking at where you want the puck to go,” Ozzie says, a loud whisper in my ear.
I nod, feeling encouraged. Deep down, I know, though. I’m not making a single goal. As if he can sense my thoughts, he adds, “I know you can do it. Don’t listen to anyone but the crowd.” He means me. Don’t listen to me.
I focus on the net and bring the stick back, but apparently not far enough. Ozzie is there again, gently guiding me, pulling the stick back just enough for me to make the shot—or so I assume.
He nods. “Let ’er go.”
And I do.
But after my stick makes contact with the puck, I close my eyes. I don’t want to disappoint anyone, least of all the crowd. So, when the crowd goes haywire, shouting and cheering, “goal, goal, goal!” I slowly open one eye and see the puck slowly chug across the line in front of the net. The other hockey player’s arms and sticks are in the air, and I feel like a hero. I feel so giddy and light, like I could fly. My cheeks are hot, and I’m sweating through the cold, but I made the shot. Ozzie helped me make that shot.
The guy in blue drops another puck in front of me, and I try to do it all over again, but this time Ozzie lets me do it myself. I fail. The crowd doesn’t boo, though. Instead, to my great surprise, they continue cheering, louder. I look to Ozzie again.
He smiles. “You got this.”
I really don’t.
But I bend a little, bring the stick back a little bit more and let it fly. I bite my lip as I watch it coast across the ice, but it hits the metal part of the net and sails in another direction before hitting the edge of the ice.
Three more times I try and fail before Ozzie comes back to my rescue. I sink six with his help, miss three times, and the last one he tells me, “You’re on your own. It’s all you.” He flashes me a wink. He’s like an Adonis on blades. Herculean. Why am I staring at him? I turn my attention back to the net.
One more shot. One more chance to have hundreds of people say my name. That’s what they chant now, “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.” The sound is both frightening and addicting. In this moment, nothing else matters more than earning their praise.
I pull the stick back, and then a little more. I stare down the net like it’s the enemy, feel the scowl on my face as I decide I will conquer this goal. I slap hard and let that puck fly, only it flies more than I intended it to. It clears the ice and sails through the air to slam hard into the top metal part of the net, and then it sails back, heading straight for my face.
I can’t move. Everyone else on the ice is ducking, their hands over their heads, but not me. I’m a deer stuck in bright headlights, unable to move, and it’s about to make contact with my face, until I’m pushed out of the way and onto the ice floor. My arm throbs from the impact, my cheek connects hard, and I feel the wet heat of blood. It drips to the ice in a pool that quickly seems to blend with the hard surface. I’m dizzy and confused. I hear the crowd quiet, then nothing. Not even as two men grab my arms and pull me to my feet. My legs are Jell-O, but with the extra help, I’m able to hobble along to the exit.
Like the crowd was set to mute and someone releases the quiet button, they snap to attention and start screaming. It’s deafening. They’re cheering for me? They’re singing my name. I try and smile, but pain rocks me. I raise my hand to my cheek, and my hand is quickly covered in blood. My eyes are hazy, and it takes me a moment to focus.
“Did I make the goal?” I ask foolishly. I know I didn’t.
Ozzie and the guy in the blue jersey laugh. “Not even close.”
The guys lead me to the locker room, and I take a welcome seat on a hard, wooden bench.
“I’ll get the first-aid kit,” the guy in blue announces, and he hobbles off on his skates, leaving Ozzie and me alone. I look up at him. His expression is a mix of sympathy and amusement.
“You getting hurt seems to be a regular occurrence. Maybe we should stop seeing each other.”
“This is why I avoid anything sports-related,” I say with a sigh.
He chuckles before he raises a hand to touch my cheek, just below the tender cut flesh. His rough fingers are surprisingly soft against my skin. I find myself leaning into his hand, though I don’t mean to. Why is he so easy to be with? So nice. Charming. He’s making this both harder and easier than this needs to be.
I have to focus on my story. When Jack put me on this path, I knew this would be hard, but not for the reasons I thought. I expected getting the information might take some finesse. What I didn’t expect is to fall hook, line, and sinker for his charm. Emily warned me but I didn’t believe it. I’ve never really fallen for anyone, so why should this guy be any different? But he is...different. From anyone I’ve ever met. But more than that, it’s not just who he is but how comfortable he makes me feel.
I’m in so much trouble.
His friend returns carrying a red bag with a cross on it in one hand and an ice pack in the other. Blue Jersey guy stands tall in front of us, watching Ozzie pull out some supplies before cleaning my face with gauze.
When Ozzie’s done, he stares into my eyes. “There. All better. It’s a good one, but you don’t need stitches. I...uh...I’m sorry about the push.”
“Are you kidding? I would have been knocked out if I got hit with the puck. I’d have a broken bone instead of a scratch. I should be thanking you.”
“It’s no big deal. I meant to pull you away, but you slipped out of my hands and fell to the ice.”
“That’s what Ozzie does,” Blue Jersey says. “Leaps in front of flying pucks like Superman.”
“Did you get hit?” I say quickly, worrying I hurt him, too.
Only then do I notice the crack on the left side of his helmet. He removes it, running a finger along the broken line. “That’s what helmets are for.”
I’m choked up. This guy…oh, this guy. No one has ever done anything like that for me. The only guy I thought might have cared for me, never truly did. Not enough to take a puck to the head for me. Not enough to be a hero.
Ozzie runs a hand through his damp hair, his dark hair curling around his ears. Emily says I’m stiff, and I often am, but he inspires warmth inside of me that makes me want to wrap my arms around his neck.
He’s a nice guy.
A good guy.
And I’m lying to him.
“Hey, why the sad face? Does it hurt?”
“I’ve got some Ibuprofen,” Blue Jers
ey says.
“No, I’m fine. Honestly. Maybe just a little embarrassed.” I stifle a nervous chuckle.
A dull roar builds and a collection of voices and shouts morph into laughter and conversation. A dozen people file into the room, all of them staring at me. I look to my shoes. “I should leave.” When I stand, Ozzie gently pushes me back down. “Just give it a minute.”
The guys smirk at me as they begin to undress. I try to look away, but they don’t seem to care. Within a minute, they’re down to their jockstraps, while a few more modest ones, I guess, sit down. A couple drink from their water bottles. One looks at his phone. Another one stands in front of me in his underwear.
Ozzie rolls his eyes while Blue Jersey laughs.
“So…you’re yoga pants girl, huh?” He puts his hands on his hips and rocks on his sock feet with his hips at my eye level. His penis is a little too close for comfort.
“Um…” I can’t look away from the bulge in his pants, and he knows it.
“Stop messing with her,” Ozzie says, trying not to laugh.
“Yoga pants girl?” I say, immediately questioning the guy that minutes before I thought of as my hero. Did he tell his friends about me? About how everyone in the gym could see my vagina? It’s impossible to hide my irritation when I glare at him.
“No, hold on,” he says, holding up his hands. “This is Ryan. He was there…and he…well, he…”
“That’s right. The guy waggles his eyebrows. I saw it all. It was a thing of beauty. Truly. Not all meat curtains are equal.”
Meat curtains? Did he really just say that?
Ozzie gives him a slap to the nuts, and the guy jerks back, bent over.
“Oh, God. I need to go,” I say quickly.
“Fuck off, Ryan. Let her be.”
The guy goes back to the bench where he sits and laughs. I want to leave, and I feel like they’re making fun of me until all of the guys start throwing their dirty socks and underwear in his general direction.
