by Elle Kennedy
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.
My spine stiffens as I watch Tucker pause on the steps with his arm slung around a short blonde. He’s in his hockey jacket and she’s bundled up in a bright red parka, but the way my stomach twists up with jealousy, you’d think they were buck-naked and brazenly fucking on the stairs.
“Let’s go,” I hiss to my friends.
A firm hand circles my wrist. “They’re just talking,” Hope says quietly.
My cheeks hollow as I grind my teeth. “He has his arm around her.”
I am not about to make a fool of myself over some hockey player, especially one who says how much he wants to go out with me and then comes out for a postgame celebration with his arm around some other girl.
I sneak another peek. Yep. Arm’s still around her. And he’s laughing at whatever Blondie’s saying.
My molars are being crushed to dust, but I can’t seem to look away. Blondie wraps both arms around Tucker’s waist and gives him a tight hug. She tips her head up at him. He smiles down at her.
And then my heart is shredded to pieces, because Tucker’s head is dipping toward hers. His mouth drops lower and lower and lower, until finally he kisses her…
13
Sabrina
…on the forehead.
Tucker kisses Blondie on the forehead.
And then ruffles her hair as if she’s a toddler.
“Damn. She got the forehead kiss?” D’Andre murmurs. “That’s rough.”
Whatever. It was still a kiss! And I don’t even want to know who this chick is anymore. I feel stupid for coming tonight.
Tucker is Mr. Popular, with his swarm of admirers and impeccable manners and that reddish hair that makes him look like he belongs in some old-timey family sitcom where life is perfect, perfect, perfect.
I’m the overachiever, the bitch who studies her ass off and works every second of every day to try to climb out of the gutter she was born in so she can stand next to all these Briar kids without feeling inferior.
“Let’s go,” I repeat.
My friends must realize how serious I am, because they all take a step forward. We’re about two feet from the base of the steps when I hear my name.
“Sabrina!”
Crap. I’ve been spotted.
“Wait up.” His voice sounds closer now.
I turn to Carin in a silent plea for help, but she simply grins. When I turn to Hope and D’Andre, they’re pretending to be studying her phone. Traitors.
Sighing, I swing around and meet Tucker halfway.
He’s visibly thrilled to see me, his eyes bright and his sexy mouth curved in a smile. “What are you doing here?”
I say the first lame thing that comes to mind. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“You were, were you?” His smile widens. “And did you happen to catch any of the game while you were in the neighborhood?”
“All of it, actually. That was a nice assist.”
“I thought you didn’t know anything about hockey.”
“I don’t. I’m just repeating what the announcer said on the PA.”
“Tuck!” someone from the group of players calls. “You coming?”
He twists around to shout back, “I’ll meet you there!” Then he’s smiling at me again. “Want to come back to my pl
ace to celebrate the win with us?”
I shake my head. “I have to get home. I work tomorrow. Besides—” Don’t say it… “I don’t particularly feel like—” Don’t fucking say it, Sabrina! “—being a third wheel,” I finish, and want to punch myself for it.
His dark auburn eyebrows shoot up. “What are you talking about?”
I clench my teeth.
“Darlin’,” he prompts.
“Little Red Riding Hood over there,” I mumble, jerking my head toward Blondie, who’s now chatting with one of Tucker’s friends. “You two looked like you were on a date.”
“A date? Um, no.” He starts to laugh. “That’s Sheena, a friend of mine.” He pauses. “Well, an ex.”
I pounce on that. “See!”
“See what? She’s an ex, but she’s also a friend. I’m friends with lots of my exes.”
Of course he is. No girl on this damn planet would ever Carrie Underwood this guy and key his truck or bash it in with a baseball bat. He’s too fucking nice. It’s impossible to hate him.
“You’re jealous,” he teases.
“No,” I lie.
“You totally are.” Delight dances across his face. “You like me.”
“No,” I lie again. “I told you—I was in the neighborhood. I figured I’d say hello.”
“You’re better than this, baby. Why don’t you put us out of our misery and say yes already?”
“Yes to what?”
“A date. Just say yes.”
My mouth opens to form words. Or rather, one word. Yes. I want to say it, I really, really do, but I hate being put on the spot. I can feel my friends’ amused gazes on us, and now some of his friends are glancing over too. And Tucker is too good and sweet, and I’m trashy and aloof, and my stepfather is a total creep, and it’s all too fucking overwhelming right now.
So when I finally answer, it’s not with the word he wants to hear. “Your friends are waiting for you,” I mutter, and then I hurry back to my crew before he can object.
Carin takes one look at my face and steers me toward the parking lot where D’Andre parked his car.
“Ugh!” I groan when we’re out of Tucker’s sight. “I’m so freaking stupid!”
“You’re not stupid,” Hope objects.
“If anything, you’re too smart,” Carin says. “Your brain is your biggest enemy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you think too much. We all saw your face just now—you like this guy. You really like him.”
“He scares me,” I blurt out.
Three sets of eyes blink in surprise.
“He’s too perfect, you guys.” I groan again. “And I’m a total mess most of the time. I’m scared that if he gets to know me better, he’ll see that.”
“So what if he does?” Hope counters.
My teeth dig into my bottom lip.
Carin touches my arm. “You need to go out with him. Seriously, Sabrina, you’ll regret it if you don’t. And the one thing I know you hate is regrets.”
She’s right. I always kick myself after I let an opportunity pass me by.
“Tell you what,” she says when I hesitate for too long. “Let’s make it a double date.”
“A double date?” I echo weakly.
“Oooh, threesome.” Hope waggles her brows. “Kinky.”
“Calm your tits, Hopeless,” Carin orders. “I’m talking normal, wholesome double date.”
I think it over. It does take a lot of the pressure off. “Okay… I can do that.”
Carin beams. “Good. Now text him before you change your mind. Oh, and whoever you pair me up with better be hot. And make sure he knows how to use his tongue.”
“I’m standing right here, you know.” D’Andre waves one meaty hand in the air. “How ’bout you pervs quit objectifying my man clan?”
Hope giggles.
“Who’s objectifying?” Carin replies. “I’m just saying I want a guy who’s good with his tongue. That should be the prerequisite for every member of your ‘man clan,’ D. Like in middle school, they should teach reading, writing, and really good tongue movement.”
“Girl, I think you can get locked up for those thoughts,” he warns.
Hope continues to giggle uncontrollably for another minute before gaining enough composure to reach over and squeeze my arm. “This’ll be good for you.”
“If it crashes and burns, do I get to say I told you so?”
“I’ll write it across my forehead in black magic marker for you,” she vows.
As my friends head for Hope’s car, I gather all the courage I can find and text Tucker before I talk myself out of it.
If I say yes, it doesn’t mean anything.
His answer is immediate.
Him: It means yes.
Me: But I’m not committing to anything beyond this one date.
Him: Kinda presumptuous, no? I only asked for one date.
I stare at my phone. Had I read this whole thing incorrectly? The guy talked about love at first sight, wanting to be married and have kids, and he only wants to see me one more time and fuck me?
Him: Kidding, darlin. I’m holding back the marriage proposal until the 3rd date. When?
Me: I’m bringing my friend Carin and u need to bring the hottest guy u know.
Him: I’m the hottest guy I know. Will look for 2nd hottest guy on campus. She have any preferences?
Me: Someone who knows how to use his tongue.
Him: Again, that’d be me. Not sure how I’ll find out how good the other guys are w/ their equipment. Not a topic that comes up a lot.
Me: That’s the price of my time.
Him: On it.
There’s a short delay, and then another message pops up.
Him: You won’t regret this.
*
I have the perfect date idea, Carin texts an hour later. It’s eleven and I’m getting ready for bed because I have to be up at four to sort mail. The text is followed up with a slightly blurry pic. I pinch and zoom until I manage to make out a few words.
Me: Paint night out? I have no artistic skills. Even my stick figures look terrible. U know this. U mocked my hangman once.
Her: That was NOT a hangman. That was…I mean, the arms shld come out from the side of the body, not the neck. Anyway this is EZ. It’s like a paint by numbers thing. We drink/paint/enjoy ourselves. If the date is crappy then u and I can drink ourselves into oblivion.
Me: Fine. When is it? I’m only available Sun, M, W, Thur.
Her: I know. It’s why I picked this, dummy. It’s every other Sunday, as in tomorrow night.
How would I know? The picture she sent is small and blurry and could say it’s a church group meeting on Saturday morning.
Me: I’ll see if T is available.
Her: Bet u he is.
I’m not taking that bet. Instead, I text Tucker.
Me: You in 4 some paint by numbers?
My phone dings the message alert just as I’m pulling on my sleep shirt and boxers.
Him: Is that like naked Twister?
Me: I have no clue.
I send him the picture. Maybe he can make some sense out of it, because I sure can’t.
Him: Was this taken with an actual camera or drawn by tiny leprechauns?
Me: Carin’s a scientist, not an artist. Btw did u find someone?
Him: Yes. My buddy Fitz is coming and b4 u ask, I have no idea re: his oral skills. But he’s hella smart, has a mean slapshot, and I’ve never heard any complaints.
I take a screenshot of that text and send it to Carin.
Me: Is this OK?
Her: Can I have a pic?
I text Tuck, Can she have a pic?
Him: Of what?
Dear God. This is a ridiculous game of actual telephone.
Me: Tucker says: of what?
Her: Face, abs, ass. No dick
I take yet another screenshot and shoot that off to Tucker. While he considers the request, I wash m
y face and brush my teeth. By the time I climb into bed, there’s a message waiting for me. A picture of a gorgeous dark-haired guy flipping Tucker off fills my screen.
Wow. It’s incredible how hot these Briar hockey players are. Is that a requirement of making the team? Be able to slap the puck a hundred miles an hour and also star in the calendar?
I forward the picture to Carin, who sends me a thumbs-up emoji in return. Then I text Tucker again.
Me: We’re good to go.
Him: Time/place? Srsly can’t read this thing.
Me: Tomorrow. 8 p.m. Carin says there’s booze.
Him: K
I’m about to put my phone away when three dots appear. And then disappear. And then re-appear again. Finally, the message comes through.
Him: Dick pics that bad?
I smother a giggle. That’s his question?
Me: Why? RU going to send me one?
Him: Feel like that may be a trick question. Do u want one?
Me: Depends on context. Random dick pics = no. Otherwise? I dunno. I haven’t gotten one that I’ve really liked. U’ve sent one? Or several?
Him: My thumbs are tired. Hold on.
The phone vibrates in my hand a second later.
“Hello,” I answer.
“Hey.” He pauses. “So what made you change your mind about the date?”
“My friends said it would be good for me,” I admit.
“Your friends are right.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Anyway, I feel like this is a conversation we should have in person so I can see your face. Eggplant emojis don’t have enough nuance.”
This makes me laugh. “True.”
“But you’re in Boston and I’m in Hastings, so we’re going with the phone call. I may have sent a pic once, but it was solicited. She sent me one first.”
“Really? I’m not a fan of that. Too many revenge pics online.” Besides, I never really hung around a guy long enough to want to send him a picture, but I don’t share that with Tucker. “So there are pics of Tucker’s mighty wang on the internet?”
“I haven’t been tagged on Instagram yet, so I’m hopeful they aren’t out there. But thanks for calling my dick mighty. We appreciate that.” Amusement colors his words.
