41
OLIVIA
S ummer and I are waiting on the stoop of Tuck’s house when the guys get back from the game. When he sees me, he rushes up and kisses me like he won’t be able to breathe if he doesn’t.
An awkward smile flits on my lips when he pulls away, his eyes beaming concern at me. Not just concern, but appreciation. He looks at me like he cherishes me, like I’m a precious jewel in his eyes. He always does, but it’s sharper and more immediate this time.
“I was hoping we’d be able to get through these two games without you realizing it was … him,” I say.
Tuck’s jaw muscles pop at just the reference to Ryan. “At least I got to punch him in the face,” he says, rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. “Not as many times as he deserved, but still.”
I force a shallow smile. “I just don’t want to talk about him. Or think about him. Okay?”
Tuck dips his chin. “Yeah. Plenty of better things to talk about. Like what’s our least favorite public bathroom in Cedar Shade.”
“Definitely the one at Pucelli’s,” Sebastian chimes in, referring to the run-down old pizza joint that only stays in business because it’s open until four in the morning on Fridays and Saturdays to sell overpriced slices to drunk Brumehill students.
“Eh,” Rhys ponders, “Pucelli’s is the filthiest, no doubt, but at least it’s got a lock on the door. The bathroom at Tall Mike’s Bar is just a single toilet, and the door doesn’t even have a handle. You try to take a leak and people are walking in on you every five seconds.”
“Ugh,” Summer groans. “You men and your filthy bathrooms.”
“You realize you guys have yourselves to blame, right?” I say as Tuck loops his arm around my waist while we walk into their house. “Women would never let their bathrooms descend into such a state.”
“The cleanly among us are oppressed by the slobs,” Lane says.
“Why do I feel called out by that?” Tuck shoots back.
I nuzzle my head into his side as I laugh. With Tuck’s arm around me, tugging me close, it’s easy to forget about my ex.
Easy to forget I was ever hurt.
And maybe not quite easy, but at least possible, to begin to dare to let feelings blossom that I promised myself I wouldn’t have so soon.
The atmosphere in the arena is insane.
The air is thick with energy and anticipation. People are buzzing, talking about the fight between Tuck and Ryan last night that made national news, wondering whether there’s going to be a repeat tonight.
Plenty of people are speculating what the fight was about, and every time I pass a conversation where I overhear a theory, my cheeks burn, knowing that I’m the reason why.
I was tempted to not come here tonight. Very tempted. But I decided that Ryan just isn’t good enough to be a reason for any decision I make.
For years since we broke up, Ryan dictated how I handled my heart, even at a distance. Now, I’m not even going to let him dictate how I spend my Saturday night, even though he’s here in the flesh.
Maybe it’s silly, but it feels like a win. And you know what? Whenever you feel like you’ve racked up a win, I think it’s good to celebrate it. Silly or not.
“Fuck Withermore!” some guy shouts out a couple rows behind us as Summer and I take our seats, drawing raucous cheers from everyone in our section.
As a group of students wearing Black Bears jerseys take their seats in the row in front of us, I overheard their conversation.
“What do you think made McCoy snap like that last game?” one guy asks. “That dude never starts fights on the ice.”
“For real,” another guy replies. “Everyone knows Rhys Callahan has a hair-trigger temper, but McCoy’s usually mellow.”
A girl a couple seats to their right chimes in, “I heard the Falcons player stole McCoy’s girl.”
A knot rises in my throat. Of course, that’s not what happened, but it’s too close to the truth for comfort.
I’ve got no problem on the stage in front of hundreds or thousands of people with every pair of eyes in the building on me. When I’m playing a role, that is. But being the center of attention just as myself , just as Olivia Lockley? I hate it.
“Tuck McCoy’s girl ? As in singular?” one of the guys in front of us replies. “Yeah, right. I’ve taken three classes with that dude. Not to mention been to plenty of parties where he was, too. Trust me, the last guy in this state to have one girl is McCoy.”
Now that knot is higher and tighter in my throat, accompanied by a bad taste in my mouth.
Some of the tension twisting in my shoulders dissipates as I feel Summer’s hand gently squeezing my arm.
“Rumors are a funny thing, aren’t they?” she says with a wink-wink lift in her voice.
I force myself to huff out a laugh. “Right. They sure are.”
I just hope there’s no repeat of yesterday’s drama in this game.
I told Tuck that I don’t want to have to even think about Ryan, so I’m hoping that no matter what underhanded tricks my shitty ex pulls, Tuck won’t rise to them. I told Tuck that I don’t need, or want, to be defended against Ryan’s words.
When the players skate onto the ice, my hopes of a drama-free game start to look more and more like wishful thinking. One of the Falcons players “accidentally” bumps into Sebastian while he’s stretching, sending him tumbling to the ice. Three Black Bears have to hold Rhys back from going after the offending Withermore player.
I start hearing chatter from people in our section about how there was some confrontation between the teams in the back while they were heading to their respective locker rooms today.
Luckily, at least Tuck and Ryan are keeping their distance on the ice.
Tuck’s eyes find mine, and I blow him a kiss. I can’t help but notice Ryan looking on in my peripheral vision as I do so; but I pat myself on the back when I successfully keep my gaze from flitting in his direction.
It’s time for the game to start, and the teams line up. The crowd is rocking, everyone on their feet as the players square off. Tuck and Ryan face off for the puck, the referee standing next to them holding it aloft.
The atmosphere is electric, the air almost crackling.
The referee drops the puck.
Tuck swats it away.
He drops his hockey stick. Ryan drops his.
Everyone else on the ice does the same.
The arena is deafening as a brawl erupts on the ice.
Every player is squaring off with another from the opposing team. Throwing blows, trying to grab holds of each other, struggling to stay upright. Even Hudson’s skated out to tangle with the Falcons’ goalie.
Everyone in the crowd is on their feet, screaming themselves hoarse.
Tuck and Ryan are in the very center of the rink, raining blows on each other. I gasp as a right hook from Ryan connects with the side of Tuck’s helmet, and the protective gear falls off his head and clatters to the ice. But Tuck ducks the next shot and grabs a firm hold of Ryan’s jersey, peppering him with straight jabs that Ryan recoils from, trying to cover up as Tuck’s fist keeps hammering him like a piston.
Finally, the refs separate them. The crowd is still roaring like spectators at a gladiator fight in ancient Rome. As Tuck skates to the penalty bench, he angles himself towards me and blows a kiss.
Everyone notices.
I feel hundreds of heads turn towards me, people whispering to the person next to them as they glance in my direction.
Are people putting two and two together? Hearing that the fight between Tuck and Ryan last night was about some girl, and then seeing Tuck blow me a kiss immediately after their second brawl?
I try to stop the blush crawling up my neck from spreading to my cheeks, but the burning I feel in my face lets me know how futile it is.
The fight last night already garnered media attention, and after the wild spectacle that started this game off, this seems almost guaranteed to make the national sports news.
The idea of some journalist desperate for clicks and views digging through social media and talking to Withermore players to find the real story grips me. I just want to forget Ryan and move on, leaving him totally in the past, but suddenly I’m imagining his name and mine mentioned side by side on national TV. The thought makes my stomach churn.
Tuck’s beaming from ear to ear as he skates to the Sin Bin, a look of pride on his face like he’s just defended my honor.
I don’t feel defended. I feel embarrassed. Frustrated. Maybe even a little angry.
A massive team vs. team brawl like that happening right at the puck drop had to be premeditated, and this is after I told Tuck that I don’t even want to think about Ryan anymore.
I try to pay attention to the game once it gets going, but it’s a struggle. It’s a good game for Brumehill, at least, with the first third ending 2-0.
When Summer and I go to get something to drink in between periods, it seems like even more eyes are pointed in my direction. Even more people are whispering to each other as I walk past.
At the concession stands, there are two lines, and when Summer and I are in the middle of ours, I hear a girl in the line next to us gasp and say, “That’s her,” her eyes clearly pointing at me.
My stomach feels heavy for the rest of the game. Summer tries to cheer me up and tells me to ignore the gossipers, but as I feel the weight of even more eyes, I start to feel like the whole story’s gotten out. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised with social media, and how willing the Falcons players were to talk about the fight between Tuck and Ryan on it last night.
I just want to leave, but it feels like that would be admitting defeat. I stay for the whole game, as uncomfortable as I feel and as slowly as time passes.
Luckily, by late in the third period, the Black Bears are leading 6-1 and the crowd is so jubilant and so interested in heckling the Falcons that people start paying less attention to me.
Still, I feel exhausted and embarrassed. I just want to go home.
The buzzer sounds, and the Black Bears rack up a decisive win. All the guys are jubilant while they’re celebrating on the ice, none more than Tuck.
I’m glad he’s happy. But after he started the game doing the one thing I didn’t want him to do, and I spent the game dealing with the results of it, I’m not.