I squeeze his shoulder. “You’ve got to get better. There’ll be other games.”
He licks his lips. “You need me, Eric.”
“Nah. We’re gonna kill them without you. Just get better for the next game,” I say.
Coach appears behind me. “Hansen, Doc has this. Get suited up. You need to be on the ice.”
Taking one last look at Boone, I head off toward my locker to change.
19
Julia
I squeeze myself over the feet of other people in the row and take my seat between Taylor and Poppy.
“Who are our guys?” Taylor asks me, squinting.
I know he’s teasing.
“We’re the black and gold,” I say, craning my neck to spot Eric on the ice. I forgot to ask what number he was. I thought I’d be able to pick him out immediately, but these guys look the same.
Taylor takes a sip of his soda. “Okay, so what’s the purpose of this game?”
Poppy nudges him. “Those guys are going to try to get the puck-thingy in that net.” She points wildly. “And the other guys try to stop him from making a net, which is two points.”
I chuckle. “I think you’re confused with basketball.”
She shrugs. “It’s a distinct possibility. I’m not sporty.”
None of us are. Everyone around us wears their gold and black gear, and we’re, well . . . not. Taylor sports bright lavender, Poppy has her pearls and a pink cardigan, and I managed to find a black hoodie, but there’s no logo on it.
“Hmm, I’m wondering what makes this game so special tonight,” Poppy murmurs with a side eye at me.
“No reason,” I say tartly. Just thought Eric needed a morale boost since his parents never come.
They exchange a glance and blurt in unison like two schoolgirls. “Eric!”
They burst into giggles as I give them a warning look. “For the last time. We’re just bonding over—”
Taylor winks. “It’s okay if you no longer want to hate-fuck him anymore. Love-fucking isn’t as exciting.”
I scratch the side of my face with my middle finger, pointed right at him.
Okay, yes, I get major butterflies for Eric.
For a long time, they were angry butterflies, but they’re different now.
Maybe me being here will mean something. If it wasn’t for Eric, I’d be working tonight at the club, trying to get as many hours as I could to pay off Connor. I may not have wanted a knight in shining armor, but he is one regardless.
The players file off of the ice, and the stadium goes dark. Poppy offers me some popcorn. I take a handful as lights flash and the speakers boom with the announcer.
“Welcome to Hawthorne Arena, Lions family. Today, we bring you a match-up between the Clayton University Thunder and your own Hawthorne Lions! Welcome the Thunder!”
There’s mild applause, but mostly boos as men in red and white jerseys skate out onto the ice.
“Wankers!” Taylor shouts.
“And without further ado . . . here are the Lions!”
The audience erupts into loud cheers. People jump to their feet, some of them wearing a jersey with the number seventeen on it. Of course. There’s an emblem on Eric’s backpack with that number.
I move forward on my seat, trying to spot him.
“. . . number twelve, Reece Morgan, at left wing . . .”
Reece does a loop and waves to the crowd.
“At center, Roy Donaldson, number six!”
There’s less applause, more like a mumble of confusion.
I frown. Boone is supposed to be the center. He took Z’s place after he left. I do know that much.
“And number seventeen, The Miracle, at right wing, Eric Hansen!”
The applause is deafening. People scream. A couple of girls shout, “I love you, Eric!”
He skates out and does a quick loop, a small wave, and returns to the bench.
“This is the kick-off,” Poppy tells us.
“Face-off,” I correct.
“Whatever. I know he’s holding a stick.”
I pat her on the shoulder. “Gold star for you.”
I strain to see Eric’s face, but it’s impossible with the face mask and how far away our seats are.
Donaldson wins the face-off and passes to Eric. With my heart in my throat, I watch as he takes the puck across the line and shoots. The goalie deflects it.
As one of the Thunder tries to move the puck near our net, Eric slams him into the glass.
Ouch.
I smirk. That’s Eric. Fierce.
My skin prickles in excitement as Eric sails down the ice with a defender chasing him. Reece passes to Eric between two other defenders and Eric stuffs the puck in the corner of the goal.
A buzzer goes off as people jump to their feet, screaming. I join them.
Eric, by contrast, is cool, like he’s scored a thousand goals before. He doesn’t crack a smile, simply glides around the ice without effort while his teammates skate past him bumping gloves. Five other Hawthorne players enter the ice as Eric and his group head to the bench.
“When’s halftime?” Poppy asks.