But, eventually, my gaze scans the crowd.
I find Violet again, as much as I shouldn’t.
I want to know what she’s thinking. Her eyes move, seemingly at random, to mine. We stare at each other, ignoring the world, and my stomach knots. Another thing to fault her for.
Another thing to punish her for.
I’m looking forward to it.
28
VIOLET
Greyson
Stay after the game.
In your seat.
Why?
Because I fucking said so.
Sounds dangerous.
When have you not liked danger?
Admit it—there’s a thrill going through you right now. Maybe you’re squeezing your hand into a fist trying to fight it, or you’re clamping your thighs together. The thought of us alone… in this stadium?
Ishiver and don’t answer him.
I can’t.
Because he’s right, his words do something to me. Something uncomfortable, that I’m not willing to admit. Not even to myself.
Knox scores with ten seconds left, officially breaking the tie. Willow—and the rest of the girls—jump up from their chairs, screaming and cheering. My own reaction is delayed, my phone clenched in my hand. I force myself to be happy, to clap and holler along with my friends.
There’s one more play, the ref dropping the puck, and then the buzzer sounds.
Game over.
The Hawks won—barely. By the skin of their teeth, with Greyson benched for the second half of the final period. Both teams look like they went through a war, but our blue-and-silver-clad team rushes out onto the ice in celebration.
“Come on,” Willow says, tugging on my hand. “We’re going out to celebrate.”
I smile and stay seated. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Her gaze sweeps my face, and she eventually nods. “Text me if you want me to come back to the hotel room. Even if it’s only ten minutes from now. Got it?”
My breath hitches, and I force another smile. “Got it. Thanks, Willow.”
She leaves with Jess and Amanda. It takes some time for everyone in the section to go. Paris doesn’t so much as look at me as she sweeps by, but I hear her mention Greyson. Maybe she thinks this is her own version of a power play. Doing what she does best, flirting with him in a crowd full of people.
I swallow.
Slowly, slowly, the whole stadium empties. A Zamboni drives out onto the ice, the driver old and weathered. He maps a crawling path around the rink, and the ice returns to a smooth, blank slate. I track him with my eyes, unable to do anything else.
My nerves are shot.