Zero’s smirking the whole time he explains the rules. “This game is all about honesty. Getting your issues out into the open, listening to what others have to say.”
Ugh, god. I can hear it now.
You never smile.
You think you’re better than us.
Your dad was a better hockey player than you.
I don’t need to hear it all again.
“For every negative,” Zero continues, “you have to say something positive to balance it out. When someone says something about you, you can’t argue it. You take it in, accept it, and move on. Boys?” He motions for Kovy and Colie to start.
Kovy adjusts his grip on Colie’s hands and puffs up his chest. “Colie, when you flop around in the crease thinking you look like Dominik Hasek, you actually look like a halibut in its death throes.”
“Of course,” Colie says without hesitation, even though it’s not at all true. “Sometimes your morning breath is so atrocious, it makes me dream about drowning you in mouthwash.”
“I don’t doubt it. That new painting you’re working on for your portfolio is superb, bro. I’d go to an art museum to see it.”
I didn’t even know Colie was in any art classes. Is he majoring in it? I’ll have to ask Jade.
“I appreciate that, Kovy. That play you made in practice today was a beauty. You should try it in a game.”
“I think I’ll do that.”
They let go of each other and find spots on the couches so the next pair can go up. I wrack my brain for any compliment I could give Jaysen and come up with nothing. I can almost feel his eyes boring into the side of my head, thinking about all the things he wants to say to me. It’s mostly petty things for the rest of them, like, you took my clothes out of the washer and left them on the counter so they smelled horrible, and you’re a hockey player, how is your ass so bony, and you still owe me five bucks from that road trip to Boston freshman year. Even when they do get more serious, like a consistent problem in practice or actual hurt feelings, they’re followed up with some over-the-top compliment so things don’t get too heated.
It’s obvious Jaysen and I are the real reason this is happening. Barbie and Dorian stick to each other like glue, and the upperclassmen are closer with the ones they came in with, but the team’s not really cliquey.
Sure enough, when Jaysen gets up from the couch and grabs me by the shoulder of my hoodie, the guys go nuts. I’ve had a few more beers by this point, and it all goes to my head as soon as I stand up. My vision lags behind my eyes as I follow Jaysen to the center of everyone’s attention.
“The moment we’ve all been waiting for,” someone calls out from the couches. They quiet down while Jaysen and I stare at each other. His black jeans are so tight, I don’t know how the hell he managed to get them on. He’s cut the sleeves off his band tee, so I get a good look at his skin through the open sides of his shirt, the bold black tattoo along his rib cage. A dead-looking tree rising from overgrown black shrubbery, the shadows of more dead trees in the background, crows rising from the branches. It looks like scenery from a horror movie, but it’s also kinda hot. That on top of the black hoops in his nose and bottom lip, the black-rimmed glasses, the stretched ears, and oh my god my mouth is dry and he is literally watching me check him out.
I avert my eyes down to the floor between us, clear my throat and try to build up some saliva in my mouth. And that’s when Jaysen’s hands come forward, palms up, inviting me to hold them. He’s got calluses on his palms, right below his fingers. His fingers are long enough they could probably wrap all the way around my wrist, and the veins in his forearms stick out, drawing my eyes right up to the curve of his biceps and— This is not the time.
His hands are warm, his grip strong when I finally reach for them. God, I hope he can’t feel me shaking.
“Your Grace,” he says. I look up at his face. “Your slap shot is the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen in hockey.”
Okay, yeah, I can’t argue that.
I lick my lips. Try not to let my voice croak too much when I say, “Right. Jaysen, your hesitation to go for loose pucks along the boards is going to lose us games.”
His eyes narrow. I’ve hit a sore spot right out of the gate.
“Of course,” he says through his teeth, like he has to keep himself from snapping it at me. “Delilah is a way better hockey player than you.”
I scoff. That’s the truest thing anyone has said tonight. “Obviously. You’re weak on the backhand.”