“Holy shit,” I breathe, then immediately pull away because can I be any more obvious? Like, chill, James, come on.
We stay right on each other when it comes to points, but he gets more ice time than me with penalty kills. I start putting more effort into defense, in games and in practice, to keep up. It’s almost like he’s pushing me to do better.
To earn my spot.
But I’d never tell him that.
Barbie sinks to his knees next to me during Saturday’s warm-up. He stretches out one of his legs and mumbles, “This is embarrassing.”
The tape’s reached Kovy’s song choice, which I’m guessing is Barbie’s problem. It’s some kind of country rap, heavy on the country. It’s not terrible, but definitely not Barbie’s style.
“This is Nova’s favorite song, dude,” I say flatly, crossing one leg over the other and twisting to stretch my back.
He looks at me wide-eyed, mouth guard hanging out of his wide-open mouth. I smirk, and he clamps his jaw shut, glaring. “Since when do you have jokes?”
“Dario and Diana taught me this morning,” I say, nodding up toward the stands where Dorian’s little brother and sister are arguing over a Nintendo Switch. His family surprised him by coming out to this game, and I swear seeing their reunion almost made me cry. Mr. and Mrs. Hidalgo point things out to each other in the arena, waving when they notice me and Barbie looking at them.
Barbie laughs a little. “Yeah, they’re funny kids. Little demons, but funny.”
“Hey, hey.” Dorian skates up and sits on Barbie’s other side, sticking his legs out and bending to touch his toes. “Check out the ankles on number eight.”
“Be nice, Dori,” Barbie deadpans. “We didn’t all have someone to teach us how to lace our skates growing up.”
Dorian doesn’t take the bait. “Dude’s playing D-I. He should know how to lace his goddamn skates.”
“Maybe he’s got weak ankles.”
“Maybe he just blows.”
Barbie hums, and we stretch on in silence until Cauler joins us. “This is gonna be a blowout,” he says as he takes a knee next to me. “Have you seen number eight?”
“See!” Dorian says. There’s an outburst of noise and cheering from the crowd as the women’s team files in to fill the rows right behind the bench. They’re coming off a huge win and their energy is high. I need three points tonight to catch up to Delilah.
I push up onto my hands and knees and cross one leg in front of the other for a glute stretch. Cauler clears his throat. His voice sounds a little pinched when he starts rambling about a new Amity song. Dorian and Barbie either don’t notice it or ignore it as they join in, but I give him a look over my shoulder.
He’s standing, stick across his shoulders, twisting back and forth to stretch his back. As soon as Dorian and Barbie start talking, Cauler’s eyes shift down to me. But not incidentally. Not even at my face. I am about 99.9 percent sure Jaysen Caulfield just looked at my ass. My hockey-pants-obscured ass, but still.
I sit back a little in surprise, and his eyes flick up to my face, widening when they meet mine. His mouth falls open slightly, and Coach’s whistle blows, calling us in for shots on Colie before puck drop.
We come out viciously and relentlessly the second the clock starts ticking. Dorian has one of his best games so far, blocking shots before Colie can even touch them, stripping Lakers players of the puck whenever they make the mistake of bringing it near him, throwing nasty checks and assisting on goals for me and Zero. Every time he does something impressive while I’m on the bench, I glance over my shoulder at his family.
They’re loving every second of it.
Halfway through the third period, I’ve got two goals and an assist, Cauler’s got a goal and an assist of his own, and we’re leading 7–0. And I’m having fun. Every time I score and Cauler puts a hand on top of my head and pulls me in for a hug, I feel my heart stop.
The Lakers, however, are decidedly not having fun. Their tempers rise with each passing second. Checks come later and harder, the shoving after whistles more prolonged and violent.
Coach sends our line over the boards with a few minutes left and the words, “Get James that hatty. Don’t care how you do it, just make it happen.” Cauler and Zero put the puck on my stick every chance they get, passing up clear shots in favor of handing it off to me.
I don’t need another point. I’m ahead of both Delilah and Cauler now, and the Lakers are starting to look homicidal. But my teammates want that hat trick for me badly enough, they’ll pass up points of their own to get it for me. Even Cauler. My biggest rival. So when a lane opens up, I take the shot, smooth and quick, a laser into the top-left corner of the goal.