Page 226 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

How could I?

“We’ve barely seen you,” Dylan says. “Even in class, you’re in and out.”

I lean forward to see her past Maddy. “I’ve been trying to catch up on everything. It’s been an avalanche of work.”

Brandon doesn’t say anything, and his silence is noted.

See? Awkward. Even after he apologized, it wasn’t the same. It’s not the same.

Maddy and I go get popcorn. By the time we return, the players have left the ice and the arena is darkening for the opening ceremonies. We stand through them, although it’s a struggle not to wince when the kids they brought in to sing hit a sour note.

Then it’s time for the first puck drop.

I watch through my fingers as one of the FSU players faces off against Carter. Carter wins it, shooting the puck between his legs toward one of his wingers. From there, it’s a mess of back-and-forth action. As with this rivalry, nothing is ever easy. But the refs seem to have put their whistles away—well, never taken them out to begin with—because stupid, easily spotted calls are missed. A blatant slash, cross-checking in front of the crease.

The game goes from zero to a hundred as soon as SJU scores on Penn.

I leap to my feet, my heart in my throat. Penn knocks the puck out and reaches for the water bottle in the top of his net. Instead of drinking, he blasts himself in the face with the stream.

0-1

I’m not rooting for either team, I try to remind myself. But it’s hard when I want to cheer and hide at every play. Not picking a team is worse than watching your favorite team perform badly.

Penn blocks the next six shots on goal, and finally a whistle is blown.

Tripping. An SJU d-man is tossed in the penalty box, and they set up to restart.

Oliver and Carter take the face-off, and Oliver flicks it back to his winger immediately. I go back to watching the game through my fingers.

Quick as a whip, Oliver gets the puck back—and scores.

The horn blows, the red lights behind the goal flash.

1-1

“How are you keeping calm?” Maddy asks, shaking my arm.

“It’s not calm, it’s dread!” I shout over the crowd.

She laughs.

The rest of the game progresses with minimal fighting, although the number of missed penalties is becoming absurd. Each team gets one power play—the first when Oliver scored, and then an SJU one for holding, where Carter comes so close to getting the puck past Penn.

As the seconds tick down on the third period, and the game is tied at four, it finally happens: a fight breaks out. One of the SJU forwards, on a breakaway, loses his edge and tumbles straight into Penn. The two go sailing into the net.

Immediately, though, another FSU d-man yanks the forward out. A little rough, sure. But then everyone is there, piling on and shoving each other.

The refs whistles blow, and they dive into the center of it. Pulling guys apart?—

Oliver and Carter suddenly wade in. Not to fight, though. They do a better job of breaking it up and getting their guys to separate than the refs.

“Masters and Ruiz breaking up a fight instead of egging it on?” Brandon mutters. “That’s a new one.”

“Shut it, Moore,” Dylan snaps.

I hide my smile. Truly, though, the guys have been getting along better. I’ve noticed that through my busyness, through my late nights at the library or spread out in the student center. There have been moments of not working—few and far between as they come. When Carter sneaks into my apartment, or Penn through my window, or sometimes both. When Oliver steals moments between class to kiss me breathless.

Truthfully, I’m ready for this semester to be over. I have one more final next week, on Monday, and then I can just… I don’t know, relax? Perri and I are going to pick up a Christmas tree after it. She said it’ll be an excuse to celebrate the start of winter break, maybe get me a new coat or boots…