Page 9 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

Secretly, I like hockey. It kind of kills me to admit it, especially since I like to pretend otherwise. My guilty pleasure is watching NHL games after they’ve already aired, once I know the final score. There’s something calming about the outcome already being determined, but still seeing it unfold for the first time.

But that can’t happen in real-life situations, so here I sit. Nervously.

The crowd around me is buzzing, too. We’re all wearing our black and maroon Seawolves colors. We’re in the shared arena between the two universities, but as the home team. It’s kind of funny how that works—both teams use the huge arena for home games and practices, somehow coming to an amicable agreement.

As in: a schedule worked out between the schools by an outside source that everyone has to adhere by.

The place was originally built by an SJU alum, but part of the funding came from an FSU donor. And so, when it was all wrapped up, no one really knew who had the rights to it. And given its location, right in the middle of the two schools, it was determined a second one didn’t need to be built.

Because of that, there are two permanent home team locker rooms—one for St. James and one for Framingham State. There’s a rink coordinator who schedules practice times and when each team can be on the ice. Not super convenient, especially since they also share it for home games.

I don’t want to think about the logistical nightmare it must be, but they make it work.

“You seem paler than usual,” Lettie comments. “Is it because you’re back with Masters and you didn’t tell me?”

I flinch. “We are absolutely not back together.”

“You kissed him. After dancing with that other guy.” She straightens. “Ooh, did that make him jealous? You dirty ho. I don’t feel so bad about letting you go with him.”

I knock my shoulder into hers. “Shut up. It was just a drunken kiss.”

Not our first… probably not our last.

Carter Masters is worse than a magnet.

A cheer ripples through the arena, and the lights go all dim except the crazy swinging spotlights. The players are introduced, and we all scream and clap when they take to the ice. The FSU crowd makes their displeasure known, unsurprisingly.

When the FSU team is called, we return the favor. On the opposite side of the rink are the FSU students, a big blob of purple and white.

I spot Oliver Ruiz, the royal-purple number eighteen emblazoned on his back under his last name.

Lettie nudges me, and I drag my attention away from him. Our other friends, including the vodka supplier, Marcy, are all around us. We’ve got the football team a few rows back, already flicking popcorn at the hot girls to draw their attention away from the hockey stars.

After a painfully sung national anthem, the game starts.

Right from the first puck drop, it becomes apparent that the SJU Seawolves have turned into fucking mind readers. The pace starts off furiously, with the Framingham State Vipers winning the face-off. But it doesn’t seem to matter, because wherever the Vipers put a player, the Seawolves are there.

The coverage is intense. My breathing catches when they slam into the boards.

Rivalries like this make the games exciting—but right now, I think I’d rather be anywhere else.

The players move into the Seawolves’ offensive zone. Carter has the puck at the blue line, quarterbacking the play. Less than ten seconds later, one of his wingers scores.

Our section erupts.

Lettie and I high-five, and she hugs the girl on her other side.

The game restarts.

By the time the horn blows at the end of the first period, the score is 3-0 in our favor. As soon as that horn goes off, a fight breaks out on the ice. I lean forward in my seat, trying to figure out who’s in the thick of it. One of Carter’s buddies and a Vipers winger have their gloves off, sticks and helmets tossed. The refs zoom in and try to pull apart the larger pile of hockey players, but they leave those two alone.

After a few punches, they’re separated.

I blow out a slow breath and follow Lettie up and out of the stands. We wait in line for concessions with a million other students. One of the football guys stays with us, seeming determined to get in Lettie’s good graces.

“There’s a rumor going around of a snitch,” he says casually, scratching his neck.

Lettie frowns at him. “What kind of snitch?”