Page 52 of Unloved

For a moment we stare at each other. I’m usually closer to his eye level, being a tall girl myself, but now he’s in skates, adding a few inches to his height.

“Rosalie.” He smirks. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Surprise!” I say, a giggle bursting. “It was a last-minute thing. But I’m excited to see you.”

“I’m excited for you to watch me.” Our smiles feed off each other,growing wider to the point they’re almost ridiculous. “Thanks, princess.”

Freddy takes off backward, eyes still on me as he circles and starts warming up. I climb back over the seats to sit next to Tyler.

Rhys circles behind Freddy and waves to me as well, eyeing the guys—searching, I think, for a certain best friend of mine at first before his gaze turns wary at my company.

My thumbs-up does little to dampen the intense expressions of the now-three overprotective hockey players—two forwards and a hulking goalie—watching, especially when Tyler grabs my chin and turns my face toward his a little roughly.

“I thought you were here for me,” he whispers in my ear.

“I am,” I say, but my words come out almost aggressive. I’m angry—he’s the one who changed our “casual date plans” into a prep academy reunion of smart rich kids getting drunk at a college hockey game.

My attention stays rooted on the ice, on number twenty-seven mostly. I know the basics—I’ve taught myself a good bit while coming up with real-world examples for Freddy’s math tutoring sessions—but seeing them in real life is completely different.

He’s fast—shockingly so—and larger than life on the ice. My heart thunders to the beat of the music they play between periods and never lets up, too excited. He’s so in his element, like he was truly born to play. It’s clearly a natural talent, one that he’s honed and trained to perfection. He’s so beautifully happy.

I think I could watch him play forever.

As we enter the third period, however, the mood shifts—on the ice and off. Freddy seems agitated, frustrated. The team has barely scored, and it seems like there’s almost constant arguing on the bench, even between the coaches and a few players.

Meanwhile, Tyler and his entire friend group are drunk, getting rowdier by the minute, andstillgoing back for more.

“Damn, he’s fast,” someone comments as Freddy speeds by on a breakaway that doesn’t score.

“Oh yeah.” Mark laughs. “Fredderic is fast on the ice, fast running through girls, but… he’s prettyslow.”

Anger heats my face and I ball my fists in my lap not to snap.

“We’ve all tutored him,” Tyler says, taking a hefty swig of his cheap beer. “The guy’s a fucking idiot. Right, Ro?”

I ignore him, jerking away to slump forward and focus on the game, shame curdling my stomach for not speaking up.

By the time the game ends—a Waterfell loss, two to one—they’re stumbling and shouting as we exit the arena.

I see a few campus security guards watching the group closely, my cheeks going hot as Tyler slams an arm around my shoulders and demands a kiss on his cheek, which I give a little hesitantly.

“What’s wrong?” He sneers. “Too busy making goo-goo eyes at your student, RoRo?”

He says it loud enough that laughter bursts into the crisp night air from his audience of drunken guys. I scoot out from his arm as we start for the car.

“I’ll drive,” I say, reaching for his keys, but he whips them back, furrowing his brow. “Seriously, Tyler, knock it off. You’re all drunk.”

“You weren’t drinking?” one of the Vermont guys that I don’t know blurts, smirking as he leans on his friend. “Figures. You look like a fucking prude.”

“Try the opposite,” Tyler mutters with a grating laugh. My stomach knots, eyes darting around like maybe I need to escape.

“We’re all adults here,” Mark says, “You’re not better than us. Act like it all you want.”

I’ve barely said five words to any of them the entire night, but somehow,I’mthe one acting a certain way. Foolishly, I look to Tyler, like he might stop whatever this gang-up-on-Ro session is. He’stalked horridly about Rodger and Mark behind their backs to me, but when faced with us all at once, he’s never chosen me.

This is your last chance. Please let me be wrong about this. Defend me publicly for once.

Instead, Tyler only sneers. “The only reason you aren’t drinking is because you can’t handle your alcohol.”

---