Page 38 of Jaded

From this close, the faded hockey-sweat odor woven into the fabric of that shirt permeates my nostrils, but do I detect the barest hint of cologne beneath? Copper-splotched remnants of prior fights dot the white—not his first time at the Ice Out. The black hood of a sweatshirt pokes from the collar of his jersey, and above that, a curl of black ink climbs the skin behind his ear—

“Hey! You lost me my bet!” A skinny white chick with bright blue hair slides in front of him, and he sweeps past her without breaking stride. As smooth through the crowd as he is on the ice.

I follow, because he’s parting the people with his broad shoulders and general air of efficiency, maybe the blood splattering the front of his shirt and the prowess with which he dominated that ice.

Well, until his own teammate cost him the game. And probably the bets. Or something.

He shoves through a side door without pausing, but when I try to slip in behind him, a big redheaded chick with an elegant half-mask and black eyeliner holds her hand up in front of me. “Players only.”

“Sorry.” I step back, but at least it’s quieter here, on the edge of the crowd. And because Bodyguard Chick seems to be one of the few people not caught up in a bloodlust frenzy, I linger.

And then I open my big, stupid mouth. “You know who he is? Number Forty-Seven?”

She turns a set of somber brown eyes on me, sizes me up with a quick flick. “You’re not from around here.”

“What gave me away?”

“What didn’t?”

“Fair.” I crack a grin. “He play for the Dingoes or something? He’s good.”

She snorts, shakes her head. “No Dingoes player would be down here.”

Ah. Right. The masks. I’m no expert on betting legality, but I’m pretty sure gambling’s illegal in this state. “The cops?”

“No Cali boy gonna get his face cracked in,” she corrects, like aren’t I the dumbass. Which okay, I guess I kind of am. She’s right. What pro player would risk his career on a hack game like this? I don’t know how the betting works, of course, but if your own teammate can turn on you, I’d guess there aren’t a whole lot ofsure things.

I’ve always been one to bet on myself, but even I wouldn’t do that down here.

Jesus, what a brutal game. Hard to believe this is the same place ringed in snow-capped mountains and pines crusted in a rainbow of crystalizedice drops.

How could something that looks like a fairytale fantasy host an event this dark and brutal? How could people lovethiswhen they have . . . all that?

Maybe it’s time for me to return topside, where I belong.

Chapter 11

Olli

“Tellmeeverything.”Mom,as per usual, has a way of simultaneously being the most supportive and least helpful parent of all time. I would like to reiterate that I love my mother more than any other human on this entire planet, times a thousand or so. But the woman is not entirely grounded on said planet.

I suppose when you’re a world-renowned reclaimed materials sculptor and painter, you get to be a little flighty.

I punch the speakerphone button so I have access to both hands for easier cactus moisturization procedures. That’scactus watering, in case you didn’t get that.

“Not much to tell,” I say, keeping my voice light, lest I give her any reason to suspect I’m being less than truthful. “I’ve only been here a week.”

I opt not to mention that just yesterday, another player announced he was transferring. Another one out, which means Coach’ll bring somebody else in. This really is a team of transients.

Is it the town, I wonder, or the team? And how long will sad little Olli make it if nobody else can stick it out through a whole season?

I swear that Bertha, my favorite moon cactus, glares at me, like why am I withholding the details from my own mother. But I can hear Mom painting—well, I can’t like,hearthe paint or the brush. But I know what she sounds like when she’s painting: excited but distant, high energy,though it’s not directed at me. Focused, but won’t remember a thing I say.

It’s a vibe, really.

“Has the team been nice?” she asks, maybe forgetting elementary school was two dozen years ago. Painting, like I said. Got like a quarter of her brain on me, maybe.

“Yep.” This time Edward glares at me, and we host a silent argument no one will ever be privy to. I hope. When they lock me in the insane asylum though, maybe peeps will study this stuff.

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