Page 23 of Hockey Halloween
Even though she’s out of my league—she comes from money and has the words “good girl” tattooed on her face—there’s something riveting about her. I wish I could put my finger on what it is and why she was so adamant about not coming to a hockey party. One of her best friends is dating a former player, and she’s been to a few games, so it can’t be that she doesn’t like the sport. Maybe she wants to avoid a player on the team, which wouldn’t explain her coming to the games. And the few glimpses I’ve caught of her while attending, she seemed to have a good time. She’s a tough nut to crack, not letting her guard down too low. Which is why I invited her to the party. As a challenge.
Mostly to myself to see if I could break down her walls. Without knowing what those walls are, besides the whole “good girl” ones, it might be tough. But I’m nothing if not determined.
I’ll admit her costume is clever, but it does nothing to obscure her identity or her beauty. The navy mask doesn’t hide her piercingsky blue eyes, which were a dead giveaway even from across the street. Even behind her glasses during class, the color is striking. I’ve got a front and center view of them during lab. She wears color contacts on occasion, but they’re nothing compared to her proper color.
She usually has her caramel locks tied back in a braid, but today it’s a loose ponytail. The white shirt and navy pants are more fitted than her usual attire, but they enhance the entire package.
“Laitmon, you’re not wearing your entire costume, which isn’t part of the deal. Ready to admit defeat yet?”
“No.” The word blasts from my mouth, even though part of me wants to give in, tell them they win, if only so I don’t have to wear the stupid pumpkin head ever again. But I’ve built a reputation with my teammates, and I won’t back down now. Especially in front of Delia Weidman.
My answer earns me snickers and a “Go put it on” from Harris, senior forward and captain.
And because I hate admitting defeat, I prepare to leave the kitchen to retrieve the stupid head that completes my costume.
Turning toward the hallway, Diego Martinez is there, the oversized pumpkin head in his hands, a sinister smile on his face. I want to scrape it off with my knuckles.
No, fighting isn’t the answer. I’m better than my past.
Besides, the rest of the team wouldn’t let me get away with injuring our goalie. I’d never live it down.
Toeing the line, staying on the straight and narrow, hasn’t been easy these past few years at Aspenridge. I’ve let my past get the better of me one too many times. However, if I want to play hockey, my attitude needs to remain in check.
Without hockey, I’m the kid who grew up in the meth house.
Without hockey, I’m the kid who won’t amount to anything.
Without hockey, I’m nothing.
I rip the beer I handed Delia from her hands, downing half of it before thrusting it back at her. With a confused expression, she takes it back. Later, I’ll explain my behavior. When I get her alone.
IfI get her alone.
It’s a long shot at best. A breakaway. A professional hockey career.
Maybe not quite that dramatic, but I get the sense I’d have to ease her into it. Not like she’d give me the for anything more than an invite to a hockey party. At least there are other people around.
“You gotta put it on, Laitmon. That was the deal.” Martinez holds it out to me.
With a glance at Delia, I shove the stupid thing on my head, adjusting it so I can see through the eyeholes. It’s dark and stinks like plastic. It’s not that I can’t breathe properly, but it’s huge, awkward, and stupidly heavy for oversized plastic. And probably makes me look like a fool.
“How long does he have to wear it?” Delia asks. The eyeholes don’t allow for me to see much, and her voice only gives away her curiosity, not her feelings about it.
“The entire party,” Harris utters.
“That wasn’t the deal,” I grit out, not sure if the sound is muffled to them. My voice echoes against the edges of the head, loud to my ears, but I don’t know how it comes across to others. No one else tried it on.
“What bet did he lose for this punishment?”
Not caring who I piss off or what other havoc they’ll wreak on me, I push the head off before they answer her question. With a glare in each of their directions, I mutter, “Don’t.”
This isn’t the way tonight was supposed to play out. I had a skeleton costume picked out, but then the guys bet me I couldn’t go an entire game without shooting my mouth. I made it to the third period, biting my tongue to the point it bled. Until a freshman pushed an opponent into the boards, earning himself a penalty when we were already down a man for another stupid penalty, and I forgot. I forgot I was supposed to be keeping my thoughts to myself.
I didn’t say anything everyone else wasn’t thinking, but the point was I was supposed to keep my mouth shut.
They played on my weakness and won. It’s only bothering me because of the stupid costume they chose. What grown adult wants to be a pumpkin for Halloween? Even if it’s “cooler” than anoverstuffed, oversized puffy thing one of them thought would be a good idea.
“He’s salty because we know him better than he thinks we do,” Digal confesses.
