Page 7 of Big Pucking Deal
It’s October and while most places are experiencing fall temps, Houston has barely cooled down to the high eighties. We’ll be lucky if we get below fifty by December.
“Doesn’t seem that way to me,” she replies. “Joaquín makes it seem like you and he were equally as close.”
“I mean, we were, for sure. But people tend to grow apart when they become busy with their adult lives. In a trio like ours, the girl always gets pushed aside.”
Brooke opens her mouth but is silenced when my name is shouted from across the parking lot.
“Bunny!” Brooke and I both fling our heads in the direction of the voice and see Joaquín jogging towards us.
“Not that close, huh?” She arches a brow and purses her lips together.
“Hush up.” She shakes her head and spins back around to watch Joaquín approach.
“Hey Brooke,” he says, only slightly out of breath.
“Hey Joaquín. Bye Joaquín. I gotta jet. I have studying to do.” She lifts her toes and kisses my cheek. “Bye babes. Think about Saturday night. Bram seemed like hereallywanted to see you.”
She wiggles her fingers at us and saunters off. I throw death daggers at the back of her head because her little parting words will no doubt get back to my brother who will badger me about it.
“What does she mean by Bram seemed like he wanted to see you?” Joaquín asks, his jaw clenched and nostrils flaring.
I try to play it off by saying, “I don’t really know. Something about Saturday night after the game.”
This makes steam pour from his nose. “Did they invite you to the party?”
This time I look at him with a knitted brow. “Party? All Brooke said was that they asked what we were doing after the game. That’s it.”
His face is hardened and he watches me with an intense stare. His dark eyes turn black and it’s something I’ve never seen before. His beautiful features –black hair, cut jaw, straight nose and long lashes– all seem ominous with how fiercely he looks at me.
“You don’t want to hang out with those guys. They’re bad news. Just stay away, Jolie.”
“Are you bad news, Joaquín? Should I stay away from you, too?” I challenge him, my hand coming to rest on my hip.
His eyes squint and there’s a hint of the boy I remember. “You know I’m not like that.”
“No. I don’t know you anymore, Joaquín. The last thing I remember is you walking off with Tiff after I asked to talk with you, and then I didn’t see you for four years. So I don’t know a damn thing about you. And you sure as hell don’t know a thing about me.” My hand slides to the door handle and I pull on it.
“I know everything there is to know about you, Bunny.”
I shake my head, stepping one foot in the car. “I’m afraid you don’t. Because if you did, you’d know that guys like Bram areexactlythe type of guy I’m looking for. See you Saturday.”
I sit down in the driver’s seat and slam the door shut. Saturday night seems like the perfect night to get rid of something I’ve been holding onto for far too long.
We walk through the stands, waving at fans and cheering on the Havoc to what looks like is going to be their first win. My cheeks hurt from the amount of smiling I’ve done tonight, but it feels great to be in front of a crowd again and thankful the dance on the ice went off without a hitch.
We reach the main concourse and I stop for a moment, looking out onto the ice. There’s a breakaway by the other team and I watch as Joaquín moves lightning fast, back checking to help defend his goal. It looks like he’s trying to crash the net and I hold my breath, waiting for a collison.
Somehow Joaquín manages to get within inches of the other player. The opponent makes his move to try and score from the house and the goalie has his skates moving side to side. The offense winds up for his shot and the goalie readies himself to defend the shot. The opponent's stick comes down, connecting with the puck, but it doesn’t make it anywhere near the goal because Joaquín dives, his body sending it flying off to the left and away from the goal where his teammate is able to get control.
The crowd goes wild and just seconds later, the buzzer sounds signaling the end of the match. All the dancers jump up, our hands holding our poms above our heads, and shout. Fans come up to us to high-five and celebrate.
While the arena begins to empty, we make our way back to our dressing room to begin to pack up. We’re all on a high after thewin, and the chatter is loud. Brooke walks over to me as I wipe my face clean of the immense amount of makeup we wear as I usually go with the bare minimum.
“That was intense,” she says on a sigh and plops down next to me. “So. Are you up for the after party?”
I stare at her in the mirror, thinking about my confrontation with Joaquín in the parking lot. The reality is, I’d really like to just go home, do a mini binge on some chips and ice cream, then fall asleep. My body is tired from practices and the night’s adrenaline is wearing off.
But there’s a part of me that really wants to see what the party is all about. We aren’t supposed to mingle with the players, but it seems that every dancer does. The coaches act blissfully ignorant and the dancers keep a tight lid on what happens. Kind of like Vegas. What happens at an after party stays at the after party.
