Page 49 of Played
There’s no way I’m not coming out of this fucked. But for right now? In this moment?
I smile.
Chapter Ten
ADINA
“I still can’t believe I’m at a hockey game.” Noni twists in her seat, scanning the rows behind us. “I’m so damn excited. Who thought you bussin’ it open for a hockey player would have these kinds of perks?”
“Okay, one, I’m not bussin’ it open for anyone,” I mutter, and ignore her snort. “And two, what the hell are you looking for?”
“One, if you aren’t, you will be. And if you don’t, I need a three-page, single-spaced Times New Roman twelve-point-font essay on why the fuck not. With your sources cited.” Her crazy ass twists the other way, still scanning the more-than-half-packed arena. “And I’m people watching. Trying to see which ones up in here are most likely to break out in a fight during this game. I bet Minnie there’d be at least two. Ooh.” She plops her ass back down and faces me again, dark eyes shining as bright as the lights in the arena. “Do you think we’ll be lucky enough to get another person snatching off their artificial leg and beating somebody with it?”
“The hell?” I rear back, staring at her in horror. Because I for damn sure didn’t hear her right. “What’re you talking about?”
“Oh yeah, bitch. It happened during a Vegas Golden Knights game a couple of years back. They were playing the Edmonton Oilers. She snatched her prosthetic off and got to whooping ass with it.”
“Daaaamn.”
“Right?” Noni laughs. “That’s some crazy shit. Homegirl said what she said with her whole chest. Or leg.”
“Stop it. You’re going to hell for that.” I snicker. She shrugs, and I laugh harder. “Seriously, though. Since when did you become a hockey fan? You have never mentioned liking the sport to me, and you told me ol’ boy licked your underarm during sex. Your TMI game is strong.”
Noni’s mouth screws up in a disgusted twist.
“Eeew. Why go and bringthatup? I can’t wash my armpits without thinking of him.” She gives a dramatic shudder. “Now, you know you have no tolerance for anything outside of football. But to answer your question, Minnie was hooking up with this hockey player a few months back. So she started watching all these games on TV so she could show him she was interested in his sport. At first, I thought she was goofy as fuck—well, I still do, if you want to keep it a buck. It’s one thing to learn your partner’s interests so you can hang out and enjoy quality time together. But that shit’s give and take. And that wasn’t what she was doing. My twin tried to be something she wasn’t to catch and keep the attention of a man. That’s some bullshit.”
I nod. Listen, me and Minnie, at best, have a cordial relationship. At worst, she’s been Narnian seconds from me rocking her shit. Yet hearing Noni’s story, I can’t help but feel a little sympathy for my best friend’s twin. Minnie is beautiful, smart, a gifted hairstylist. But the ain’t-shit way she lets men treat her? It’s sad because she could pull over a random car on Washington Street and find a better pick than the ones she dated.
But that’s her business, not mine.
I just hated it for Noni, who worried about her twin and wanted more for her. Mainly wanted Minnie to love herself more.
“She was hooking up with someone on the Pirates?” I ask, curious if it would be anyone who’d be on the ice tonight.
“Hell if I know.” Noni shrugs. “Honestly? I didn’t ask any of the details, because I knew what it was, even if Minnie didn’t want to seeit. He’d fucked and got on. But she wanted to make it into something deeper. When I tried to tell her that so her feelings wouldn’t get hurt, she snapped at me. And since I can’t miss work because I’m in somebody’s jail, I let it go.”
“Damn,” I murmur again. “Why do I feel bad for her?”
Noni waves a hand. “Babe, you know I love my sister with my whole soul. But save that feel-bad for someone who needs it. Because Minnie’s gonna be right back in that same predicament in two weeks. Hell, she might already be falling on that grimy-ass dick as we speak.”
It’s wrong, but I crack up. This is one of the reasons why Noni’s students adore her. She’s petite, gorgeous, with reddish-brown natural curls that brush the middle of her back. But that sweet exterior harbors a razor-sharp brain, a sharper wit, and a take-no-shit attitude. And she takes no shit from her students, coworkers, or administration.
My best friend is goals. And while our paths couldn’t have taken more different routes—me to the fire academy and her to college and two master’s degrees—I still admire her. She’s a baddie.
“Well, we can get a jersey for you to take home to her.” They live together in a town house over in College Hill. “She’ll probably like that.”
“So she be mad as fuck that I went to a hockey game without her? Uh, that’s a no. I don’t feel like hearing that mouth. She’ll be fine. Anyway, enough about my sister and her wayward coochie. I’m here to rip a page out of her book. You think your man can introduce me to one of these fine-ass hockey players?” She squirms on her seat, scanning the ice as if the said hockey players are already swarming into the rink.
“He’s not my man,” I grind out.
She shoots me a look over her shoulder, eyebrow arched.
“Sweetie, you have these bomb-ass seats—what’re they called? Right, club seats. We were escorted to said club seats like we’re fucking royalty. And you’re wearing his jersey. Don’t play in my face.”
I have a comeback; I promise. But for the life of me, I can’t find it at the moment. Because everything Noni’s pointed out is true. When wearrived at the arena, I had the option of going to “the box,” as Khalil had put it. What he’d been referring to was the luxury box where the owners, family, and other invited guests sat above the stands. I’m sure the description was accurate, and it no doubt offered all kinds of amenities, like the hot dogs Khalil mentioned and alcohol—which, shit, I could use right now. But I chose to sit close to the rink instead. Not only do I have zero desire to be closed in with a bunch of people I don’t know, but these club seats are located in the center of the ice, super close to the rink. Since it’s my first game, I want to be close to the action, not removed from it. Plus, it’s not like we’re sitting on bleachers or hard-ass stadium chairs. Nope, these are wide, padded, and super comfortable. And we don’t even have to leave for snacks and sodas. We have an actual concierge that brings all that to us. With this kind of catering, who needs a box?
And of course I’m wearing Solomon’s jersey. So is she! I mean, Solomon sent them over for us; it would’ve been rude not to put it on for the game. And it’s not like I know any other player. Besides, it’s not like we’re the only two wearing his number 19.
