Page 38 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show
Finally, Oskar returns and collapses into the seat beside me. “All set.”
“That’s great.”
“Finding rooms last minute is not easy.”
“But you did it.”
“Uh-huh.”
I fist bump him, and he laughs. I feel someone’s eyes on me and notice Luke is watching me from the benches. He’s frowning, which is so not his normal state, and I glance at the scoreboard, in case I missed another goal from New Hampshire.
But the score remains 3-1. Luke got assists for two of the goals.
Maybe he heard the bus was canceled.
Finally, the game ends, the Blizzards still ahead, and the team breaks out in congratulatory hugs.
I beam.
I don’t stop smiling when I exit. The crowd pools around me, thicker now that we’re no longer in our seats. Most people chat about the weather, dreading their drive home.
But then I hear it.
“Did you see Luke Hawthorne?” someone asks.
“He’s so hot...”
“Boiling.”
“Totally.”
“And we get to see him every week inSeeking Mr. Right.”
I tighten my scarf around my chin, and zip up my puffy, blizzard-worthy coat, just in case someone recognizes me.
The voices continue, complimenting Luke.
Oskar elbows me. “Good pick, huh?”
I nod, but the joy that filled me after the win seeps from me. Of course, Luke is adored by everyone. I’m not the first person to have noticed his many, many,manygood qualities.
God, I hope Luke didn’t notice me looking at him. I hope he’s not smirking and thinking that his brother totally called it.
And even if he doesn’t remember me, and I tell myself that two grades apart in school are huge, and my name is different, and my appearance and overall status are too, he might still find it amusing if he thinks I like himthatway.
I don’t want to be some misty-eyed hanger-on he needs to sit next to on every bus ride and at every meal. He should be talking hockey with his friends.
The gray parking lot has turned into a winter wonderland. A foot of snow is stacked on each car, and snowplows grunt and grind and groan over ever-more packed dirty snow.
Everyone’s conversation switches to the snow blustering upon us. Musings about the game? Does not matter. New Hampshire weather is more memorable.
“Shit.” Oskar takes out his phone. “Hi. Pappa? It’s snowing. Like a lot. Like not a time for interviews a lot.” He’s quiet for a few moments. “The journalists won’t be able to get home either. We need to get to the hotel, and the roads—” He pauses again. “Yeah. See you soon.”
“They’re coming?” I ask.
Oskar nods. “Let’s go to the bus.”
We hurry toward it. Oskar slips, and I steady him.
