Page 93 of Zero Pucks Given
45
Josie
I took advantage of Sharon’s help and crawled back to my job. That meant apologizing to my boss, which wasn’ttoobad.
It also meant apologizing to Carter, which totally sucked.
Now I was patrolling section 118 in the frigid arena, wishing I had worn an extra layer underneath my uniform. It was so cold in here, made worse by the fact that I had to handle icy beer cans every time a fan raised their hand to get my attention.
But that was only a minor annoyance compared to the complex hurricane of emotions I heard when Grayson Steele’s name was announced during the player introductions.
The fans cheered loudly for the captain of the team, but I deliberately turned my back to the ice. Fuck him. Fuck the contest. Fuck our fake dates, and the not-so-fake dates, and the sizzling hot chemistry we shared for two days in Edmonton.
The puck was dropped, and the game began. I busied myself with my job, pouring beer into plastic cups and accepting cash.
Thirty seconds into the game, the Oilers scored a goal. There was a collective groan of frustration throughout the arena, and then the crowd noise dimmed significantly, like the air had gone out ofeveryone’s sails.
I was secretly happy about the goal. Especially since it looked like Grayson was the one who screwed up on defense.
Try blamingthaton me, asshole.
The game only got worse as the night went on. Aside from scoring a goal in the second period, the Surge looked horrible all game. When the final buzzer sounded throughout the arena, the Oilers had won, 4-1.
I smiled the whole way home. It felt like vindication. I wasn’t responsible for the way they were playing, and it was ridiculous for Grayson to ever imply that I was. The city seemed to agree, because the hateful comments had dwindled to a trickle.
While celebrating with a beer at home, I thought about texting Grayson and rubbing it in. I even typed it all out, laughing at him for ever using me as a scapegoat for his own failures. But as I reviewed the words, they didn’t give me any satisfaction.
I deleted the text before hitting send.
It was a good thing I did, because I watched the post-game interview ten minutes later. Grayson was accepting most of the blame for the loss, admitting that he needed to step up as the leader of the team and find ways to win.
“We’re going to lick our wounds, and come back strong for game four,” he said, hair damp from the shower. “We owe it to our fans.Iowe it to them. Trust me when I say we’re still in this.”
But no matter what he said, helookeddefeated.
I spent the next two days throwing myself into my TikTok channel again. The steep drop in views had finally settled out. I was half as popular as I was at my peak, but that wasn’t so bad. It could be alotworse. And the mean comments had mostly petered out.
Mostly.
I no longer felt hopeless. Now that I’d gotten a taste of going viral, I had a carrot to chase. It was going to take a lot of work to get back tothe popularity I had enjoyed while going on fake dates with Grayson, but that was okay. I could be patient.
Game four at the Frost Bank Arena was quieter than game three from the start, the energy nervous rather than excited. That mood seemed to infiltrate the team, because they played horrible from the moment the clock started. I was stuck with the beer backpack again, so I got to witness most of the game. I had a better appreciation and understanding for the sport of hockey now, which made the scene playing out on the ice so much harder to watch.
“Careful,” I muttered while pouring a beer into a plastic cup, my eyes glued to the rink below. “The left wing is hovering. He’s setting a trap…”
Two seconds later, the Oilers player struck like a viper, stealing the puck and then racing toward our goal on a breakaway. I turned away before seeing the shot, but the collective groans and curses surrounding me told me everything I needed to know.
The rest of the game wasn’t any better. It was like watching a car accident in slow motion. Grayson’s performance was especially egregious; he looked slower than everyone else on the ice, and made several more errors that shouldn’t have been tolerated by a rookie player, let alone the veteran captain of the team.
Tonight’s 6-2 loss didn’t bring me any joy. I just felt sad.
I listened to the radio on the drive home. The broadcasters were discussing the game, and the Surge team in general.
“Honestly, they were lucky to make the playoffs at all. It’s the franchise’s first season! What did we expect? To win the Stanley Cup?”
“You make it sound like it’s already over. They still have to play game five in Edmonton,” the other radio guy said.
“Buddy, the Surge are down three games to one. They’re a loss away from getting knocked out. If you seriously think this team can win three games in a row against a powerhouse Oilers team, then you ought to get your head examined.”
