The Fifteenth Minute: A Hockey Romance: Chapter 26

Lianne BELLA STICKS her head into my room for the third time this evening. “Are you preparing for a role as a vampire?”

“What? Why?” I don’t bother taking my eyes off my screen.

“Because you never leave your room. It’s like you think the outside air will burn your skin off.”

“Uh huh,” I say. I’m battling a new kind of droid-troll that’s been cropping up in DragonFire this week. They’re hard to kill, even with an X-level weapon. But I think I’m making progress. Words of encouragement from my online buddies scroll past.

“What’s that shirt you’re wearing? Oh my God. Did you have that made?”

I knew Bella would notice, but I wore it anyway. Because it’s too good not to wear. It reads, .

Bella does something drastic then. She puts her body between me and the screen.

“Shit!” I scream, freezing the game because she’s going to get me killed.

“Now you’re listening,” she says. “Great shirt. That’s showing them.”

“Thanks.” DJ sent it to me. I found it in a gift bag hanging from my doorknob. He couldn’t have been the one to put it there, though, because he’s not allowed in the building. I suspect one of the hockey players. There was a note, too. It read, “Thought you needed this. Love, D.”

. It’s not a word people use when they write to me. I’m ashamed to admit I tucked his note into my nightstand drawer.

The previous night there’d been a delivery from Gino’s pizza. It was a MOR pie, and I also received two Diet Cokes. Then I got a text which read, “I was thinking of you when I ordered mine. And you showing up at my door with a pie was one of the nicest things anyone ever did for me. Hope you’re hungry. —D.”

Bella and I feasted. I texted him a polite thank you instead of calling. I would have rather heard his voice, but I was afraid of what I might say.

. And that would only make him feel bad the week before his big appointment with the dean. So what was the use?

Tonight I hadn’t heard from him. Yet.

“Hockey game starts in thirty minutes,” Bella says. “It’s weird that they’re having a Monday game, but it’s because of the midterm break.”

I’d forgotten she was there. “I’m not going tonight.”

She heaves a sigh. “Please? There’s pretzels and hot dogs. And your paparazzo hasn’t been back.”

“I still have that paper to write.” It’s a dodge, and she knows it. But Bella disappears without a word.

DJ texts me later.

.

I feel the floor bobble beneath me as the diving board adjusts to the weight of my heart. I picture myself slipping into the press box just like I did that first time and choosing songs with DJ as the players slice across the ice below. This could be his last hockey game. He didn’t say that in the text, but we both know that in less than forty-eight hours, he might be finished here.

So when the final buzzer rings tonight, what would we find to say to each other?

.

I don’t want to have that conversation unless it’s really necessary. So I stay in my room like I’d planned.

Later, I get another text.

.

This makes me smile so hard. I know he’s teasing, but it’s kind of adorable. I reply:

.

Two hours later, Bella bursts into my room. This time, I’m actually working on my Brecht paper when I look up to see her face, red from running up the stairs. “Lianne, seriously? For the good of hockey fans everywhere, will you call that boy? His music has gone to shit.”

“Wait,” I say, sitting up. “What happened?”

“He played Linda Ronstadt. At a fucking hockey game,” she fumes. “And that’s on you!”

. “I thought he was teasing!” Which makes my text—adding three artists to the list—kind of a .

Bella shakes her head. “When I went into the booth to complain, he just said to give you this.” She pulled a scarf out of her pocket. My scarf—the itchy one I’d abandoned on the park bench the night he stood me up. “Here.” She thrust an envelope at me, too.

“Thanks,” I say, taking it.

She gives me a disappointed look and then leaves. I open the envelope and unfold a piece of notebook paper.

.

Well, damn.

Now my eyes are hot, and the sounds of foreplay are bleeding through the bathroom door. Great.

I wake up my computer and flip over to Spotify, where I begin to blast the first song I see from the playlist I made for the women’s game. It’s “Real Gone” by Sheryl Crow.

Pushing my copy of Brecht aside, I curl up on top of my bed alone. The upbeat tempo of the song does not match my mood. I lie there and wonder what it would be like to have a boyfriend sharing my bed. Why did I have to fall for the guy who can’t?