Offside: Chapter 3

Cheers erupted from the crowd as the buzzer sounded and the scoreboard changed. Much to my dismay, the bright red letters now read four-nothing, Falcons.

Being the away team always sucked, but it was especially bad when we were getting our asses handed to us like this.

Our goalie, Eddie Mendez, threw his stick and let out a string of colorful curses that echoed throughout the arena. I held my breath, waiting to see if Coach Brown would pull him, but he stayed on. My brother Derek pulled off his blue and white gloves and skated to the away bench, shaking his head. He was upset with himself over the botched defensive play, not with Mendez for letting it in.

And beside the net, Chase Carter—left winger for the Falcons—did a celebratory fist pump and glided over to the home bench to high-five his teammates and gloat like he always did. Irritation rippled through me.

“I hate him,” I muttered.

Amelia nodded. “Me too. He’s the worst.”

I didn’t have a strong emotional reaction to many players, good or bad, but Carter was the exception. He was the definition of obnoxious. Cockiness in a crimson jersey.

Smugness on skates.

Sure, he was good—a gritty first- or second-line winger in a Division I league—but his massive ego was disproportionate to his level of skill. And he was notorious for trash talking and causing fights between our respective teams. Specifically, for initiating altercations that ended with us taking penalties and the Falcons scoring while we were short-handed.

He wasn’t just chippy; he was downright devious.

At the end of the regular season last spring, Carter and Derek crossed paths in the second period. Despite Carter’s clear instigation, Derek received a game misconduct while Carter got off scot-free. Losing my brother had hurt, given the team was already down several defensemen due to injuries. In the end, we lost by one goal—and missed out on qualifying for the playoffs. Derek was still holding a grudge against Carter. And so was I.

We fell silent again, watching the massacre on the ice continue. Or Amelia did, anyway. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Luke. Even when he was on the bench, it was impossible to focus anywhere but on him for more than a few seconds.

She nudged me with her elbow. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” I wrapped my arms around my body, wishing I’d worn a jacket over my gray hoodie. Boyd University’s arena, Northridge Center, was always bitterly cold, but I’d been in such a daze that I hadn’t even thought about it before walking out the door.

“Have you guys talked since?”

“Kind of,” I said. “Not really.”

Luke had sent me a string of increasingly frantic apology texts this afternoon. Not trying to get me back so much as attempting damage control, echoing last night’s pleas to remain friends. At first, I ignored him, but after his fifth text, I finally caved and replied, telling him it was fine (it obviously wasn’t) and that I just needed some time (as in, forever). Partly because I was a pushover, and partly because I didn’t want drama between us to take his head out of the game tonight. Regardless of how I actually felt, I needed to placate him so he didn’t blow it for the rest of the team.

Despite that, Luke was almost unrecognizable on the ice tonight—slow, distracted, and all kinds of useless. He had already taken more penalties than he had in any game last season. Stupid penalties too, like obvious hooking and high-sticking. I couldn’t even blame Carter for those.

The rest of our team wasn’t faring much better. They were clearly upset with their lackluster performance, which was fueling a vicious cycle.

I wanted to tear my hair out over it all.

Amelia tipped forward, squinting at the players’ bench. “Ugh. What now?”

Paul and Carter were engaging in some sort of verbal back and forth through the plexiglass dividing the benches. Carter chirped something, and in response, Paul wound up and lobbed his water bottle over the partition, aiming for Carter’s head. He dodged it at the last minute and discreetly flipped Paul off while the coaches weren’t looking. But of course, the coaches caught the water bottle toss.

Like I said: devious.

Coach Brown shook his head and stormed over to Paul, pointing to the hallway that led to the locker room. Crap. It looked like he was being sent to change early.

Carter leaned his head back and laughed, then fist-bumped Ward beside him. The Falcons’ coach shot them a warning look, and their expressions sobered, but I swore I could see the smirk on Carter’s face from across the ice the second his coach turned.

“Carter again,” Amelia huffed. “That asshole.”

“But they’re buying right into it,” I pointed out. “He’s playing them like a fiddle.”

“I know. It’s a good thing Jillian had to work,” she said. “That way she doesn’t have to watch this train wreck.”

Jillian was our other roommate and had been dating the Bulldogs’ goalie, Mendez, for the past eight months. Mendez wasn’t faring well tonight, so it was probably better for both of them that she wasn’t here to witness the bloodshed.

Four minutes later, the buzzer sounded and the game ended with a final score of five-nothing. It was bad enough to lose to our rival team, but the shutout really added insult to injury. Especially since Luke was usually one of our top scorers.

Amelia and I made our way out of the stands and stood in the concourse, eating concession popcorn and waiting for the team. It took longer than normal for them to change and debrief, probably because Coach Brown was tearing them a new one. Rightly so.

Paul was one of the first to emerge from the locker room, shoulders dropped and face drawn.

Amelia shot me an apologetic look. “Sorry, I’ve got to talk to him for a sec.”

“It’s fine.” I waved her off. Just because my relationship was toast didn’t mean I expected Amelia to abandon hers.

She darted over to greet him, and he leaned down, embracing her in a huge hug that made my heart ache. I clenched my teeth and stuffed the sadness down. But more difficult to ignore was that I was now standing alone in the concourse like some kind of lurker. Other Bulldogs teammates emerged, one after another, but no one came over to me.

No one even waved or said hi.

My stomach twisted. What, exactly, was my endgame here? Did I really think I’d go out with them after Luke dumped me?

I took out my phone and scrolled mindlessly while debating whether I should wait for Derek or call an Uber and bail. My breath caught as Luke trudged out of the locker room, blond hair still damp, expression stony. He glanced over to the throng of people—his friends, who, until today, I’d thought were mine too—then back over to where I was standing alone. Our eyes locked, but he stayed where he was.

After a few awkward seconds where he watched me and I watched him, he walked over to me with a noticeable air of reluctance. Every step was so slow, he was practically dragging his feet.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” I locked my phone and slid it into my back pocket. “Some tough breaks out there tonight. Good effort, though.”

He shrugged, but his tense expression spoke volumes. “We’ll get them next time.”

“Totally.” I nodded. “So…”

We stood, bathed in painful silence, for what seemed like an hour but was probably less than a minute. Humiliation swelled in my gut. Why had I come? Because I thought Luke would change his mind? Or because I thought he’d realize he made a mistake?

I was the one who’d made a mistake.

Starting with him.

“Come on, Morrison,” Mendez hollered, waving at him impatiently. The team was clustered around the front doors, surrounded by girlfriends and hangers-on, making their way to the exit. Only two days ago, I would have been there too.

“In a second,” Luke called, looking over his shoulder. He glanced back at me. “Uh, I should go.”

“Okay.”

I hadn’t seen Derek yet. He was always one of the last to leave the locker room. But once he came out, he’d be out the door right behind them. I knew where my brother’s loyalties fell, and it wasn’t with me. It wasn’t like he could help, anyway. Tagging along with them was out of the question, which meant I was headed home to cry into a pint of ice cream while watching Grey’s Anatomy re-runs. I didn’t need company for that.

“I’ll text you,” Luke said.

I wanted to say don’t bother, but I nodded and walked away, heading for the women’s bathroom. I could hide in there until they left.

As I pushed open the swinging door, my phone vibrated with a new text.

I used the bathroom and washed my hands as slowly as possible, trying to ensure they would be gone before I came back out. I’d just tossed my paper towel in the trash when Zara texted, responding to a message I’d sent her earlier about Luke.

Zara would have no idea what that meant—she was a fellow journalism major, also on the school paper, and one of only a few friends not enmeshed in the world of hockey—so I elaborated.