Page 27 of For Crosby

Finlay shook her head. “I’ve never seen anyone get to you the way he does.”

“It’s called hate.”

She shrugged. “It beats that indifferent thing you do.”

I considered arguing, but what was the point. She was right. I had indifferent down. It’s what I did. It’s how I kept my feelings in check. I was no different than anyone else. I’d had my heart broken and broken my fair share of hearts. Just because I wasn’t in a rush to open my heart to some unworthy college guy, it didn’t make me strange. It made me smart. No one wanted to be hurt, and letting people in was a sure-fire way to do that. That’s why I kept my small circle close, and I wore indifference well.

My eyes shifted back to the ice where the players from both teams lined up at center ice. Everyone around me stood. I watched Crosby. Watched the way his eyes remained on the flag hanging from the rafters as the National Anthem echoed through the arena. The guys on either side of him had treated him like crap, and yet, there he stood. A virtual ‘fuck you’ to all of them.

Why was hockey so important to him? Why had he allowed himself to be fodder for the immature idiots on the team? It seemed so unlike the guy I’d become familiar with to put up with other people’s shit. I would’ve envisioned him as someone who took on the entire team alone as opposed to someone who bowed down and played dead. But that’s exactly what he’d been doing. There had to be more to it. And I wondered if it had anything to do with why he ended up in Alabama.

Once the last note of the National Anthem drifted through the speakers, the game began and players flew by us. The slick puck slipped across the ice from stick to stick and side to side. The puck was hard to follow as it was passed around, but I tried to keep up. Jeremy, in number thirty-three, zipped by us, handling the puck effortlessly. Crosby, in number fifty-six, was a blur on the ice. The guy could move. He always seemed to be where the puck was, stopping and passing it from wherever he ended up.

Hockey was a rough sport. Much rougher than I expected. Players were shoved and knocked off their feet. But no matter how many shots the players took on the net, no goals had been scored. As it neared the end of the first period (apparently hockey had three), two players slammed into the glass right in front of us. The unexpected commotion sent me jerking back in my seat. Finlay, along with everyone around us, jumped to her feet. The crowd bellowed, yelling at the two players who tore off their gloves and went at it. Fists flew for at least a minute before the refs skated over and pulled them apart. They disengaged and skated off to what I assumed to be the penalty box.

Once the puck dropped again, it came loose and Crosby took off with it, skating down the ice with his opponents on his tail. It didn’t seem to faze him as his stick shifted the puck from side to side. He circled behind the opposing team’s goal. It looked like he was going to come out on the right side, but he circled back and, as if the goalie wasn’t even there, he slapped the puck in the net. The buzzer sounded and the red light above the goal lit up.

The crowd cheered as Crosby punched his hands and stick in the air. In hockey movies, the teammates surrounded the scorer, embracing him and patting his helmet with their gloved hands. But on the ice, no one surrounded Crosby. They celebrated with each other, just not with him. The coaches congratulated him with pats on the back as he hopped into their team’s box and dropped down onto the bench.

Finlay and I exchanged a curious look. We knew athletes. We were surrounded by them all the time. Even if the guy was a douchebag, he still scored a goal. You congratulated him. You went back to hating him after the game. Apparently, the hockey team lived by another set of rules.

“Let’s go,” I said.

“What?” Finlay asked

I stood from my seat and grabbed my coat. “I’m all set.” And I was. I hadn’t shown up to feel sorry for Crosby—yet again.

CHAPTER NINE

December

Crosby

I lay on my bed with an ice pack on my shoulder and a heating pad on my ribs, trying to ignore the bass reverberating in the room beneath mine. I had a test in economics the following day I hadn’t studied for. But shutting out all the noise rattling around in my head was easier said than done.

Someone pounding on my door pulled me from my thoughts. I wasn’t expecting anyone, so I ignored it. But the pounding persisted. I shoved the ice and heating pad away and rolled off my bed. I trudged to the door and yanked it open. “What?”

Sabrina stood outside my door. Her eyes shot to the number on the door then back to me. “Where’s Jeremy?”

“Jeremy?”

“Yeah, he texted and said he’d be here.”

My head dropped back and my shoulders shook with cold laughter. That son of a bitch.

“What’s so funny?”

“This is the last place he’d be.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Then why’d he send me here?”

I shrugged. “The guy’s a prick. Who knows why he does anything he does.”

Her lips twisted, and my eyes were immediately drawn to them.

I hadn’t realized how luscious they were. How nice they’d likely taste. What the hell was wrong with me? My eyes snapped up. “He probably wanted me to see that not only had he gotten you seats for our game, but he also scored another date.”

“First of all, he didn’t get me tickets. And why would he care if you knew he scored another date?”

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