Page 15 of The Game She Hates

“Why Zane? Does he play better than everyone else?” I ask, feigning nonchalance.

“No, Collymore is the greatest defenseman the world has ever seen. And that jawline—pure perfection. A pity he is retiring,” Becky swoons.

“Sorry, I’ll have to side with Lydia here,” Nadine adds. “Sarah, could you pull up the Glaciers’ socials and show us Zane in his full glory? Those piercing eyes, that chiseled body, that smile. And the way he never shies away from a good on-ice scuffle. I’m all in for Team Zane Ortiz.”

I’m officially irritated now. Lord, help me. I can’t seem to keep my emotions in check, and I know whatever I’m feeling isn’t valid in any way.

“I like having my eyes on Adler. Carson Adler. He might not be everyone’s top pick, but there’s something about him that just speaks to me. I like to think that one day I’ll meet him and have the chance to tell him how special he is,” Sarah says in a dreamy voice.

“Girls, stop it. We’re here to enjoy the game, not to ogle the players. Remember, some of them have wives and families,” Kate interrupts. Makes total sense. She’s fully engaged and not interested in this conversation.

“We’re actually here for a bridesmaids meeting, Kate. I think we should get to it,” I remind everyone in case they forgot why we’re really here.

Kate winces. “Sorry, Pearl. This game is halfway. Can you try and sit it through, and we’ll make today’s meeting short?”

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes as I reluctantly agree. Grabbing a bar stool from the island, I settle back into watching the game. My gaze returns to the TV screen, scanning for number 12—I manage to spot him for a few seconds before the camera shifts to other players.

Zane scores a goal, prompting all the girls to erupt in cheers and high-five each other. As the camera zooms in for the replay, I finally get a full view of his face in slow motion. He’s unarguably handsome even behind a full face shield, and with all the confidence he exudes, along with his persistence from yesterday, I’m certain he’s well aware of his heartthrob reputation.

The game progresses, and I find myself secretly thrilled, particularly when I catch a glimpse of number 12 out on the ice. It’s as if I’m playing my own private game—tracing his movements across the rink. Though I’m sure Lydia is doing the same.

I still can’t understand the players’ willingness to risk injury for a puck. Still, I admire their fearlessness. Fear is something I grapple with every day, so it’s intriguing to imagine being on the other side of it.

The girls’ voices ring out in unison, echoing disbelief and frustration. “Seriously? They’re penalizing Zane for that? It was a clean play!” The atmosphere instantly tenses up. I catch Zane’s visibly angry expression on TV, but I’m clueless about what actually happened.

I hesitate to ask what’s happening. Revealing any interest in the game would contradict my earlier stance, and I definitely don’t want to be roped into more game nights. Yet, the urge to know what the referee said to Zane and the repercussions he faces consumes my thoughts.

13

Zane Ortiz

The adrenaline courses through my veins and my heart pounds in my chest. I feel my blood boiling as I shoot a glare at the referee, my frustration barely contained. With clenched fists and gritted teeth, I argue my case, attempting to reason with the official before begrudgingly making my way to the penalty box.

“I was just trying to defuse the situation,” I mutter to myself. It’s Wood who’s at fault here—he instigated the skirmish near the Falcon’s goal crease. When he turned aggressive toward Hunter, I stepped in and pushed him away. But when Wood attempted to put me in a headlock, instinct took over, and I reacted by shoving him into the plexiglass. Yet, somehow, the referee twisted the narrative, painting me as the instigator.

I take my seat in the penalty box, my hands trembling with nerves and anger. It’s not just about me; it’s about the team. With us in the third period, leading 3-2, being short a center could give the Falcons the opening they need to catch up.

With each passing moment, the tension mounts, the crowd holding its breath as the players fight tooth and nail for every inch of ice.

In a climactic moment, the final buzzer echoes through the arena, marking the end of the game. I spring up from the bench. It’s finally over.

Although tonight’s hard-earned victory carries a hint of lingering anger, I can’t help but join in the celebration with the team.

In the aftermath of the game, the locker room crackles with what I can only describe as testosterone-fueled energy. Some teammates head straight for the showers, steam rising as they wash away the intensity of the match. Others are stretching tired muscles and reliving key plays and near misses.

Meanwhile, a couple of us are tending to minor injuries under the watchful eye of the team’s medical staff. They patch us up nicely. We’ll be back in top form in no time.

I’m sitting on the bench, a cold pack soothing my tired legs, when I sense a looming presence in front of me. Trent’s voice cuts through the locker room chatter like a blade, his words dripping with accusation. “What were you thinking, man? You nearly cost us this one.”

Great, just as I was starting to forget the ref’s wrong call on the penalty. Trent’s words feel like another dagger to the wound. Coach and the rest of the team didn’t say a word. Everyone saw it. It wasn’t my fault. I was just trying to defend myself and Hunter.

“I did my part tonight, Trent,” I say, my voice steady but my fists clenched at my sides, just in case. I rise to my feet, meeting his gaze head-on, but I refuse to engage in a pointless argument. He’s just a bully, stuck in some high school power play, and I won’t let him drag me into it.

I begin to walk away and Trent follows closely behind. “You weren’t yourself at practice yesterday. And you acted out again today. The team is just tired of having to carry the weight of your anger issues.”

Before I know it, I’ve turned around to face him, our faces inches apart. He is a few inches shorter, but still a tall guy on the team. I can feel everyone’s eyes on us. I can’t do something I might regret. Captaincy is on the table.

“You and who, Trent? Who else feels like they’re having to carry my weight?” The silence that follows is deafening, no one daring to speak up. Maybe it’s because I scored two goals tonight, or maybe they don’t want to admit that Trent’s just blowing smoke.

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