Page 74 of Heartless Game

“You dork,” Lucy teased.

Isaac chased Mason into the offensive zone, pinned him to the boards and took the puck back. He passed the puck to Jack, who drove in toward Tabb’s goal. Isaac was close behind, followed by Tabb’s defense. He skated around the back of the goal until he was open for Jack to pass the puck to him. A few moments later, the horn sounded—Isaac had scored a goal.

The game paused as the ice crew members used shovels to clean up and smooth out the ice. Isaac looked up, scanning the arena, his eyes catching on mine—and it felt like everyone was watching us.

Which was what I wanted.

Knowing Isaac’s eyes were on me—and everyone else in the arena’s, apparently—I stood, unrolling the first sign and holding it up so everyone could see.

“Holy shit,” a guy near us said.

As luck would have it, the jumbotron’s camera was on me, so everyone in the arena could see me and the sign I was holding.

The sign that said:

37’S A BENDER

So many people gasped, the sound echoed the stadium.

Someone stood up and yelled, “No one talks about Isaac Jones that way!” and then they were all yelling, “JONES, JONES, JONES,” so loudly, it was like the arena itself was roaring.

I barely noticed. My eyes were on the player in the #37 jersey himself as he pulled his helmet off and spun around on the ice, scanning the stands until they landed on me. And held.

So much passed between his dark eyes and mine. Anger, frustration, lust, remorse, ownership, and something else, something terrifying that I refused to put a name to.

Finally, he smirked.You’ll pay for that, he mouthed.

I smirked back, dropping the first poster and revealing the second.

If you want more ice time, 37, I hear they’re hiring a Zamboni driver.

There were more gasps, more yelling. I probably should’ve been worried that a fan was going to take me out. But I ignored all of it, focused entirely on the way Isaac was staring at me.

“He looks like he wants to kill her.” Leslie sounded worried. “Maybe we should stop her.”

“Nah, he looks like he wants toeather,” Lucy corrected. “And in the fun way. Let her do her thing.”

The ref blew his whistle, and the game resumed. Isaac and Tabb’s forward faced off on center ice. This time, Isaac won the puck, and pushed toward Tabb’s goal, only to be stopped by Mason, who stole the puck and drove toward our goal. Mason was fast, gliding across the ice, but when he shot the puck, Lawson, who was in the crease, caught the puck right before it hit the net, leaving us at 1:0, Reina : Tabb.

Just as the first period ended and the horn sounded, I let go of the second poster, revealing the third and final sign.

I should’ve worn a different player’s number—one who can actually score.

This was a lie, of course. Isaac had the most goals in the league. But still, I was proud of myself. And like any good journalist, I loved a good em-dash.

The entire stadium went silent, the jumbotron still showing off me and my signs.

If they were going to stare, at least they had something legitimate to stare at.

Isaac shook his helmet as he stopped in front of the penalty box, looking up at me. I didn’t have to see his face to know he was probably torn between laughing and spanking me. The idea got me hot and bothered, my heart racing. I knew I was taunting him, waving a red flag in front of a bull. But I didn’t care. He’d hurt me, emotionally, when he’d tied me to the statue in the quad. I wasn’t about to take it lying down. He’d gotten into this with me, and he knew who I was—sass and all. And if he didn’t, well, I’d reminded him.

I was TovahLewis.I was no one’s doormat.

Someone tapped on my shoulder, and I glanced away from Isaac and at an irate looking middle-aged man with a red face.

“You fucking bitch,” he seethed. “Didn’t anyone teach you manners? You don’t come to one of our games and insult our star player.”

He grabbed the neck of my jersey and pulled, still ranting. “You don’t deserve to wear Jones’ jersey, you cunt.”

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