Page 92 of Say Yes to the Nemesis
Swarming with fans and camera crews, the producers have gone all out to make sure this isn’t just an event but a full-on reality TV extravaganza. The entire cast has front-row seats, faces pressed against the glass like kids at the zoo, all in pursuit of chaos, drama, or maybe even love. Shiny boom mics dangle just out of the frame. Countless GoPros are tucked into flower arrangements on the ledge, capturing our every move. Every breath. Every awkward pause. We’re being recorded again. Story of my life.
I’m still breathing hard from fucking Ryan. Again. This isn’t just amazing, terrible timing. It’s starting to feel like fate.
There they are in a row, like synchronized swimmers: all the contestants, each wearing crisp new hockey jerseys. We’re supposed to look like a team, unified in blue and white. Excitedto catch the cameras’ attention. Every contestant has HAART printed on the back in stark, bold letters, along with the number sixteen. I can practically hear the producers snickering about how clever they are. Here we all are, looking like one big happy family, the kind you see on TV but never in real life.
Except me.
I stare down at my jersey, a relic from another time.Thejersey. The one with frayed edges and a stubborn stain that never quite washed out. The ancient one I stole years ago right after Ryan carelessly left it at our house. I swiped it off the couch, gave it a new home, and never looked back. While everyone else is decked out in fresh-off-the-press gear, mine is almost nostalgic, a reminder of days long passed. It’s thin as paper, softer than it has any right to be, a paler blue than it used to be.
I paired it with a dark gray pleated skirt and my platform Mary Janes. It’s a look, but I’m uncertain that I got it right.
I squeeze in beside Raven. The cotton of my jersey rustles against my skin. I can’t help but think about all the times I fell asleep in it, wrapped up like it was some kind of security blanket. Maybe it was. I could almost be a teenager again in this faded jersey.
I should have more shame, but I don’t.
“Is my makeup okay?” I ask Raven.
“I wouldn’t say that.” She lights up and touches a strand of my hair. “I would say that you look like a knockout.”
I feel my cheeks heat. “Thanks. I got a serious makeover for this show and it’s taking some time for me to come to terms with it.”
“Whatever it is, it’s working.”
“Thanks. That means a lot coming from you. You always look so put together.”
Raven grins. “Thanks, babe.”
I lean forward and look onto the rink before us where the players zoom around. The energy around us is supercharged. Raven is practically bouncing, her barely-contained excitement fizzing like soda out of a freshly cracked can.
“He’s hot!” she announces, eyes glued to the players warming up on the ice. Her voice rings with more surprise than she’d probably care to admit. “I’ll say it now. This was a genius date idea!” She jostles me with her elbow. “Major win for the producers. They must be losing it right now.”
Heidi bobs her head in agreement. Determination flashes in her eyes, a readiness to see the drama unfold. “Oh, I’m gonna scream so loud if he gets in a fight,” she declares, the prospect as thrilling as a front-row seat at a rock concert.
“He won’t,” I say instinctively, the words tumbling out with less certainty than I’d like. A small, nervous part of me can’t rule it out. “At least, I hope not. He was given a red card last season right before the playoffs, and I think that’s kept him in line this year.”
My mind drifts to all the times I’ve seen him go from zero to sixty, fists curled, ready to face anyone who thinks they can take him. He fights clean, his punches more precision than rage. But it still makes me flinch when he drops the gloves. He can’t help himself sometimes.
It’s so Ryan.
Though maybe he’ll surprise me. He’s got a whole bunch of bachelorettes to impress tonight, even if it’s mostly for the TV show.
The crowd buzzes with anticipation, a low rumble undercutting our conversations. The lights dim. The crowd quiets, then erupts again as the team is introduced. One by one, players burst from the tunnel in a blur of sharp blades and adrenaline. Ryan skates out last.
The crowd loses it.
He’s a streak of blue and white, moving with terrifying ease, his shoulders squared and his jaw set with determined precision. That stupid little smirk tugs at his mouth, as if he already knows he’s the one they came to see, the main attraction, the headline act. As he flies past our corner of the rink, he slows just a notch, a fraction of a second that feels impossibly long.
Heidi waves.
Raven squeals.
Ryan’s eyes find mine. Just for a breath. A flash of heat, intense but fleeting. A flicker of something that makes my pulse skip. It’s enough to make me lean forward, to stand up, to feel like maybe this is a story with me in it. Then he’s gone, speeding off into the frenzy.
I’m left clutching the railing and pretending I didn’t just melt into the floor.
When the puck drops, the game starts with a jolt.
I know it’s just for charity, but you wouldn’t know it from the way they’re playing. The pace is relentless. They don’t hold back. The collisions are sharp, players careening off the walls and into each other like they have something to prove. Ryan controls the puck as if it’s part of him. Flicking passes, darting through traffic, skating backward like it’s no big deal.
