Page 35 of Overtime
“This is nothing compared to all your help.” She offers a cute little smile that melts him like an ice cube in the desert.
I attack my pizza as if it owes me money.
“Maddie.” Jamal gulps down his food to speak again. “You should come watch us play tonight.”
“I’m sure she has better plans,” Ryan says with a shrug. “Like watchingourgame tonight.”
“You should definitely come watch us,” says Christine Freeman, one of the forwards on Ryan’s team. “Athletic girls are so much hotter than these knuckleheads, am I right?”
“Too right.” Ryan offers her forearm, and the other girl bumps it with hers.
I reach out for another slice of meat lover’s. The rivalry between the Bolts and the Strikes will probably go on until the end of time, but at least no one’s maiming each other anymore.
“Um, actually.” Strawberry clears her throat, sets her slice down on the almost empty cardboard box, and lifts wide eyes to us. “I don’t really know anything about hockey other than the names of your teams.”
One by one, jaws drop, eyes pop, and gasps come out.
I blink real hard. I get it. Not everyone in the world is obsessed with hockey. It’s not even the most popular sport in this country. And yet…
This town is in the middle of hockey nation. We’re halfway between two Original Six teams. Shit, my parents are Venezuelan and grew up in a baseball culture, yet two of their kids live and breathe hockey like it’s our family’s legacy. I couldn’t possibly conceive of a life without it. In fact, when I get too old to play it professionally and I have no other choice but to earn my living through accounting, I’ll still play for some minor league or coach kids orsomething.
I take a deep, bracing breath so I don’t spill any of this like lava from an erupting volcano. I guess it’d be the same if I admitted to her that I don’t really read books.
Ryan takes a big swig of her water and sighs as if she’s just guzzled a beer. “Girl, you shouldn’t have said that aloud in a room full of hockey nerds.”
“That’s it.” Archie smacks his own leg. “Let’s watch a game together. We’ll teach you all about it.”
“Will you?” Why does she look so hopeful asking this?
“Yes, let’s go.” He grabs a slice and relocates to the couch, pawing at the remote with his greasy hand. “Hey, Ryan! Do you have film from one of our games?”
“Why the heck would I have a Bolts game?”
“Try ESPN first,” Jamal suggests. “There may be some reruns from the pro season.”
Mark shakes his head. “Man, are you implying we’re not as cool as the pros? Because unfortunately, you’d be right. Did you see Max Cassiano’s game yesterday?”
“Off the charts, I admit,” Christine says.
I grunt. My future brother-in-law is teaching the league exactly what this town is made of. And I’ll be next. I don’t givea shit that no one drafted me. I’ll be the hottest free agent the league has ever seen. Teams will be fighting for me.
“Um, give me a moment. I need my journal.”
Strawberry rushes over to my side of the counter and ignores me completely while she washes her hands. But I’m standing in the way of the towel draped over the oven’s handle. She blinks up at me, and I stuff the last chunk of crust into my mouth, still firmly in the way.
Her hands drip, and she narrows her eyes, as if she knows what I’m up to. “Excuse me.”
I shrug. “You’re excused.”
“Don’t make me bodily push you away.”
“You couldn’t if you tried.”
“You’re probably right.” Strawberry sighs in an exaggerated way.
But then she reaches over and wipes her hands with the front of my hoodie. And gives me a brilliant smile. Then she turns away and leaves the kitchen.
I stop chewing and glance down at the wet splotches that turn the blue fabric darker. I clamp my mouth tight so I don’t laugh or shout. I’m not sure which one.
