Page 40 of Overtime
I close my eyes.
“Well, I love this dress on Maddie,” my sister says, which I know is her way of supporting me without antagonizing Mom.
And yet, I have to open my big mouth and say, “Mom, it’s not a crime if people see my arms.”
“Of course not,” she snaps. “It’s just a bittoomuch skin.”
“Why isn’t it too much skin on Meg? She’s also wearing a strapless dress.”
“It’s different.”
“How?”
Mom and I glare at each other in a Berkley standoff. The next few seconds will dictate whether this outing will end in at least a week-long impasse.
“Um.” The attendant coughs delicately into her hand. “I’ll go fetch some boleros.”
“Can you please bring more champagne?” Meg asks with a serene smile. “I think I’d like to get plastered for the rest of the fitting.”
If I hadn’t driven, I’d ask for a whole bottle for myself. Instead, I opt for the healthier version. Which is marching into the dressing room and not coming out until I’ve tried on the rest of the dresses without an audience.
CHAPTER 13
ARAN
This douche thinks that trying to shove his ass in my face will rattle me. A whole Zamboni could be speeding up to me and it wouldn’t get me away from the posts. My eyes zero in on the puck with laser precision. The play is moving closer, and so is this Bulldog guy.
Now he’s joined by another. They’re trying to turn the crease into their party, and it’s not gonna happen. But where the hell are my D-men? They better be doing their jobs, or else.
Or else turns into a shot. I don’t know why they call me Iceberg when I’m so clearly a frog catching flies. I catch the biscuit with my right glove as if it were coated in glue.
Hot tidbit: it isn’t. I’m just an impenetrable fortress.
But we’re tied at a grand total of not-a-single-goal, and if we don’t score in the next two minutes and seventeen seconds, we’ll go into overtime. I don’t mind. I never feel more alive than during OT or shutouts. The problem is that not all the guys can handle the pressure.
For example, Webber keeps turning that baby face of his to the boards as if looking for an exit. That’s his habit when he starts to get tired and feels like time’s running slower. Amadi’s accuracy goes down. And sure enough, his pass gets intercepted,and here come the Bulldogs again. I stop a weak shot with my left knee.
Bracken positions himself to take the next faceoff, and I glare daggers at his back. What is he doing, not scoring against Brighton College jerks? They’ve been weak all night. Bolts should be skating circles around them.
The ref drops the puck, and Bracken wins it with the kind of aggression I wish he’d have used all game long. My pulse spikes as if I’m the one breaking away from the Bulldogs’ dirtbag D-man.
“Payback time,” I mutter to myself.
The Bolts have formed a whole scramble in front of the Bulldogs’ goalie—same strategy they tried on me a minute ago. Bracken makes a pass, and lo and behold, the buzzer goes off.
The arena roars with noise as Bolts finally get one for the house. Sure, it was a garbage goal, but we’ll take it.
I brace, though, because I know our opponent. I’ve watched countless hours of film on them as far back as the Cassiano era. There’s something very douchebaggy about how they’re coached that makes them play even dirtier when they’re down.
But I’m an asshole, so I push just enough away from the net to bait them.
Coach Green hates when I do this, especially because it can backfire. But the Bulldogs have been trying the most today and have failed each time. They’re frustrated and tired. Probably embarrassed too. They never get booed as hard as they do when they’re playing in St. Cloud.
The annoying guy from earlier bites.
In fact, he bites so hard he tries to trip me without even having the puck.
The ref blows a whistle. “Interference!”
