Once I decide what I want to do, that is. I love fashion, but I don’t know if I want to design clothes, and fashion merchandising doesn’t interest me much, either. My goal is to see how the rest of my college career plays out before I make any final decisions. And senior year we have work placement, so I’ll get an even better idea of what I like or dislike.
“It doesn’t matter how other people see you,” Brenna finishes. “It’s how you see yourself—” She stops abruptly, then curses up a blue streak as Harvard ties up the game.
“How do you like them apples!” her new archrival yells.
“How would you like an apple shoved up your ass!” she retorts, but her tone is absent-minded, and her gaze is still glued to the game. Her eyes fill with admiration for one brief moment before narrowing angrily. “Ugh. Connelly. Why does he have to be lightning on skates?”
“That’s a bad thing?”
“It is when he’s on the other team.”
“Oh. Whoops.” It’s obvious I need to study the Briar roster. I only know Fitz, Hunter, Hollis, and a couple others I met in Brooklyn on New Year’s. “So he’s the enemy?”
“Damn right he is. He’s dangerous. If he gets you one-on-one, you’re screwed. Doubly screwed if it’s a breakaway.” She points to Briar’s side of the rink. “And so is that jerk who’s got Hollis pinned behind the net. That’s Weston. We don’t like him either.”
“I went to school with a guy named Weston. He played hockey too.”
Her head swivels toward me. “Swear to God, Summer, if you say that you’re friends with Brooks Weston, I’m punching you.”
I stick out my tongue at her. “No, you won’t. And we’re totally talking about the same guy—how weird is that? I didn’t realize Weston went to Harvard. For some reason I thought he was on the West Coast.” When I notice her glare, I grin. “Relax, we’re not BFFs or anything, but we did hang out in high school. He’s a fun guy.”
“He’s an evil demon goon.”
“Doesn’t make him any less of a fun guy.”
“True,” she says grudgingly. “I just don’t like the idea of my friends fraternizing with the enemy.” She raises her index and middle finger, then points them back and forth between her eyes and mine. “I’m watching you, Greenwich Barbie.”
Smiling broadly, I lean in and smack a kiss on her cheek. “I love you. You’re my spirit animal.”
“You’re such a dork.” Rolling her eyes, she refocuses her attention on the game.
Watching live hockey is such a rush. It’s fast-paced, intense. If you take your eyes off the ice even for a split second, you might come back to a completely different game.
Harvard was on the attack before. Now it’s Briar’s turn. Our forwards rush toward Harvard’s zone, but they’re offsides.
Brenna curses impatiently. “Come on, boys!” she shouts. “Get it together!”
“Can’t get nothing together when you SUCK!” her heckler crows.
She gives him the finger without turning around.
There’s a face-off to the left of the Briar net. The centers are coiled rattlesnakes ready to pounce as they wait for the puck to drop.
“Nate’s the center,” Brenna tells me. “That’s Fitz on his right, Hunter on the left.”
My gaze unwittingly shifts to Fitz. His jersey number is 55. I can’t see his face because of his visor, but I can imagine the lines of deep concentration creasing his forehead.
The puck drops and Nate wins the face-off. He gains possession but passes the puck off immediately. To Fitz, who skillfully stickhandles it, deking out two opponents. It’s hard to believe someone so big could be so graceful. His six-two frame flies into Harvard’s zone, and excitement dances in the air for anyone wearing black and silver.
The puck was dumped behind the net and Fitz chases after it. He slams someone against the boards and wedges out the puck with his stick, then flicks a quick shot at the net. The goaltender easily stops it, but I don’t think Fitz was trying or expecting to score. He was creating a rebound for Hunter, who shoots a bullet at the net.
The Harvard goalie stops that one too, just barely.
Brenna wails. “Why!!”
“Because we’re better than you!” her new best friend sings.
It happens again—I turn my head for one measly second to glare at Brenna’s heckler, and when I look back, Briar doesn’t have the puck anymore. A Harvard player passes to Weston, who snaps it to Connelly, and I suddenly remember Brenna’s warning about what happens if this particular player gets a breakaway.
“Get him!” I urge the Briar defenseman who’s chasing after Harvard’s captain.
But nothing can keep up with lightning. Connelly is too fast. He turns into Keanu Reeves, moving all Matrix-like, left and right, speeding away from his would-be defenders. If there was dust on the ice, every Briar player would be left in it.