“Man after my own heart,” Weston cracks from behind us. He says this after the goon once again gets a few good shoves in on a Briar player before skating away.
“Figures you’d fall in love. A goon always recognizes the goon in another,” Brenna says sweetly.
Weston reaches out and ruffles her hair good-naturedly. “I wear my goon badge with pride, babe.”
On the ice, the Eastwood goon just stole the puck from Matt Anderson after slamming the defenseman against the boards. He takes possession and flies toward our net, his teammates skating fast in tow.
“Ugh! I hate this guy!” Annoyance has me jumping to my feet. “Go away!” I shout at him. “Nobody wants you here!”
Jake and Brenna snort in unison, then frown at each other as if any sort of united reaction is unacceptable.
Weston taps the back of my knee. “Hey, you know who that is, right?”
“No.” I can’t see his jersey number or his name. I just know I hate him.
“It’s Casper Cassidy. From Greenwich Prep,” he replies, naming the high school that my brother Dean attended.
I went to Greenwich for freshman year, but I transferred to Roselawn because I couldn’t handle the workload. Greenwich places a lot more importance on academics than Roselawn does. In fact, in the prep-school circuit, Roselawn has a rep for being a party school. The kids are rich enough to buy their way into college, so nobody is too concerned about getting straight As.
Despite the fact that my dad pulled strings to get me into Briar, I’m at least proud to say I was admitted to Brown all on my own. My GPA wasn’t something to write home about, but I made up for it with my extra-curriculars and community service.
“Are you kidding me?” I marvel, trying to spot the goon again. There are too many jerseys battling it out behind the net. “That’s Casper Cassidy? Did he have some sort of growth spurt? He looks enormous.”
“No, he was always that big,” Weston argues.
I twist in my seat again. “I played 7 Minutes in Heaven with him at a Greenwich party, and he fingered me in a closet. Trust me, he was not that big.”
Connelly starts to laugh. “You’re really something else, Di Laurentis. No filter whatsoever.” He tips his head. “Doesn’t embarrass you at all to admit that, huh?”
“Nope.”
“Why should she be embarrassed?” Brenna challenges. “What, you don’t think girls are allowed to hook up?”
Jake’s mouth hitches in a wry grin. “Jensen, I think no matter what I say, you’d still argue the point.”
“That’s not true.”
“You’re arguing right now.”
“Because you’re annoying me.”
“What a coincidence,” he mocks. “You’re annoying me too.”
A collective gasp from the crowd interrupts their bickering. I’d turned away, so I’m not certain what happened, but I stumble to my feet when I glimpse the blood.
“Oh shit, that’s Fitz,” Brenna says. “What the hell happened?” I guess she hadn’t been watching, either.
The freshmen in the row ahead help us out. “He took a shot to the face,” one girl says.
“What!” My heart jumps to my throat.
“He laid out to block Cassidy’s shot,” Weston explains. “Puck was deflected.”
“But he’s wearing a visor,” I protest.
“Visor’s probably what cut him,” Jake says wryly.
“He’s fine,” Weston says. “Doesn’t look too bad.”
Now that the whistle has been blown and the players have skated away from the net, I can clearly see the red drops staining the white surface. It’s not as much blood as I thought. But still.
My panicked gaze seeks out Fitz. He’s on the Briar bench. His head is being tipped back by a woman I assume is the team doctor. She’s pressing a square of gauze to the outer edge of his right eyebrow. Not his eye, then. Relief flows through me.
Fitz is arguing with the doc. His mouth is moving, and his body practically vibrates with frustration. He wants to go back on the ice, but the woman keeps shaking her head. She readjusts the gauze, and my stomach churns when I glimpse the river of blood pouring down the side of his face.
“He needs stitches,” Brenna says unhappily.
Fitz flings a gloved hand toward the scoreboard, I assume to point out the game clock. There are eight minutes left in the third. Clearly he’s determined to keep playing. The doc once again shakes her head, unyielding. Then Coach Jensen shouts something at them, and Fitz stands up.
With my heart still lodged in my throat, I watch as he’s ushered away. He slams an angry glove against the boards before disappearing in the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms.
I’m already marching toward the aisle. “Later, spies,” I call to the Harvard boys. To Brenna, I issue a sharp order. “Come on, Bee.”
I expect her to object, insist we need to watch the rest of the game, but she surprises me by following me down the steps. Outside the rink doors, I gaze imploringly at her. “Can you sneak me into the locker room? Or the medical room? Whatever you call it. I want to make sure he’s okay.”