I'm not sure what happened to Emily. I can't find her in the gym after Ozzie walks me back to the weight room. And I really, really want to find her. She's the only one I want to share my news with—right after I yell at her for insisting I wear these see-through pants. When I get back to the dorm, she isn't here either. And she's not answering her cell phone.

I'm halfway through French class when she barges in. The door slams shut behind her, and all heads in the class turn. She half-smiles and tiptoes over to where I sit in the auditorium. Emily likes to sit in the back because she's usually late and it's easier to crawl in unnoticed, but I like the front. It's easier to pay attention and ask questions. This is the reason why Emily and I don’t sit together for the only class that we have in common.

Today, she's not sitting in the back, though.

Emily marches up to the front. Unfortunately, there's no seat beside me. There is one, however, four seats down. She leans over me and whispers to the people to my left, “Can you just move down one?” She points to the empty seat, and one by one they get up and move down a seat. The teacher stands still at the white board, marker in hand, staring at Emily like she wishes teachers could still smack their students with rulers. When Emily is situated and has her notebook and pen out, Professor Turner finally continues.

“As I was saying,” Turner begins, “let us turn our focus to present perfect. J’ai été, tu as été, il a été, nous avons été, vous avez été...” I pay attention. Or I try. It’s hard with Emily staring at me. She sat here to chat, which is why I should be asking her to go outside in the hall with me. But part of me hopes she’ll just let me get through this class and we can talk after. We only have a few weeks until final exams, and as much as I want to talk about Ozzie with her, now is not the time. I want As. I expect As, and anything less, I consider a personal failure. My dad never seems prouder of me than when I tell him his daughter got straight As again at the end of each year.

Emily leans in so our shoulders are touching, though her eyes are forward now. “Tell me everything.”

“Where were you?” I whisper.

“Emergency.”

“What emergency?” My heart rate picks up speed. “Is everything ok?”

“Brad was horny.” She waggles her eyebrows.

I snap my head in her direction. “You ditched me for sex?”

“You were in good hands. But the question now is, how good were they?” She grins and I elbow her.

“Shhhhh,” says the girl to Emily's left.

“This is important,” Emily says to the girl with a bit of sass in her voice.

“Then take it outside,” the girl beside her whisper-yells.

Emily sighs and rips a piece of paper from her scribbler. She writes, “What happened with Clay?”

I write underneath her chicken scrawl. “He bandaged my leg. Asked me if I was going to a charity hockey game tonight and then offered to show me around the gym.”

Her jaw drops and her eyes go wide. “What? That's amazing!”

“Shhhh,” the girl says again. The teacher, once again, stares. I mouth “I'm sorry” to her, and I pack up my things. Quietly. Then I grab Emily’s arm and pull her out of her seat. The room is quiet, and I can’t ignore the hundred-plus students who train their eyes on us as we hurry up the aisle and out the heavy wooden doors.

“We could have talked about this after class,” I say after a heavy sigh.

“Fuck French. Tell me everything.”

I glance at my watch. It’s almost eleven, and I have a class at twelve-thirty. “Let's just get lunch now. We can talk about it in the cafeteria.”

“Or on the way.”

As annoyed as I am for missing the class that I do the worst in, I have to chuckle at her. She thinks I'm stubborn and persistent? She needs to take a look in the mirror sometime.

Emily loads up her plate with fries and chicken nuggets, I stick with my usual salad and soup. The selection is poor today, and all the lettuce is edged in brown. I suck it up anyway. Since graduating high school, changing my diet is the only thing that’s got me healthy.

We sit at our usual table, away from the meal line and next to the windows. Emily bombards me with questions before my butt hits the seat. I open my milk carton and slide in a straw. I swirl it in the milk while I recall my interaction with Ozzie.

“I want to know everything. What you said, what he said, what he did…” She waggles her eyebrows.

“First, we need to talk about those pants.”

She smiles wide. “You’re welcome.”

I slap her leg and whisper-yell at her, “What? Did you know they were see-through?”

“No, of course not. Friends don’t let friends show their vaginas.”

A girl at the table next to us turns and makes a face at me. When I glare at her, she returns to her food.

“This isn’t a bad thing, Charlie. I mean, come on? Mr. Yummy came to your rescue and swooped you away. Soooo, once again, you’re welcome.” She pops a fry in her mouth and then mutters, “I guess he liked what he saw.”

I roll my eyes at her. “You’re infuriating.”

“You’ll be thanking me when he’s spilling his guts and your name is on the front page of the school newspaper.”

Sigh. She has a point, but what am I willing to risk in order to follow my dream? My dignity? I don't think so.

“I couldn’t tell him,” I say after I give her a play-by-play of my time with Ozzie. I swirl my straw in my milk and take a small sip. “I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”

“That’s surprising. You were so adamant about telling him, and you don’t usually change your mind about anything.”

“I know. But…being alone with him…him taking care of me like he did… It was…nice. This beautiful, charming, popular guy was completely focused on me. Me!” I point to my chest, still flabbergasted.

She dips some fries in some ketchup. “You’re amazing, Charlie. And he’s obviously a smart guy if he noticed how amazing you are from the start. Maybe you might have more in common than you think.” She pops a fry in her mouth.

“What do I do now? When I tell him why I was in the gym this morning, he’ll likely never talk to me again—let alone give me my story.”

“Do you like this guy? Is he someone you could see yourself with? Is that why you changed your mind?”

I chuckle. “No, I only just met him. Like I said before, it was just nice to have a guy like that focused on me. And then he asked me to go to his game tonight and I…”

“Like, on a date?”

“No, not like that.” I move stuff around on my plate, replaying the morning in my mind. “He just said that he’s playing some charity game tonight and I should stop by.”

“The profs versus the grads game?”

“Oh, you already know about it?”

She laughs, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. “Of course. How did you not hear about it? Everyone is going, including half of our floor. I swear you live under a rock.”

I shrug as I fork a cucumber and pop it into my mouth. After chewing, I add, “So can I tag along?”

“Of course.” She’s bouncing again. “I’ve been trying to get you to come out with me all year. And who knows, maybe you’ll actually enjoy yourself.”

Enjoy myself? At a hockey game? All answers point to no, but I’ll try. At the very least, it will give me an opportunity to get some pictures of him. I’m not a fantastic photographer or anything, but it would be nice to have some visuals to go with my story, and since he was benched from the team, there would be no opportunity to get any new pictures of him in action. Speaking of which…why is he allowed to play in this game and not for the actual hockey team? Another question I’ll have to shelf for later. I pull out my day-timer.

Why is he allowed to play tonight?

Emily wasn’t kidding around when she said half of my dorm floor was going to the game. About an hour before it starts, I hear a half-dozen blow-dryers going and people running around in the halls, makeup on, and half-dressed. Me? I have the same outfit on that I wore all afternoon: dark fitted jeans and a gray tunic. My hair is still in the same messy bun I tied at lunch. Strands fall out now, but I don’t care. My hair could use a brush, but it’s out of my eyes and off my neck, and that’s all I care about. Just before we leave, Sam, Anna, and Piper come to our room and knock on our door. We’re walking over to the rink together.

Sam…ugh. While I don’t love her, I have to admit I’m glad she’s coming. I hope to get her to open up about Ozzie. I doubt she’ll get too personal with me—we just don’t have that kind of relationship—so I’ll have to be discreet.

The rink is crowded when we get there. The temperature is slightly warmer than it is outside, but still cool enough for me to leave on my mittens and hat. As we walk the perimeter of the stands, we all search for an empty space for the eight of us to fit into, but there isn’t one, so we split up. I’m not sorry about that. Sam, thankfully, sticks with us, as well as her best friend, Piper. They both play soccer with Emily so it’s not a stretch that they stay with us. But with them, I kind of feel like the odd man out when they talk about how grueling soccer practice was earlier.

“Look, down there, behind the penalty box.” Piper points to a spot wide enough for the four of us to fit.

Sam’s button nose crinkles as she frowns, but Piper nudges her. “It’s the closest we’re going to get.”

She shrugs. “Whatever.”

We weave through the crowded aisle until we reach our seats. The speakers blare Thunderstruck and when the Eye of the Tiger comes on, the crowd sings along. The footboards shake lightly from people stomping their feet and moving around. Emily is on my left, and there is a big guy wearing a hockey jersey on my right drinking beer from a Dixie cup. He’s making noises, hooting and hollering, and he keeps elbowing me as he pumps his arms, as if it’ll make his voice carry more.

When I glance at Emily, it’s as if she can read my mind. She smiles and pulls my arm closer to link with hers. “This is fun. You’re going to enjoy it. I swear.”

That is so debatable. Did I mention I hate crowds? And I kind of hate people. The loud music and the yelling has my heart racing—and not in a good way. If I didn’t have to write this story, I would be far, far away from here right now.

“Beer?” Emily asks.

I shake my head.

Sam leans forward so she faces me. “Come on, Pollyanna, one isn’t going to kill you.”

“Just get her one, and I’ll take one, too,” Emily says.

Sam tiptoes through the aisle again, Piper in tow.

The players come out on the ice, one by one, each of them announced by an enthusiastic emcee over speakers spread out across the back walls. I try and focus on the men skating around the oval, waiting for the emcee to announce the guy I came here to see. He’s the last one to come out. The crowd goes wild over him and for another player whose name I’ve already forgotten. Clearly, they favor the two of them. Once they’re on the ice, the professors come out, one by one, all of them wearing black jerseys with gold writing. It’s not hard to tell which team is which. All of the professors have to be in their fifties or more. It surprises me and excites me to find a woman on the professor’s team. In fact, I think it’s my French teacher! That makes me smile. I’ll cheer for her.

Just before they’re done, Sam and Piper return and hand us our beers. I nurse mine and take only a small sip after saying, “thank you” to Sam. After “O Canada” the game starts, but it’s not a typical game, and within the first five minutes, the professors turn their net around on the ice and the crowd laughs.

“That’s not normal, right?”

Emily laughs. “Of course not. But this is for fun. They don’t stand a chance against our boys. Half of the grad team are also varsity.”

Yet the turned net doesn’t make a difference. Ozzie skates down the ice, moving faster than all the others. He’s like lightning, streaking across the ice. When he reaches the net, he curves around before turning and slapping the puck in the net as he skates backward. The crowd goes wild, and his hand is in the air, pumping his stick.

“Does that count?” I ask, serious.

Emily laughs at me and rolls her eyes. She pulls our linked elbows in closer. “It’s frigging cold in here.” She shivers, letting out a loud “brrrr.”

“Emily, this is great, but this doesn’t help my article,” I whisper-yell.

She leans in and puts her hands up to cup my ear. “No, but it got you out of the dorm, didn’t it?”

I glare at her, but am unable to be angry. Instead, I chuckle and shake my head. I pull out my phone and get a few shots of the game, panning the camera around to follow Ozmore as he moves. I don’t think anyone notices until Sam’s eyes meet mine. I lower my camera and swallow hard before shoving my phone in my pocket. She tips her head to the side, looking confused.

When Emily leaves to pee, a good ten minutes later, Sam sidles up to me. I smile at her and keep my eyes on the game, but her eyes are on the side of my face and they aren’t moving. As much as I try not to notice, it’s impossible.

“Hey, Sam,” I say. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Enjoying the game?”

I shove my hands in my pockets and avoid eye contact. “Sure. It’s fine.”

“Hmm. Hockey’s my favorite sport. My brothers play—all four of them—so I’ve been in rinks since I was a toddler.” She laughs lightly, tossing her hair back.

“You...uh...dated one of them, right?”

She eyes me. “Sure. Ozmore.” She points to him as he passes the puck to another player. “We dated for like eight months or so.”

“The crowd seems to like him,” I say nonchalantly.

“You noticed, huh? I guess it’s hard not to.” She folds her arms over her chest and rounds her shoulders. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold.

“Did you part on good terms? I mean, are you guys still friends?”

She turns in to face me head-on. “Why the sudden interest in Ozzie?”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I’m not. Not at all. God, I don’t even know him.”

She laughs lightly, shrugging it off, though a minute ago I thought she was ready to go to war. “That’s good. Really good, actually. I would hate to see you hurt.”

Okay, Sam. I’ll bite. “Why do you think he’d hurt me?”

“He pretends to be this super nice guy who cares so much about you, but he’s not. He’s so secretive. Like more than anyone I’ve ever met. I’m sure he was cheating on me, though he denied it. Denies it still. Watch out with that one, Charlie. He’ll break your heart.”

“Like I said, I don’t even know him.” I swallow hard and look to the left, totally giving myself away.

Ozzie steals the puck from one of the professors and races down the ice, the crowd screaming at him, chanting his name. He maneuvers around the opposite team, sliding in between them as they try to catch him.

“He’d chew you up and spit you out,” Sam says as she watches him. “You’re a nice girl, Charlie. I know we’re not besties or anything, but we girls have to look out for each other. You know? Women united? You’d do the same for me, right?”

She glances at me, fluttering her eyelashes. An attempt to charm me? To follow her lead? I don’t know. To me, it seems like her motives are not what they seem. Why does she even care that I was taking videos of Ozzie? And why would me taking them automatically make her jump to the conclusion that I’m interested in him? I would have told her about the story if I thought it might help, but I know it won’t. Emily thinks I should keep the story quiet, and as much as I’m against that idea, when faced with the thought of it getting out, I hold my cards in tight against my chest. Sam is not my friend. I can’t trust her. And I need Clay’s story for my own curiosity and for the paper.

The game continues for much longer than I expect. A full two hours. At the very end, they shake hands and announce they’re going to bring someone down onto the ice from the crowds. Something about wining money for charity by scoring on the net.

“For every goal this lucky person makes, the university will donate an additional hundred dollars to the Halifax Children’s Hospital Foundation.”

The crowd claps, me included. That certainly is a nice thing to do, and I hope they find someone who is good enough with a stick to keep getting goals so they get as much as they possibly can.

“So, who’s the lucky crowd member?” A guy in a blue jersey says as he stands in the center of the ice, holding a microphone. The crowd cheers. I look around, wondering who they’ll pick.

Then my best friend becomes my enemy as she hops up on the boards, her hands on the top of the Plexiglas. She screams, “Over here! Over here!”

What the hell? Emily can’t play hockey. Why does she want this so bad? Her motive is clear. She points a finger in my direction and my eyes go wide. What the effing fuck? My well-meaning friend is trying to get me on the ice, and I’m about to completely pee my pants. Given that my bladder is full, I swear it’s going to happen.

But they won’t pick me! Lots of people are pointing, and lots of people are screaming, “pick me, pick me!” so I relax just a little—but not a lot. My heart is pounding against the cage of my chest, and I have a cold sweat on now that the chilly rink temperature can’t even fix.

Ozmore stares right at Emily, his glance faltering for a brief moment as he spies Sam to Emily’s left. But then his gaze lands firmly on me, and as I bite my lip and look around, hoping he forgets about me, he doesn’t. When I look back at his smiling face, he points in my direction, and the weight of an entire rink’s stare is on me. I’m light-headed. How bad would it look if I turned and ran out of here? I feel I may pass out. All my life, I went unnoticed. I don’t like attention, partly because I never got a lot of it so I don’t know how to handle it, but also because it makes me feel incredibly self-conscious, like people are picking me apart, counting my flaws. I’m probably overreacting, but there it is.

He skates toward us, a smirk on his lips and a gleam in his eye.

He climbs over the boards to the penalty box and points to me again, then waves at me to come forward. Of course, I shake my head, yell at him to pick someone else, but everyone around me is nudging me now, and not just my friends.

I am in so much trouble.

And I hate my best friend.