CHAPTER EIGHT
Sabrina
“Nice seats,” Finlay said as she glanced behind us at the arena filled with fans. “But why front row?” Her head twisted back around and her eyes cut to mine. “I thought you weren’t into Jeremy?”
I shrugged. “I told him I’d check out a game.”
“That the only reason?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“Just saying there are other guys on the team besides Jeremy.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You heard what my mom said.”
I opened my mouth to stop her from going all Team Crosby on me, but the lights lowered and strobe lights and loud music filled the arena.
People stood as both hockey teams were introduced. The crowd erupted into applause and shouts as the players took to the ice, skating big wide circles around the rink with fierce speed.
I glanced behind me, realizing hockey fans were just as energetic as football fans when it came to cheering on their favorite players.
Once the lights switched back on, the teams took their sides of the ice and shot at their empty nets. Jeremy took a shot, turned, and skated by us. Catching sight of us, he circled back around and lifted his gloved hand as he passed by. I smiled as I sat back down in my seat.
“Not seeing gaga eyes,” Finlay said as she sat down beside me.
I kept my eyes on the ice. Jeremy passed the puck back and forth with one of his teammates as he moved closer to the empty net once again, burying the puck in the back of it with ease.
Finlay jumped to her feet and banged on the glass in front of us.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
She turned to me and winked.
On the ice, Crosby glanced to her, lifting his head in recognition, before his eyes cut to mine, narrowing on sight.
He did not just glare at me. I lifted my hand and flipped him off.
“Sabrina,” Finlay chided.
Crosby laughed. The asshole laughed again as he skated off.
Finlay shook her head. “I’ve never seen anyone get to you the way he does.”
“It’s called hate.”
She shrugged. “It beats that indifferent thing you do.”
I considered arguing, but what was the point. She was right. I had indifferent down. It’s what I did. It’s how I kept my feelings in check. I was no different than anyone else. I’d had my heart broken and broken my fair share of hearts. Just because I wasn’t in a rush to open my heart to some unworthy college guy, it didn’t make me strange. It made me smart. No one wanted to be hurt, and letting people in was a sure-fire way to do that. That’s why I kept my small circle close, and I wore indifference well.
My eyes shifted back to the ice where the players from both teams lined up at center ice. Everyone around me stood. I watched Crosby. Watched the way his eyes remained on the flag hanging from the rafters as the National Anthem echoed through the arena. The guys on either side of him had treated him like crap, and yet, there he stood. A virtual ‘fuck you’ to all of them.
Why was hockey so important to him? Why had he allowed himself to be fodder for the immature idiots on the team? It seemed so unlike the guy I’d become familiar with to put up with other people’s shit. I would’ve envisioned him as someone who took on the entire team alone as opposed to someone who bowed down and played dead. But that’s exactly what he’d been doing. There had to be more to it. And I wondered if it had anything to do with why he ended up in Alabama.
Once the last note of the National Anthem drifted through the speakers, the game began and players flew by us. The slick puck slipped across the ice from stick to stick and side to side. The puck was hard to follow as it was passed around, but I tried to keep up. Jeremy, in number thirty-three, zipped by us, handling the puck effortlessly. Crosby, in number fifty-six, was a blur on the ice. The guy could move. He always seemed to be where the puck was, stopping and passing it from wherever he ended up.
Hockey was a rough sport. Much rougher than I expected. Players were shoved and knocked off their feet. But no matter how many shots the players took on the net, no goals had been scored. As it neared the end of the first period (apparently hockey had three), two players slammed into the glass right in front of us. The unexpected commotion sent me jerking back in my seat. Finlay, along with everyone around us, jumped to her feet. The crowd bellowed, yelling at the two players who tore off their gloves and went at it. Fists flew for at least a minute before the refs skated over and pulled them apart. They disengaged and skated off to what I assumed to be the penalty box.
Once the puck dropped again, it came loose and Crosby took off with it, skating down the ice with his opponents on his tail. It didn’t seem to faze him as his stick shifted the puck from side to side. He circled behind the opposing team’s goal. It looked like he was going to come out on the right side, but he circled back and, as if the goalie wasn’t even there, he slapped the puck in the net. The buzzer sounded and the red light above the goal lit up.
The crowd cheered as Crosby punched his hands and stick in the air. In hockey movies, the teammates surrounded the scorer, embracing him and patting his helmet with their gloved hands. But on the ice, no one surrounded Crosby. They celebrated with each other, just not with him. The coaches congratulated him with pats on the back as he hopped into their team’s box and dropped down onto the bench.
Finlay and I exchanged a curious look. We knew athletes. We were surrounded by them all the time. Even if the guy was a douchebag, he still scored a goal. You congratulated him. You went back to hating him after the game. Apparently, the hockey team lived by another set of rules.
“Let’s go,” I said.
“What?” Finlay asked
I stood from my seat and grabbed my coat. “I’m all set.” And I was. I hadn’t shown up to feel sorry for Crosby—yet again.