Kissing in Cars (Kiss and Make Up #1)(21)

Weston: ill see what i can do

Well then.





Chapter Nine

WESTON

"If you weren't such a douche, maybe you'd score off the ice too." - Random Jackass



I can't help but wonder if she'll show up.

So far, after scanning the crowd like a whipped puppy I haven't caught sight of her. And believe me, I've been watching.

Taking a few minutes to remove my helmet, I am standing in the sin-bin (otherwise known as the Penalty Box) for hooking an opposing player with my stick. The reprieve is only two minutes, but it's giving me back the energy that I need to get back in the game.

My hair is sticking to my forehead from the sweat dripping down my forehead, and there is blood on my tongue. The gash in the corner of my mouth must have torn when my opponent elbowed me in the chin; the same player who was talking trash during the face-off at the beginning of the game.

Which is pretty typical, actually.

But still. The little prick.

I reach up and wipe the blood away with the heel of my palm before strapping my helmet back on. I look up in the stands and see my mom pumping her fists at the action on the ice. She's waving a giant foam finger and her River Glen High sweatshirt has my button on it.

Jeez, Mom.

My dad on the other hand is sitting quietly to her right - his arms are crossed and he's leaning forward. From here I can see that his eyebrows are furrowed and his hard features are set in a rigid line. He has a dark mustache framing most of his mouth (that my mom hates), but I know he's frowning nevertheless.

Nothing new there.

I get my passion for hockey from him; he used to play for Illinois University. Dad never had any desire to turn pro or pursue it after college, but he did used to be my coach growing up, back when I was in the pee-wee league - although there was never anything remotely 'pee-wee' about me.

Okay, fine.

When I was younger I was mostly 'husky' but we won't get into those details. Dad bought me my first set of real blades when I was around four years old - that was also the first winter he froze a slab of ice in our backyard and taught me how to skate.

I was a natural.

The sirens go off on the rink: River Glen has scored another goal while I'm in the Penalty Box. To get my head back in the game and out of my ass, I begin striking the door to the penalty box with my stick in a steady rhythm. The plexi-glass is the only thing keeping me off that ice.

There are only twenty-five more seconds to stand here behind this gate.

I've already scored one goal tonight, and we've only been playing fifteen minutes; that leaves me forty-five more minutes to score another two.

Then I'll have my hat trick.



MOLLY

I know the second he spots me. I can feel it.

Even though I'm wearing a ball cap with my hair pulled back into a ponytail, he instinctually knows I've arrived - just as I instinctually know he's watching me without having to actually see it.

Shit. Shouldn't he be focusing on the game?

I'm totally late too, and maybe if I hadn't arrived in between the second and third periods I could have come and gone without being noticed at all. But I'm with Jenna, never the shrinking violet, and she's decked out in an eye popping hot pink jean jacket. Her long blonde hair is thrown into a messy top bun, and she's wrapped her head with an aqua scarf.

You would literally have to be blind to miss her.

Not to mention, she's balancing a large popcorn and soda (yup, just like we're headed to a movie) in her hands, all while teetering on platform sandals. You wouldn't think there would be concessions at a high school hockey game, but oh! That's where you'd be wrong.

And Jenna just loves her some popcorn. On the bright side, at least with this throng I won't have to listen to her crunching like I do at the movies.

She's a really loud popcorn eater.

We find a large group of our friends and shimmy across the bleachers, over through the crowd. Down on the rink our players are gathered against the boards while Coach Callahan barks at them as they stand in an assembly of panting, padding, and sweat. Even so, it's not difficult to miss the penetrating black eyes seeking out mine.

Weston wiggles his eyebrows at me.

Maybe I'm just being paranoid, but I feel a hundred heads turn to see who he made the gesture at, and my face lights on fire! Whispering and some pointing from within the crowd immediately follow. Real subtle, Weston. Thanks.

As I'm glancing around the stadium I catch sight of a woman - the foam finger on her arm is really hard to miss (she's obviously a mom with her school sweatshirt and spirit gear), and after Weston made eyes at me from the ice, she snapped around in her bleacher seat. I watch her watch me as I spread a fleece blanket out onto the small section of stadium seating next to Jenna. Surprisingly, this woman also appears to be studying me back, and I shift awkwardly under her open examination, finally unable to take the scrutiny.

I break the brief connection and plop my butt down onto the bench.

All this gazing and staring is really making me feel foolish.

Everyone - both students and parents - begins to cheer wildly as our team reenters the ice for our last, and third, period. Ahead by 2 points, this should be an easy victory.

"They are kicking ass!" one of our guy friends shouts to me over the noise. "McGrath has scored two goals! Two!" He holds up two fingers to demonstrate.