Faking It with the Forward: Wittmore U Hockey

Reese’s concerns about Hartford are unfounded. Even their best player, Anderson, isn’t a match for the extra hours and hard work the Badgers have been putting in since the practice started.

“Four-zero!” Jefferson shouts as the last of us climb on the bus. By last of us I mean Coach Green, Jonathan, the equipment manager, and me. The guys are chatty, full of energy from the win, and it’s contagious. I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted to work with the basketball team, but something about Badger hockey has gotten in my blood.

I glance back at Reese, sitting near the back of the bus next to Reid, our eyes meeting. No, someone’s gotten under my skin.

“It’s so much better when they win,” Jonathan says from the seat next to mine. We tend to pair up on the bus, taking the second row of seats behind the coaches. “Don’t’cha think?”

“Way better,” I agree, searching for my phone in my bag.

We’ve both been on the bus after bad losses. The guys can be angry. Or sad. Sometimes there’s a fight, or worse: tears.

The Frozen Four loss last year was a lot of both.

The driver closes the door, and the lights flicker off on the bus. We’ve been on the road since nine this morning, but I had to be at the arena before that to pack up and get everything ready. Then we had a two hour drive to Hartford U and the guys got fed lunch before the early afternoon game. After that, while the guys warmed up, Coach Green and I prepped everyone who needed ankles, wrists, and muscles wrapped. Double checking for any pre-game injuries while getting everything prepped for the actual game and quick fixes between periods. Post-game we had to check over anyone with injuries, hand out ice packs, and wait for the guys to shower and change. It’s been a long day, and the staff is exhausted. The guys? Well, the win seems to have given them another surge of adrenaline.

Me? I’m tired, but what I really want to know is if Nadia got my tickets.

I finally find my phone at the bottom. Opening the screen, I see messages from my sister and mom, but I bypass those, looking to see if Nadia texted about the tickets.

“Hey, man, swap seats with me?”

I look up to see Reese standing in the aisle.

“Oh, uh…” Jonathan fumbles in the seat next to me. He looks at me, as if asking for permission. I nod and he jolts up. “Sure. Yeah, I’ll go to the back.”

Reese drops into the seat, taking up twice the space Jonathan did. His hand whips out and he tugs the tie out of my hair, releasing it in long waves.

“Hey!” I snatch the tie back and stuff it in my pocket.

He grins and looks at Jonathan walking down the aisle. “I think I make him nervous.”

“Oh, you definitely make him nervous,” I reply, distracted. I open my social media accounts looking for a message from Nadia there. Nothing.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, going back to my texts.

“What’s up?” Reese asks, turning toward me. “No, what’s wrong?”

“Today was the day Nadia was supposed to get my New Kings tickets. She never texted.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “I’m sure it’s fine. She probably just forgot to text after she got them.”

Panic thrums in my veins. “She was still asleep when I left, but I texted her around 8:30 and she replied that everything was a go.”

“Then why are you worried?”

“She’s always doing stuff like this. Forgetting things or getting distracted. She knows how important this concert is to me.”

I send her a text: Did you get the tix?

“See?” I say after there’s no reply. “She flaked. I knew it. I knew this would happen.”

Going back to the phone, I pull up Chattysnap and search New Kings. A series of posts shows up. All about how quickly the show sold out. “See?” I hold up the phone so he can see the screen. “They sold out! Just like I knew they would.”

“Sunshine,” Reese says, his big hand capturing mine, “You’ve got to chill. She could be in the shower. At the gym. Fucking Brent Reynolds.”

“The quarterback?”

He shrugs, but I see the small smile on his mouth. “You never know.”

I take a deep breath and look down to where our hands are clasped. Then crane my neck to see if Coach Green, who is seated across from us, has noticed. His head is back against the seat, eyes closed, headphones in. Exhaling, I detangle our fingers and shift closer to the window.

“You know the rules,” I say quietly.

“I do.” He nods, plucking the phone from my fingers and tucking it into his jacket pocket. “But I still wanted to check up with my girl after a big win.”

I smile, not because he called me his girl, although… “You had a kick ass game. Two goals!”

He grins eagerly. “You saw them?”

I wince. “The first one, but I missed the penalty—you know, when Kirby came out with a bloody nose.”

It’d been a gusher.

“Right.”

“But I’m sure I can catch it on a replay.”

“How about I give you a play-by-play?”

Before I can argue, he launches into it, drawing in the guys behind us with his overexaggerated and animated retelling. Soon half the bus is leaning over us, and I listen as they recreate the entire game; every slapshot, every crash into the boards, every penalty and goal. Halfway through, when Reese leans back in his seat and winks at me, I suspect he’s just trying to distract me from harassing Nadia. Successfully distract me.

He’s right though, she could be doing anything, and she knew how important it is to me. I’m sure everything’s fine.

Coach Bryant finally yells at the guys to get their asses in their seats and the bus quiets down. Reese doesn’t leave, but he closes his eyes and keeps to his side of the seat. Resting my head against the window, I drift off to the rocky vibration of the bus barreling down the highway. I don’t wake until the brakes hiss and the vehicle jerks to a stop.

“Wake up, Sunshine.”

My face is plastered against something hard—and it’s not the window. Jolting up, I blink at the realization that I was asleep on Reese’s shoulder. I sit up, putting distance between us. That’s when I see it. “Oh my god.”

“What?” he asks, stretching his arms over his head.

I grab his jacket sleeve, heat licking at my cheeks. “I drooled on you.”

He peers at the spot and laughs. “You must’ve been comfortable.”

That’s the thing. I was comfortable. I completely passed out, and totally forgot about— “Give me my phone.”

“Perkins!” Coach Green calls from the stairwell. “Wake up and help me unload the supplies.”

Reese steps into the aisle, and I grab my bag before climbing down the small staircase to the parking lot outside the arena. There’s a crowd waiting. Family, girlfriends, puck bunnies, and general fans. He pushes his hand in his pocket and pulls out my phone. “Here you go.”

“Thank you,” I say, checking the notifications. Nothing from Nadia. “And thanks for being a big cushion.”

“You’re welcome.” He presses the phone in my hand. “Listen, we’re having some people over tonight. Feel free to drop by or I can come pick you up? People will be expecting us to be seen together anyway.”

“A party?”

“A gathering,” he clarifies.

“We’ll see if I can stay up that long.” I cover my mouth and fight a yawn.

With his bag over his shoulder, Jefferson walks up and claps his friend on the back. “Ready?”

“You want me to hang around? Wait for you to finish?”

“Nah, you never know how long it’ll take.” Coach Green likes for everything to be organized when we get back so we’re set to go for the next practice. “But thank you.”

He shrugs, like it’s no big. Isn’t offering something like that what a boyfriend would do?

Jeff looks at me. “Coming over tonight, TG?”

“Maybe.”

“Alright, see you then,” he replies as though I said yes. Hate to break it to them, but I’m going home, confirming my tickets, and going to bed. The last thing I want to do is hang out with a bunch of drunk hockey players. The two of them walk off and I head over to where Coach Green is dragging our kits out from under the bus.

It takes us an hour to unload and unpack before I’m dismissed. I call Nadia on the way home, but she doesn’t answer. I pull up the ticket sales page as I walk, confirming that the concert is sold out already. I don’t see the person sitting on the bench outside the student center who rises when I approach.

“Twyler?”

My head jerks up when I hear my name, dread inching down my spine. “Hey,” I say, hands getting sweaty. “Ethan. Hey.”

He gives me a smug grin, the piercing in his eyebrow glinting in the light like an evil wink. God, I hate that stupid piercing.

“It’s been…  awhile.” I’ve managed to avoid him for months and when I did have the bad luck of running into him, I’d ducked and hid. It’s immature, but necessary. Unfortunately, tonight I’ve been so distracted by the ticket situation I’ve stumbled right into him. I look around. It’s quiet, but the student center has all kinds of activities going on. Movies, performances, special events. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting on a friend.” He steps closer. “I’ve been thinking about you. How are you?”

Shifting back, I say, “Good. Great, really. Busy with my internship.”

His gaze shifts to my team outfit—the uniform we wear for the games. The yellow badger sits above my heart. “You’re still doing that.”

“Yep.” Ethan didn’t like me working with the hockey team—or anything that took time away from him. “It’s going great. They just won their first game of the preseason.”

“Mmhmm.” His expression reminds me of how much he hates sports and the long rants he and his friends would go on about how jocks are nothing but pawns of corporate machines that profit off condoned violence. As if he has the right to judge violent acts. “I saw that picture of you and the hockey guy. What’s that about?”

“Reese?” I ask, surprised he saw it. He loathes social media. Or so he says. He’s a hypocritical shit. I know that now. “Yeah, we’re friends.”

“Sure, friends.” He says the word with exaggeration, but there’s no time for me to process it. His eyes skim over me. “Is that what’s up with the hair? Does your ‘friend’ like it down better?”

I force myself not to touch it—not to show how insecure he makes me feel. How he knows my insecurities and uses them against me. Choking back the bile threatening to rise in my throat, I grind out, “You know, I don’t have to answer that. We’re not together anymore. We’re not even friends. It’s none of your business one way or the other.”

“You’re right.” His fingers twist the silver rings on his left hand. My stomach drops seeing them. “Your decisions are your own, no matter how basic they are.”

Hell. No.

“If anyone is basic, it’s you,” I say, allowing the anger to roll through me, which is so much fucking better than sadness and tears. That’s how I used to feel around him. Desperate to please. “With your stupid piercings and lame tattoos and…”

He smirks and fuck. Fuck. Fuck! This. This is what he wants. To show that he can still get under my skin. To make me lose my temper so I’ll feel like shit and give him the upper hand.

The student center door opens, and a girl walks out. I recognize her purple hair and green eyes under the thick layer of mascara. Joan. She’d been part of the larger group that we’d hung out with. I shouldn’t be surprised they’re together.

I use her arrival as an excuse to walk off, leaving him and his condescending asshole ways behind me. Although, I can’t help but wonder if he hurts her the way he hurt me?

The anger barely dissipates on the walk home, but I’m happy to see that the lights are on and that the door is unlocked—meaning Nadia is home.

I toss my bag on the floor and kick off my shoes, shouting, “You’ll never fucking believe who I just ran into.”

Nadia walks out in a Wittmore sweatshirt and barely visible shorts under the hem. Her expression… it tells me everything. She doesn’t even have to say it. I already know.

“You didn’t get my tickets.”

“I’m so sorry, Twy. The craziest thing happened last night. I got a match on my hookup app at like 3 AM.” Her eyes light up. “It was Brent Reynolds.”

“The quarterback?”

Why does this feel like déjà vu?

“Yeah, he slid into my DMs and he asked me to meet up and I went.”

“I texted you this morning.”

“I was still there.” She tugs at the ribbed wrist of her sleeves. “I was planning on leaving but then we, we…” She shrugs. “You know.”

“You were fucking Brent Reynolds instead of getting my tickets.”

“You know how long I’ve been waiting to hook up with him!”

I shake my head, my head and heart a swirl of angry emotion. First Ethan. Now this. Two gut punches in a row. And how the hell did Reese name drop Brent tonight? Did he already know?

“What about Reid?” I ask.

“What about him?”

“I thought he was the guy you’d been waiting on.”

“We went out. He’s a nice guy, fun to hang with, but there were no sparks.” Her chin lifts. “In fact, since there were no sparks, I intentionally didn’t sleep with him—for you.”

“Oh, well, thanks for thinking of me before you boned one of my hockey players.”

“Twy, we’ll figure something out. Find tickets on a resell page or—’ she starts.

“No.” I edge back to the door, looking for my shoes. “You fucked me over, Nadia. I asked for one thing, and you couldn’t keep your legs shut for one morning to make it happen.”

Her jaw drops and red rims her eyes. “Are you slut-shaming me?”

I laugh. “No. I’m reality-shaming you. You’re a shitty friend who is more into chasing jerseys than anything else. Those guys are always your priority. Always.” I take a deep breath. “And the worst part is you’re never going to be theirs.”

“Screw you, Twyler,” she says. “I knew you were always judging me, it’s about fucking time you said it out loud.”

She spins and runs to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. I finish putting my shoes on and open the front door. Nadia isn’t the only one I’m angry with tonight.

If I’m burning bridges, I may as well do all of them.