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Don’t forget your hockey stick ;)

I smile and slip my phone into my pocket, then run a hand through my hair. The guys all gave me crap for trimming it; they said I looked like a surfer who lost his wave. But Elliot loves it—says he can see my eyes better—and right now, what Elliot loves is more important to me than looking like a proper hockey bro.

I re-enter the banquet hall right as Coach Donovan takes the stage with a microphone. He’s wearing a powder blue tuxedo that looks like it walked straight out of a 1975 prom night.

It fits him like a second skin, and I can only hope I look that good when I’m his age.

I sit back down at the table. Drew and Jackson have rejoined us, and Drew’s ruby-red tux looks even more obnoxious next to Jackson’s understated black suit. They’re both grinning like kids who conned the ice cream truck driver out of a double scoop.

Coach Donovan taps the microphone, and the room gradually quiets. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for being here tonight. The ‘Dinner & Skate with the Barracudas Night’ has become one of my favorite traditions, and it’s all because of fans like you.”

He pauses as a smattering of applause breaks out. I glance at the raffle station; the large glass bowl is filled to the brim with tickets. My stomach does another pirouette.

“We started this event many years ago,” Coach Donovan continues, “as a way to connect with our community and give back. All the proceeds from tonight will go to local charities here in Berkeley Shore, so give yourselves a round of applause for your generosity.”

The room erupts, and I join in half-heartedly. My mind is already on the ice, on the photo, on Elliot’s potential reaction.

“And don’t forget,” Coach Donovan says once the noise dies down, “there’s even a chance to skate with me tonight.” He strikes a mock-heroic pose, and a few people whistle and cheer. “Alright, enough talk. Let’s get to the raffle!”

A woman in a sparkly silver dress joins Coach Donovan on stage. She holds what appears to be an oversized soup ladle, which she dips into the first bowl of twenty-six, stirring the tickets around with dramatic flair.

Drew leans over to me. “I stuffed like twenty ticketswith Jackson’s name in yours. If he doesn’t get picked for me, odds are he’s gonna have to save your ass from some crazed fan.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, not entirely sarcastic.

My heart pounds as I think about who might get picked for me. Most of our hardcore fans know that I’m “something” with Elliot now—at least that’s what the Ice Queen’s last blog post implied—so I hope they’ll be respectful. Then again, fan crushes aren’t exactly rational.

The first number is read for Jordan Chase, and there’s a brief silence before someone in the back yells, “That’s me!” The room turns to see a teenage girl waving her ticket in triumph.

Jordan stands and adjusts his dark blue blazer. He’s one of the youngest guys on the team but already has the swagger of a seasoned pro. The teenage girl practically bounces out of her chair as she rushes to the stage, and Jordan meets her with a high-five.

A photographer snaps a few quick shots, the flash bursting like tiny fireworks. They both peek at an instant printout, and the girl’s face is full of joy.

“One down, twenty-five to go,” Drew says, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin.

The woman in the sparkly dress moves to the next bowl and swirls the tickets with her ladle. She hands one to Coach Donovan, who squints at it before reading into the microphone. “Nathan Paisley!”

As people check their tickets, a collective murmur ripples through the room. A voice calls out, “I won!”

An older man—maybe in his fifties—waves his ticket. He looks relieved and a little sheepish as he makes his way to the stage, where Nathan meets him with a handshake and an arm around the shoulder for the photo. They look like father and son in a weird, hockey-themed wedding picture.

I glance over at Oliver, who’s calmly sipping water. Out of all of us, he’s the most steady—both on and off the ice. Nothing seems to rattle him, which is probably why he’s our captain.

“Next up, Oliver Jacoby!” Coach Donovan announces.

A dozen people gasp and sit up straighter. Oliver has a huge following; he’s like the hometown hero since he grew up just two towns over. I brace myself for a riot when no one immediately claims the prize.

A petite woman with bright purple hair finally stands up and yells, “Yes!”

She brandishes her ticket like a dagger and a few people around her groan in defeat.

Oliver smiles. “Congrats, Tegan.”

Of course, he knows her by name; that’s Oliver for you.

When she reaches the stage, Tegan throws herself into Oliver’s arms, and he hugs her with genuine warmth. The photographer captures several angles as they pose together, and Tegan’s smile stretches wider with each click of the camera.

I tug at my bowtie. The room feels hotter than it should for November, and my pink jacket starts to itch around the collar. I take another look at the raffle bowls.Have they multiplied? Does mine have the most tickets stuffed inside?