Page 127 of Almost Rotten

I’ve never talked to Atty about his sexuality, and to my knowledge, he’s never had time to date, so I couldn’t begin to guess who or what he likes.

“You should introduce us,” Arjun says. “After the game? Or maybe tonight if he goes out?”

I shove his arm. “Get out of here. You’ve already met.”

“Yeah, but a second introduction will give me an in. Either he doesn’t remember me, and now we have this adorable meet-cute instigated by his sister—”

Bryant snorts. “You’re ridiculous, bro.”

Cam leans forward and gives me a teasing smile.

“Or,” Arjun continues, “he’ll tell you we’ve already met, and the two of us can have a laugh at your expense.”

With a huff, I shake my head. “You really are ridiculous.”

“I like to think of it as delightfully delusional.”

The lights go down then, and every person in the stands is instantly on their feet. The air crackles with energy and the volume of the music from the speakers in the ceiling is cranked up.

The Otters skate out to mild applause and a lot of booing.

When the Bolts race out onto the ice, the noise level is deafening.

I don’t focus on the individual players, instead choosing to scan the whole group of them. It’s easier to cheer on the team as a unit than it is to allow myself to track Atty and Ty like I usually do.

A kid from the local U8 team skates out with a coach for the ceremonial puck drop.

Then Josh Tanvers and number 13, Lane Maxwell, center for Great Lakes U, face off. The puck drops, and there’s a sea of blue commotion. Then the Otters take possession.

“Fuck,” Bryant curses as number 21 slips past Atty and Ty, making a breakaway for our net.

“Fuck indeed,” Cam mutters. “This is about to be brutal.”

Brutal is an understatement.

By the third period, we’re down by three. It’s the biggest deficit the Bolts have had all season. I’ve given up the hope that we can pull ahead or even catch up. Now I’m just silently praying the other team doesn’t score again.

The Otters are literal animals on the ice. Their right winger is at least six four.

Our guys are good, and they mesh well. But we’re only three weeks into the season, and they’re still finding their stride. But it appears their winning record will be tarnished tonight.

The opposing forward takes a snap shot from center ice, and the crowd collectively groans. Their center and right winger close in on Atty, but Ty sails in, his movements controlled and sharp.

Instinctively, I rise to my feet, trying like hell not to blink.

The rest of the crowd has the same idea, the sea of shifting bodies and bobbing heads making it difficult to keep track of the action.

I’m holding my breath and contemplating stepping up onto my seat for a better view when a harrowing collective gasp rises from the stands.

My heart plummets.

Something’s wrong.

A deep-seated sense of dread curls around me. A whispered premonition nudges at my conscious.

“Help me up.” I clamber onto the bench, using Bryant’s and Cam’s shoulders for balance, tears springing to my eyes. I still don’t know what’s going on, but it can’t be good.

When I finally straighten, I zero in on the huddle of green at one end of the rink.