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SCARLETT

I don’t know the name of the person who I’m hugging and jumping up and down with, and I don’t care.

After the experience of watching that game, I may have to become a hockey girlie. Guess it makes sense given that I’m literally living with a bunch of the players. Watching that game in this packed Cedar Shade bar was the most fun I’ve had in a long time.

A lot of the college hockey games don’t get shown on any national or local TV stations, but this bar is signed up to a service that lets them air all the Black Bears games. The place is called Loser’s Luck Tavern. This is the first time I’ve been here, but it won’t be the last. The vibes were incredible.

All game long, I couldn’t take my eyes off Lane whenever he was on the screen.

After a strong start, he seemed to struggle. I kept my fists clenched, like I could physically will my thoughts into his head, telling him not to lose confidence, to believe in himself, to remember what we talked about the other night.

I know it’s silly to think that my rooting for him so hard had anything to do with the way he recovered and played amazing in the last couple minutes of the game. But my heart still swells with pride as I join the flow of jubilant fans leaving the bar, like I somehow played a tiny role in the outcome.

Of course, I’m sure I’m the furthest thing from Lane’s mind while he’s celebrating a victorious return with the rest of the guys.

People are still in high spirits on the sidewalks outside as the overflow crowd disperses.

My stomach rumbles, and I realize I haven’t eaten dinner tonight. I don’t have any of my own groceries in the house right now, and I don’t want to raid the refrigerator and steal someone’s food, so I decide to head to a pizza place I’ve heard about.

There’s a line inside, not surprising for a Friday night. I aimlessly scroll through social media as it slowly files forward, until my attention is pulled to a conversation a couple places behind me.

A group of three guys just entered, and I groan internally, because I recognize them.

They’re infamous on campus for trying to “go viral” by filming obnoxious “pranks.” Or doing interviews where they barge up to women and ask them invasive, sexually explicit questions.

I’m no prude, but walking up to someone, pointing a camera at them, shoving a mic in their face, and asking about their sex lives out of the blue is just super icky.

The guy holding the tiny microphone sidles up next to this girl who seems to be alone. I quirk an appreciative eyebrow when I see her, because her style is awesome. She’s rocking the coolest leather jacket over a blue blouse paired with tight black jeans that make her legs look amazing.

“Yo, what’s your body count?” the guy next to her blurts out, without even so much as an introduction or to ask if she minds being filmed.

Her expression is flat, and the look she levels at the guy pointing the mic at her is something that could strip paint off a wall.

“Higher than your IQ,” she says with dry irony.

The guy looks confused. “Uh … so, a lot?”

“No,” she answers flatly. “That definitely does not mean a lot.”

My lips tick. Some people close to her in line snicker, while the guy she just insulted demonstrates that her words flew right over his head. Not only do I like this girl’s style at a glance, I like her attitude, too.

He’s not discouraged, though, because he follows up by asking, “How long do you wait to smash?”

“To smash the block button when I see one of your videos show up on my feed? About half a second.”

The guy blinks dumbly, the joke at his expense once again zooming over his curly hair, before turning to his two buddies and saying, “We’re not getting any good footage here, let’s try somewhere else.”

It’s finally my turn to order when they leave. I decide to embrace extremes, ordering one slice of veggie pizza and one slice of meat lover’s. When I get my slices, I’m lucky enough to find a small two-seater booth free in the back corner of the crowded parlor.

After taking my first bite, I look up to see the girl in the sweet leather jacket holding her own white paper plate and craning her neck, looking around for an open seat. I raise my hand and wave to her.

I enjoyed her mentally fly swatting those goofs and would be glad to have her company while I eat.

She flashes me a quick smile and walks over.

“I wonder if they’ll upload that interview,” I quip to her when she sits down.

A small laugh sounds in her throat. “I actually might not mind if they did.”

I shake my head as I chew another piece of pizza. “What happened to the world that made people think it’s okay to walk up, shove a camera and microphone in someone’s face, and ask questions about their sex life?”

“I guess it’s the slow-motion disintegration of the social contract that’s been going on, oh, about since we’ve been born.”

I laugh, liking this chick’s sense of humor. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”

“Harper, by the way,” she introduces herself.

I smile. “Scarlett.”

She rips a mouthful off her pizza, and when she’s finished chewing, she asks, “So, Scarlett, what makes a girl like you join a girl like me in the ranks of eating out alone on a Friday night?”

I chuckle and shrug. “My roommates are out of town, and they’re really the only ones I know here so far. I just transferred in this semester. How about you?”

She bounces her eyebrows sardonically. “I was out with a friend, but she ended up talking to this guy who started hitting on her. Instead of hanging around and drinking alone, I decided to get something to eat and go home.”

I shake my head ruefully as I swallow another bite. “Yeah, I’ve been there before.”

“I don’t mean to sound like a bitter spinster, though I’m probably in training to be one at this point,” Harper says, and I sputter a laugh at her self-deprecating side, “but, like, is it selfish to want a night out with your friends now and then that’s about actually hanging out together, not just a means to an end of hooking up?”

“Exactly!” I exclaim. “Is a penis-less night out just having fun with your friends too much to ask?”

Harper holds up her open can of ginger ale. “To penis-less nights,” she toasts.

“To penis-less nights,” I knock my can of flavored sparkling water against hers.

I can already tell that Harper’s totally the kind of girl I’d love to hang out with more. As a matter of fact …

“Are you doing anything this weekend?” I ask.

“Not really. Why?”

“Well, long story short, my old apartment flooded and ruined all my shoes. I need to scour the local stores to assemble a new collection, and that’s always more fun to do with a partner.”

She gives me a smile. “Yeah, sounds fun. I could use a new pair myself.”

I hold out my pinky toward her. “And no penises?”

She laughs, linking her digit with mine to pinky swear. “No penises. Only shoes.”