Page 28

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Tovah

I n my time at Reina, I’d been to more hockey games than I could count. Always as a reporter or editor, and, more recently, as the captain’s girlfriend’s best friend. I didn’t mind my reporter or sidekick role, because it let me be there as an observer.

But as I’d been discovering, being attached to Isaac “Jones” meant I was no longer an observer. Instead, I was the one observed.

“Can they all stop staring and whispering?” I complained to Aviva as we took our seats in the row behind the penalty box. “Seriously, it’s going to give me hives.”

Aviva laughed. “They all want to know who their star forward’s new girlfriend is,” she teased, before sobering. “How are things between you two? You were gone in the morning when I woke up.”

“Yeah, he still…has my phone.”

Which was beyond frustrating—and worrying. What if my mom had tried to get in touch with me?

Aviva continued with her questions. She would’ve made a good investigative journalist. “Did he apologize? Or try to make it right?”

“He bought me like, fifty boxes of hair dye, even though he hates me dyeing my hair. He’s been…nicer, but distant. Honestly, I don’t know where we stand. I want to hate him still, but there’s a connection between us, this crazy, no, insane chemistry. And even though I wanted to run away from it…it caught up with me. Ever since, it’s like something is tying me to him. I couldn’t get away from Isaac or say no to him, even if I wanted to.”

Aviva’s face softened. “Yeah,” she said. “I get that.” A stern look played over her face. “But if he hurts you again, tell me.”

Fortunately, I didn’t have to answer her, because we were interrupted by someone screaming, “Hey, hey, hey girlies hey!”

Lucy and Leslie, two of our friends from Tabb University, stood in the aisle. Lucy was a tall, voluptuous blonde who swore like a sailor, was more outspoken than even me, and also had a doomed crush on the Tabb hockey coach that she’d sworn us all to secrecy over. Leslie was a sweet, petite black-haired ballerina who got along with everyone. You wouldn’t think the two would be best friends, but they balanced each other perfectly. Leslie was also engaged to Tabb hockey’s left wing, Mason Calloway. Because of their connections to the team, they came to all their games—but they broke the unspoken rules and hung out with us on our side of the arena for at least part of the game.

We hugged them, then scooched over to make space.

Lucy eyed me up and down.

“I think it’s warm enough in here that you can take off that parka, Tovah,” she said finally. “Unless you’re embarrassed to show us what you’re wearing underneath?”

“Troublemaker,” I said, reluctantly unzipping my coat and revealing Isaac’s jersey underneath.

Leslie giggled. “That’s what Coach Samson calls her.”

Lucy’s cheeks flushed. “Whatever. We don’t have to talk about that. Not when you’re wearing Isaac’s jersey. So the rumors are true?”

I pasted a smile on my face, aware that the staring and whispering around us had just gotten worse. “Depends on what the rumors say.”

“They say that you and Isaac are dating. Not even dating. Together. Apparently, he’s been making it very clear to all the guys at both Reina and Tabb that Tovah Kaufman’s taken now. And that jersey just drives the point home.”

I smiled to myself, brushing my hands over the three rolled up posters I was holding upright between my legs.

The jersey might.

But I had my own point to make.

“Uh oh,” Leslie said, watching me. “I know that look. I’ve seen that look. I’ve made that look. Whatever you’re up to, seriously think through it. Or if Isaac’s anything like Mason, he’ll take it out on your ass later.”

This time, it was my turn to flush.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said primly, even though I remembered in graphic detail what Isaac’s punishment had felt like when he’d spanked me.

Leslie and Lucy exploded into laughter. Aviva just watched me.

“You’re hiding something from me,” she said quietly. “Tovah, you don’t have to tell me right now, but if Isaac is doing anything to hurt you…”

“I have it under control,” I said firmly.

Because at least for now, I did.

The players lined up, Isaac facing off against Tabb’s center for the puck drop.

Tabb’s center lifted his stick and pushed Isaac backward off the line, while Mason, Tabb’s left wing, picked up the puck with his stick and carried it off into the offensive zone.

“That’s my man,” Leslie said dreamily.

“You dork,” Lucy teased.

Isaac chased Mason into the offensive zone, pinned him to the boards and took the puck back. He passed the puck to Jack, who drove in toward Tabb’s goal. Isaac was close behind, followed by Tabb’s defense. He skated around the back of the goal until he was open for Jack to pass the puck to him. A few moments later, the horn sounded—Isaac had scored a goal.

The game paused as the ice crew members used shovels to clean up and smooth out the ice. Isaac looked up, scanning the arena, his eyes catching on mine—and it felt like everyone was watching us.

Which was what I wanted.

Knowing Isaac’s eyes were on me—and everyone else in the arena’s, apparently—I stood, unrolling the first sign and holding it up so everyone could see.

“Holy shit,” a guy near us said.

As luck would have it, the jumbotron’s camera was on me, so everyone in the arena could see me and the sign I was holding.

The sign that said:

37’S A BENDER

So many people gasped, the sound echoed the stadium.

Someone stood up and yelled, “No one talks about Isaac Jones that way!” and then they were all yelling, “JONES, JONES, JONES,” so loudly, it was like the arena itself was roaring.

I barely noticed. My eyes were on the player in the #37 jersey himself as he pulled his helmet off and spun around on the ice, scanning the stands until they landed on me. And held.

So much passed between his dark eyes and mine. Anger, frustration, lust, remorse, ownership, and something else, something terrifying that I refused to put a name to.

Finally, he smirked. You’ll pay for that , he mouthed.

I smirked back, dropping the first poster and revealing the second.

If you want more ice time, 37, I hear they’re hiring a Zamboni driver.

There were more gasps, more yelling. I probably should’ve been worried that a fan was going to take me out. But I ignored all of it, focused entirely on the way Isaac was staring at me.

“He looks like he wants to kill her.” Leslie sounded worried. “Maybe we should stop her.”

“Nah, he looks like he wants to eat her,” Lucy corrected. “And in the fun way. Let her do her thing.”

The ref blew his whistle, and the game resumed. Isaac and Tabb’s forward faced off on center ice. This time, Isaac won the puck, and pushed toward Tabb’s goal, only to be stopped by Mason, who stole the puck and drove toward our goal. Mason was fast, gliding across the ice, but when he shot the puck, Lawson, who was in the crease, caught the puck right before it hit the net, leaving us at 1:0, Reina : Tabb.

Just as the first period ended and the horn sounded, I let go of the second poster, revealing the third and final sign.

I should’ve worn a different player’s number—one who can actually score.

This was a lie, of course. Isaac had the most goals in the league. But still, I was proud of myself. And like any good journalist, I loved a good em-dash.

The entire stadium went silent, the jumbotron still showing off me and my signs.

If they were going to stare, at least they had something legitimate to stare at.

Isaac shook his helmet as he stopped in front of the penalty box, looking up at me. I didn’t have to see his face to know he was probably torn between laughing and spanking me. The idea got me hot and bothered, my heart racing. I knew I was taunting him, waving a red flag in front of a bull. But I didn’t care. He’d hurt me, emotionally, when he’d tied me to the statue in the quad. I wasn’t about to take it lying down. He’d gotten into this with me, and he knew who I was—sass and all. And if he didn’t, well, I’d reminded him.

I was Tovah Lewis. I was no one’s doormat.

Someone tapped on my shoulder, and I glanced away from Isaac and at an irate looking middle-aged man with a red face.

“You fucking bitch,” he seethed. “Didn’t anyone teach you manners? You don’t come to one of our games and insult our star player.”

He grabbed the neck of my jersey and pulled, still ranting. “You don’t deserve to wear Jones’ jersey, you cunt.”

“Sir, get your hands off me,” I tried to say as calmly as possible, while the girls yelled at the man to go away.

They needn’t have bothered. Because one second, the man was there, his beer breath in my face while he leaned over me, and the next, he was flat on his back on the stairs, getting the shit pummeled out of him.

By Isaac.