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FOUL TIP

CAMDYN

A batted foul that goes directly from the bat to the catcher's hands and is legally caught. It’s considered a strike if the ball remains in play.

“ H oly hell. Why don’t baseball players stretch like this?”

I stare at the man in front of us, his leg practically wrapped around his neck while he’s warming up.

The sharp smell of fresh ice mingles with popcorn and overpriced beer. Climate Pledge Arena always has this distinct scent—like winter, even in the middle of spring.

Callie, Brynn, and I love going to professional sporting events in Seattle. Forget nightclubs and bars. For one, we’re not old enough. For two, we love athletes.

We go to Seahawks games, practically live at the baseball stadium cheering on the Mariners, and now—our newfound entertainment?

Hockey.

If you know, you know. Hockey players are on another level. And hello, their stretches? The way they glide across the ice during warmups, muscles rippling under those jerseys, every movement precise and powerful.

Gawdamnnnn.

Maybe I should date a hockey player.

You have to admit—it’s tempting.

Seriously, if you haven’t watched a game, do it. You won’t regret it.

Callie’s basketball coach hooked us up with four glass seats, and we didn’t hesitate to ditch our usual Tuesday night of doing nothing. The seats are so close I can hear the scrape of skates, feel the boards vibrate with every hit. Each collision echoes through my chest like a bass drum.

Callie points to the guy who smashes his stick against the glass, making me jump. He smiles at her, his breath fogging up the barrier. “He made eye contact with me. We’re basically in love, babes.”

He looked at her. Or us. I don’t know, but apparently that’s all it took for Callie to be in love. “You don’t even know his name.”

“Doesn’t matter. He wants to marry me and have my babies.” She unwraps her eighteen-dollar chicken sandwich, the paper crinkling over the sound of blade-on-ice and warmup shots pinging off the posts. “You can’t tell me any different.”

“Actually, I can.” I stare at her sandwich. I can’t believe she paid that much, but after stealing a bite—warm bread and perfectly seasoned chicken melting in my mouth—it’s worth fourteen dollars. Not eighteen. Don’t be silly.

Callie points at the player circling the goal, his skates leaving little snow trails behind him. “Nope. He’s so pretty.”

“Well, unless Mr. Hockey Player grew a uterus, there’s a problem with your theory.”

It takes her about thirty seconds to get it. “Ohhh. Yeah.” She waves her hand around. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure I do.”

She sets her sandwich down and sighs, holding her stomach. “I’m full.”

Callie’s like a toddler. She snacks all day. Being an athlete, she eats constantly, but never finishes anything unless it’s a Little Debbie cake hidden under her bed.

“You paid eighteen dollars for that,” I gasp as the arena lights dim and the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers. “Finish it.”

“You sound like my mom.” She hands it to me, eyes fixed on the rink. “You can have the rest.”

This is why I never buy my own food at stadiums. I eat what Callie can’t finish.

After taking a drink of her soda—the one she paid eight dollars for—she glances around at the crowd, the sea of blue Kraken jerseys surrounding us. “Where’s Brynn? She said she’d meet us here.”

“I don’t know, but when is she ever on time?” I look over my shoulder at the aisle but can’t spot anyone with all the people standing. We’re already two minutes into the first period when the goal horn blares, so loud it rattles my teeth.

As we’re cheering with the rest of the arena, Callie points to her right. “Oh, there she is. Who’s with her?”

I look up and I swear to all things holy, my heart jumps through my chest. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“What?” Callie looks back at Brynn, who’s now about five feet from us, trying to make her way through the crowd hitting the glass at the goal the Kraken scored.

Brynn and I lock eyes and she has this I-don’t-know-what-to-do-now look on her face.

“Ohhh,” Callie says, whipping her head back to me. “Uhh, what do we do?”

“I don’t know.”

Deep breaths. Deep fucking breaths.

Do you know who Brynn’s roommate is?

Mmm. If you don’t, you’re about to find out.

“Sorry I’m late.” Brynn shakes her head, as if she doesn’t know how it happened, and gives me a half, please-don’t-kill-me smile. “I brought Inez.”

Yep. That Inez. Fuck my life, seriously.

“Oh my gosh,” Callie says first, her smile awkward and forced. “It’s nice to finally meet you. We have chemistry together.”

“Oh, yeah. We do.” Inez smiles and flinches as another body check rattles the glass. She looks completely out of place, like someone dropped a library student into a mosh pit. “Nice to meet you.”

Brynn moves past Callie and squeezes between us, bringing the scent of rain from outside. “Okay, listen. She was sad and I had no choice. She basically followed me.”

“What could she possibly be sad about?” I snap, whispering back to Brynn. My cheeks burn and I can tell my blood pressure is rising. Now I’m panicking. What if she talks to me? What if she says his name?

Brynn leans in, but it’s loud enough all four of us hear her despite the crowd. “The guy she’s talking to isn’t texting her back.”

“Oh, girl, been there. Who are you talking to?” Callie asks, playing dumb—or maybe not. With her, you never know.

“Jaxon Ryan,” Inez says, and my heart drops with his name on her lips.

Welp. She said his name.

How am I doing?

Mmm. Glad you asked.

I’M NOT OKAY!

My hands are shaking, fingernails digging into my palms. The roar of the crowd fades to white noise. I hate she even knows him. I hate they’re talking. I hate she’s standing near me. I hate... pretty much everything right now.

Brynn leans closer and wraps her arms around my neck, her breath warm against my ear. “Apparently he hasn’t texted her all day.”

“Wait, what?” I mouth, my heart pounding, competing with the bass of the arena music. It’s the first good news I’ve had in weeks. When Jaxon and I are talking, we don’t go a day without saying something to each other.

Brynn nods eagerly, and though I want to be excited, it might mean nothing, other than Jaxon having an off day. Or he’s being moody. Which, if you know Jaxon, happens a lot during the season.

“Can you please sit the fuck down!” someone behind us yells over the sound of skates carving ice.

Brynn whips around, smiles sarcastically, and shrugs. “Dude. Everyone is standing.”

She’s not wrong, but we eventually sit down. I’m on the end closest to the aisle, then Callie, Brynn, and Inez. I’m far enough away from Inez we can’t talk, but Callie never stops chatting with her.

The cold from the ice seeps through the glass, so I tug my sweatshirt sleeves over my hands.

We’re introduced and I shake her hand politely.

Her grip is loose, hesitant, nothing like the confidence you need to date someone like Jaxon.

Dating him isn’t for the weak. Not because he’s difficult—well, he can be.

He’s intense, in every way, and you have to handle that.

A thunderous crash snaps my attention back to the game.

Two players collide in a spray of ice, bodies slamming into the plexiglass right in front of us.

The crowd surges to their feet as fists start flying.

The satisfying thud of knuckles on jerseys drowns out the ref’s whistle, and I find myself standing too, caught up in the electricity of the moment.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” The crowd chants, and Inez sinks lower in her seat.

I think about leaving, but I love hockey so I try to focus on the rest of the game—the swift passes, the crack of sticks, the swoosh when the puck hits the net. The Kraken are winning by two. But my eyes keep drifting back to her.

Like any girl sizing up the one her man left her for, I secretly watch her every chance I get. I’ve never seen her up close. Only from a distance in the Starbucks line.

Until now.

Her hair is dark, almost black, slicked back into a tight ponytail without a strand out of place.

She’s wearing thick, dark glasses that make her eyes look huge, and every few seconds, she smooths back flyaway hairs near her ears.

From what I can see, she’s a perfectionist, or maybe has some obsessive-compulsive tendencies.

She’s wearing a black crewneck, the same jeans I saw her in before—paint splatters and all—and clutching a black rain jacket to her chest like a shield. Every time the crowd jumps to their feet, she shrinks further into her seat.

Another brutal check sends a player sprawling. The crowd roars. Inez fidgets with her jacket zipper and glances at her phone. When the puck slams against the glass, she jumps. Every. Single. Time.

I don’t think she knows who I am. Okay, she knows my name now but probably doesn’t know I’m Jaxon’s ex. She transferred during the last quarter of our freshman year. Jaxon and I weren’t officially dating anymore, but we were still hooking up in the dugout at midnight, never seen together in public.

I doubt Jaxon has mentioned me either. Remember? He’s super private and refuses to tell anyone about his life.

One thought keeps circling my mind: I do not like her. I know, I know. I’m being childish, but can you blame me? She has the guy I spent the last six years loving.

The game ends with one final horn blast, Kraken’s win, and Brynn apologizes obsessively for bringing Inez. The smell of night air and rain replaces the arena’s ice and popcorn as we step outside.

“I’m so sorry,” she tells me, hugging me in the misty rain that makes everything glow under the streetlights. “I didn’t know what else to do and... yeah.”

I nod, raindrops collecting on my eyelashes. “It’s okay.” I stand on the other side of Callie, trying not to watch Inez’s every move. She looks awkward, clutching her jacket even tighter now we’re outside. “I’m not mad.”

“Okay.” She nods. “But seriously, girl. I don’t think it’s going well.”