Page 5

violet

“Do you know the entire hockey team?” I ask Kennedy as soon as they’re out of earshot.

“Put this thing in your bag please,” she ignores the question, handing me my book.

“Excuse me,” one of the girls who was sitting behind us says, tapping my shoulder.

“What now?” Kennedy whips around her head.

“We just wanted to apologize for accidentally bumping into you guys. We were clumsy. So sorry.”

It’s the oddest thing. Suddenly, their voices are so small and contrite, as if they’re afraid of one or both of us.

“It’s fine,” I say to them before Kennedy cuts me off with a few choice words of her own.

“You should have said that ten minutes ago,” she tells them.

As stadium staff continue to inspect the damaged glass, a man dressed in VCU colors and a reflective orange vest approaches us just like Shane said they would to offer us seats in a different section of the stadium.

“Ladies, we’re so sorry about the accident. Here are some new tickets courtesy of the Suns. Enjoy the rest of the game.”

When Kennedy reads the tickets, she snickers.

“What?” I ask her.

“Let’s go.” She stands up. “He’s trying way too hard.”

“Where are we going?”

“To our new seats.”

We arrive at the club section of the stadium. I haven’t been to many sports events or concerts in my lifetime but it’s pretty clear that this is where the people with big money sit. The seats are larger and covered in black leather with polished wood armrests instead of the hard plastic ones in the other sections.

In this area, we have access to our own dedicated bar and refreshment station, and everything is complimentary. Well, at least sodas and popcorn are.

“Welcome back, Valencia City,” the announcer says jubilantly over the sound system and the audience applauds. “Fortunately, there were no injuries and we’ll continue the game in a few moments.”

“Look how they lie, Violet. Of course, there were injuries. Look at your beautiful chin.”

“Kennedy.” I give her an accusatory glare.

“What?”

“Now that we’re settled into our new seats, you know I have questions.”

“What questions?”

“You have some sort of weird eye fuck battle with the Shane guy, then you yell at the big one, and then those two girls did a complete about face and started tripping all over themselves to apologize?”

Christmas in Hollis plays loudly through the arena’s speaker system as intermission continues and I try not to cry. Run DMC was one of my mom’s favorite artists and she used to play this song every Christmas Eve when we decorated the Christmas tree.

I can see her so clearly right now, testing last year’s Christmas lights while performing some of her old school dances in our living room. The two of us laughing. And then me screaming in horror.

“Hey, are you all right?” Kennedy asks, sensing the sudden shift in my mood.

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Are you going to answer my question, because you’ve just agreed to attend some sort of party for the both of us if they win?”

“It’s a kickback, not a party.”

“Whatever, a kickback.”

“Okay.” She lets out a heavy sigh as if she’s about to reveal some sort of deep, dark secret. “I do know the hockey guys.”

“That’s obvious.”

“And they’re the most popular human beings on this campus, which is why those two idiot girls are staring at us from ten rows across right now.”

I look over near our previous seats and she’s right. They are staring.

“I still don’t get it.”

“Look around,” Kennedy leans in and lowers her voice. “What do you see?”

For the first time tonight, I actually pay attention to my surroundings, carefully glancing around us, and that’s when I see it. Ever since those two skated away, spectators seem to be giving us a lot of subtle (and not-so-subtle) glances.

“People are staring at us,” I whisper in confusion. I can feel the entire row of students to my left watching us.

“Yep.”

“I think people are talking about us too,” I murmur.

“Yes, they probably are,” she says casually, reaching inside her crossbody purse for something.

“Why?” I ask incredulously.

“Because we are the anointed ones,” she says facetiously, as she applies a layer of a pinkish-brown lip gloss to her lips. “Members of the Valencia Ice Mafia actually spoke to us and during a game at that,” she scoffs. “We must be special.”

“The Valencia Ice Mafia?”

“Some random person in their infinite wisdom nicknamed them that, and it stuck. Now those nut jobs run with it. Some random business major even put the nickname on some merchandise and runs a side hustle selling the stuff on Etsy.”

“Just those two?”

“No, there’s more of them.”

“Dare I ask why that’s their nickname?”

“The VCU ice program used to suck until they brought in an NHL legend turned coach who completely turned the program upside down. In a shocking move, he got rid of all the old players and replaced them with a whole new squad. All freshmen. And they were the most lethal incoming freshman class to ever play in our conference. Now that they’re older, bigger and definitely cockier on the ice, they’re even more formidable. Hell, a few of them could easily go pro right now.”

“Then why don’t they?”

“They’ve made a pact to stay together until they win their coach the big championship. He suffered a major heart attack last year,” she says solemnly. “And he had to take a leave of absence from coaching.”

“Oh, no.” I say. Already shaken by the fragility of life, now that my mother has been abruptly taken from me. “Is he okay?”

“It was a pretty bad one. He’s had one surgery already, and I think he has to have another.”

“This may be a stupid question, but if the team is so good, why haven’t they won the championship already?”

An older couple sitting two rows in front of us turn their heads when I ask that.

“Lower your voice,” Kennedy hushes me. “Most of the people in this section donate big money to the hockey program and are wondering the same thing.”

“Oh,” I whisper. “Sorry.”

“To answer your question though, in my opinion the Suns are good, often even great, but they’re also dirty.”

“What do you mean?”

“They don’t call them the Ice Mafia for nothing. They get more penalties than any other team in our division. Other schools hate us. The refs hate us. We’re probably the most hated college hockey team in the states.”

“So the team fights a lot? I’ve seen that on the news before. I never understood why hockey is so violent and the referees allow it.”

“Fighting happens in the pro league, but that kind of behavior gets you disqualified in college hockey. They can’t do that…or let’s say, they shouldn’t, especially off the ice.”

“But they do?”

“I’ll put it like this. If anyone has the balls to start something with one of them, there will be carnage.”

Carnage?

Hell, that’s a huge red flag for me. While I understand human beings are flawed, I don’t understand why anyone purposely tries to hurt another human. It’s part of why I want to be a lawyer. So if these guys have a propensity for violence, I’m definitely not going to any house party or kickback where they’re going to be. Kennedy will just have to understand.

“Okay, here they go,” she claps excitedly. “Try paying attention this time. I promise you it’s a lot more fun if you watch and try understanding the rules. Keep your eye on those three.”

I take a sip of a Diet Coke our server brings to us and watch as Number seventeen moves with incredible speed and precision across the ice. It appears as if he’s the player setting the tempo of the game, although he never seems to get a chance to make a goal. He tends to hit the puck over to Shane or the other guy Kennedy mentioned to watch.

“If that Neo guy is supposedly so good, then why doesn’t he ever try taking a shot?” I lean in, asking Kennedy. “He keeps giving it to the nice one, Shane, or that other guy.”

“Neo’s a center. It’s literally his job to set up his teammates to make goals, but he makes them too. He’s just taking it easy tonight. Remember, this is not a real game, it’s just an exhibition.”

My chin begs to differ.

“Gotcha.”

“And let me be clear before you get the wrong idea. There are no nice ones on the team.”

The crowd stands to their feet and watches with bated breath as Neo gently maneuvers the puck between his opponent’s legs, sliding it to Shane, who then hits the puck powerfully into the net.

GOAL!

The crowd erupts, and I stand as well, clapping my hands for their success, the energy infectious.

“The Valencia ice mafia triad strikes again!” the announcer says.

I watch closely as the three boys on the ice hug each other and then celebrate with the rest of their teammates. At the moment, they don’t seem like a group of bad boys at all. Right now all they seem to be are three thrilled, oversized kids who have apparently won the local Santa Fest exhibition game for the third year in a row.

But I have to remember.

Looks can be deceiving.

“Well, I guess we better get back to the apartment and change,” Kennedy says.

“Change for what?”

“I always honor my bets.”

“Have a good time at the kickback then; there’s a large suitcase full of clothes to unpack and a cup of English Breakfast tea waiting for me back at the apartment.”

“Then they’ll have to wait a little longer.”

“Kennedy–”

I don’t remember her being this bossy in high school. Then again, I have to remember that I didn’t know her very well.

“I told you, roomie. I honor my bets and I don’t go anywhere alone, so you’ve got to tag along, too.”

I’m trying to think of what else I can say to talk my way out of this when her phone receives an incoming text that makes her smirk.

“What?” I ask, curious about her reaction.

“Our ride just texted me to be ready by eight.”