“Right, let’s go before this really hits me,” I say, grabbing my purse and looping it across my body.
“You don’t need to tell me twice.”
In contrast to my choice, Parker is wearing a generic Vipers hoodie tonight. I can only assume that’s to avoid antagonizing her brother, who is about as happy with her dating players as my dad is me. Not that he really needs to worry; the only interest she has in getting up close and personal with them is to cause them physical pain.
By the time we get outside the building, Parker has an Uberwaiting for us, and in only a few short minutes, we’re being dropped off at our favorite Mexican restaurant a couple of blocks from the arena.
As per usual, the place is a sea of green and white jerseys and there is anticipation in the air.
A rush of excitement goes through me.
Screw Kodie and his bullshit. He’s not going to ruin tonight for me.
We’re shown to our table, and Parker immediately orders us the biggest margaritas on the menu.
Acollective gasp sucks all the air out of the arena as Everett Donnelly crosschecks Kodie into the boards.
The whistle blows, but the penalty isn’t called, sending the Vipers fans into chaos.
“Your brother is on fire tonight,” I quietly muse to Parker.
“He isn’t called the best grinder in the league for nothing.”
"Pfft.”
Usually, I celebrate Rett’s achievements just as much as I will the Vipers’. But not when he’s playing against my team and slamming my players into the boards.
Tonight, he’s the enemy.
Play restarts and the Vipers fans continue to riot over the ref’s decisions.
“Is Rett paying this guy off or something?” I mutter, anger obvious in my tone as he stops another of our advances with questionable techniques.
“He’s going to start a war if he keeps going,” Parker says. “Although knowing Rett, that’s probably what he’s trying to do.”
I can’t help but chuckle. Rett is nothing if not a showman. He loves nothing more than having his face on the front page and splashed all over social media. He doesn’t seem to care if it’s because he’s done something good or something stupid—and the latter is more common. I feel for the Seattle PR team having to deal with his antics.
The game continues in a similar fashion, with us getting our asses handed to us.
The fans around us get angrier and angrier as they watch in horror as Seattle scores again.
With their expressions set with determination, the Vipers get into position for one last chance to gain some ground before the final whistle blows.
“Yes,” I scream when the puck drops and Fletch quickly passes it to Kodie.
My heart is in my throat as he flies toward the goal.
Almost the entire arena is on their feet, waiting to see if he can end the game with a goal like in Utah.
But just as he’s about to take the shot, Rett appears.
The two of them collide, and Kodie’s shot goes wide. A collective groan of frustration ripples through the stands.
The whistle blows, and the fans who hadn’t already abandoned the game start to file out.
Disappointment is heavy. I get it. No one likes to see their team lose. Hell, no one wants to lose. But it’s all part of the game.
And nowhere is that disappointment felt more than on the ice.
