“Seriously though, what's up with the gothic look?” she asked, offering me a drink and a spot on the sofa.
I relaxed into the couch. “Well, we're sitting first row, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So he'll probably be able to see us, right?”
“Sure.”
“Perfect.” I smiled wildly. “Last night, Beau said he thought I was 'smoking hot' back during my high school goth phase.”
Piper's eyes lit up. “Really? So you dressed up for him? That'ssoinsanely thoughtful and cute, Cam! You guys are going to make the sweetest—”
“Oh, yeah. That's exactly it, Piper,” I interrupted sarcastically. “No, actually, the idea is to get him to stare at me just long enough to distract him. Hopefully, he'll be drooling over me just long enough for one of his enemies to come crush him and make his head bleed all over the ice.”
Piper chortled. “Um. Wow. Not exactly where I thought this was going, I'll admit.”
“It'd be kind of neat to see him writhing on the ice in pain. You know?”
“Yeeeah,” Piper trailed off. “Maybe weshouldn'tgo to the game.”
“Oh no. We're going.”
Piper looked at the clock. “Well, if you truly want to be responsible for getting Beau killed, we should probably get going.”
I stood up and cheered. “Let's go!”
The two of us hurried out of her building and hailed a cab out front. Destination: Madison Square Garden. To see millionaire fuck-boi Beau Bradford play a hockey game.
***
We made it to the game after the big rush through the doors and breezed through security. Piper stopped at the concession stand and paid way too much for two giant cups of beer.
“This one's for you,” she said, offering me one of the beers.
I waved her off. “No thanks. I had enough yesterday.”
She shrugged. “Shoot, guess I'll have two, then.”
An usher pointed us in the direction of our seats. We walked down the stairs as the arena announcer roared each name of the hometown Scouts players, growling each syllable with a froth-mouthed, rabid roar. The primitive sports fans reacted like Pavlov's dogs, launching into a wild, hooting frenzy.
“Here we are!” Piper chirped, and we took our front-row seats, right behind the glass. “Wow, these seats aregreat!”
She was right. The seats were great. Only a sheet of plexi-glass separated us from the players. I looked all over for Beau, but couldn't find him until Piper pointed him out at center ice.
“Oh! He's in the starting lineup,” she said.
“Of course he is, Piper, he's Beau Bradford.”
The arena announcer read off the Blizzard lineup—only, instead of growling each name with thunderous excitement, he rattled off each player's name as if he were reading a really boring grocery list.
And then he got to the name I was waiting for.
“Starting at left wing, #17, Beau Bradford.”
I cupped my hands around my mouth, took a deep breath, and—
“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
