My Hockey Hearthrob

jealousy

I had never been a WAG before.

I had been many things in my life — varsity winger, Columbia grad, unpaid intern who cried in the Metro Sports bathroom, swamp creature — but I had never been a hockey girlfriend who sits in the glass seats wearing her boyfriend's jersey while the entire arena stares at her.

Now I was.

"Smile," Cole whispered as we walked through the players' tunnel at Steel Hawks arena. His hand was huge and warm around mine. "You look like you're going to throw up."

"I am going to throw up," I whispered back. "There are eight thousand people out there and they all think I'm a puck bunny."

"You're not a puck bunny. You're a puck queen. There's a difference. Queens wear crowns. You wear my jersey, which is basically a crown." He squeezed my hand. "Rule one: look at me like you love me. Rule two: look at everyone else like you don't care. You can do that. You did it to Jax for years."

"I did not—"

"You did. You had that look. That 'I'm Ella Reyes and I have a 4.0 and I will end you' look. Give them that look."

We stepped out onto the concourse and the noise hit me like a wall. Eight thousand fans, all in black and red, screaming. The Hawks were playing the Toronto Titans, a huge game. If they won, they clinched playoffs. If they lost, they needed help.

And I was walking in with their enforcer, holding hands, wearing his number 88 jersey over a tiny black skirt and tights because Cole's PR lady said "show your legs, the internet loves legs" and I'd been too scared to say no.

The cameras found us instantly. Flash. Flash.

Cole, to his credit, was a pro. He put his arm around my waist, pulled me into his side, kissed the top of my head like he'd done it a hundred times. "Relax, Goldilocks. It's just a game."

"It's not just a game to you," I said, looking up at him.

"No. It's not." His eyes dropped to mine, and for a second, under the arena lights, with his hand on my waist and my name on his back — no, his name on my back — it felt real. "But we're good at pretending, right?"

Right. Pretending.

His team passed us in the tunnel. They hooted, they whistled. One of them — the rookie with blue eyes, whose name was actually Liam — yelled, "Yo, Maddox, you better score tonight or your girl's leaving you for the other team!"

"She's not going anywhere," Cole said, but his eyes flicked to me.

The other team. The Frost Wolves. They were playing at the same time in the other rink across town, but their game was on the jumbotron during intermission. And Jax was playing.

I hadn't answered his texts since last night. I still had his hoodie in my bag. I wore Cole's jersey now, but I could still smell Jax's hoodie — rubber and cheap body spray — from where I'd stuffed it.

We took our seats. Well, I took my seat. Cole had to go to the locker room. He knelt in front of my seat, in the glass row where all the girlfriends and wives sat, and he looked up at me.

"One more thing," he said, loud enough for the wives to hear. "If you get bored, you can watch me. I'm number 88. I hit people. It's sexy."

"Go," I laughed, despite myself, and pushed his shoulder.

He went. The wives stared. One of them — a beautiful blonde with a huge diamond and a baby on her hip — leaned over. "I'm Sarah, Liam's wife. You're Ella. The fake one, right?"

My blood ran cold. "What?"

She winked. "Oh, honey, we all know. Cole hasn't had a girlfriend since college and she dumped him because he forgot her birthday three years in a row. But you're good at it. He actually smiled today. He never smiles before games."

She patted my hand. "Your secret's safe with us. We like you. You make him less likely to murder someone."

Before I could process that, the lights went down. Game on.

Hockey live is different. On TV, you don't feel it. Live, you feel every hit in your chest. The glass shakes. The ice sprays. The boys are huge and fast and terrifying.

And Cole — God, Cole was terrifying.

He wasn't the captain. He wasn't the scorer. He was the enforcer. The guy they sent out when someone hit his teammate too hard, or when the other team needed to be scared. He hit like a truck. He fought like he enjoyed it. In the first period alone, he checked a Titan into the glass so hard the guy's helmet flew off.

The crowd screamed. I screamed without meaning to.

And he looked up. Through the glass, sweaty, hair stuck to his forehead, and found me. He tapped his chest twice — his heart — and pointed at me.

The cameras caught it. The jumbotron caught it. The entire arena went "AWWWWW" like we were in a movie.

I put my hand over my heart, playing along, and blew him a kiss. Fake kiss. Totally fake.

My phone buzzed in my lap. Unknown number.

You look cold in that jersey. You always get cold at games. - J

I looked up at the jumbotron. It was showing the other game now, during a stoppage. Frost Wolves vs. Chicago. There he was. Number 17. Jax. On the bench, helmet off, drinking water, staring directly into the camera like he knew I was watching his game inside Cole's game.

He was wearing a neck guard that covered his tattoos — Jax had one, small, on his collarbone, that I'd never seen. When did he get that?

My phone buzzed again.

Is he good to you? - J

I turned my phone face-down. I didn't answer.

Second period. Hawks were down 1-0. Cole was frustrated. I could tell by the way he slammed his stick. He got into a fight. A real fight, gloves off, jersey over the guy's head, punching. The crowd stood. The wives next to me didn't even flinch — "That's just Cole," Sarah said, bouncing her baby.

He won the fight, of course. Came to the bench bleeding from his lip — that split lip again — grinning. He looked at me, blood on his teeth, and winked.

I should have been disgusted. I was a journalist. I was supposed to be objective about violence in sports.

Instead, my stomach flipped. Hard.

"You're into him," Sarah whispered, not even looking at me.

"I am not!"

"Girl, your face is red. You're into him. It's okay. He's hot when he's bloody. It's a known fact."

Third period. Two minutes left. Hawks still down 1-0. If they lost, playoffs were in danger. The arena was tense.

Cole was on the ice. He stole the puck — he never stole pucks, he was not a thief, he was a hitter — and broke away. One on one with the goalie. The entire arena stood.

I stood too, without thinking, my hands on the glass, Cole's name stretched across my back.

"GO!" I screamed. "GO GO GO!"

He shot. Top corner. So fast the goalie didn't even move.

GOAL.

The horn blared. Red lights. The crowd exploded. My ears rang.

Cole scored. Cole Maddox, the enforcer who never scores, scored the game-tying goal.

His team mobbed him. They piled on. And when he got up, helmet off, hair wild, bleeding and sweaty and beautiful, he looked straight at me. He skated to the glass, right in front of my seat, and slammed his hands against it.

I slammed mine against his.

"THAT WAS FOR YOU!" he yelled through the glass, and everyone heard it because the rink was quiet for a second after a goal.

The jumbotron showed us. Me, in his jersey, hands on the glass, him on the other side, breathing hard, smiling like he'd won the world.

The crowd screamed louder than for the goal.

My phone buzzed, and buzzed, and buzzed. Notifications. The photo was already viral. Someone had filmed it. Caption: Maddox scores first goal of season, gives it to his new girl. Is the bad boy soft now?

And then, in the middle of the celebration, the jumbotron cut to the other rink. Frost Wolves game. Final score: Frost Wolves lost 3-2.

Jax had lost. While Cole had won. While Cole had pointed at me.

The camera found Jax on his bench, head down, taking off his gloves slowly. Then he looked up, right into the camera, like he knew it was cutting between us, and his face — God, his face. He looked gutted.

My fake boyfriend had just scored for me on the jumbotron while my ex lost on the other channel.

And I felt guilty. About both.

Cole got out of the box after the game — they won in overtime, 2-1, clinched playoffs — and found me in the tunnel. He was sweaty, bloody, stinking, and beaming.

"Did you see that?" he said, grabbing me around the waist and lifting me off the ground, spinning me, not caring who saw. "Did you see that goal? I've never scored a game-tyer in my life! That was for you! That was—"

He stopped, realizing what he said, and set me down fast, his hands still on my waist.

"It was a good angle," he said, recovering, cocky mask back. "For the story. Good PR."

"Yeah," I said, breathless from being spun. "Good PR."

He looked at my mouth. I looked at his bloody lip. The hallway was empty, just us, his team still celebrating in the locker room.

"Rule five," he whispered. "No kissing unless cameras."

"There are no cameras," I whispered back.

"I know."

He leaned in. Just an inch. His nose brushed mine. His breath warm. Blood still on his lip. My hands fisted in his jersey.

Then his phone rang. Loud. PR lady: WHERE ARE YOU, YOU HAVE PRESS, BRING THE GIRL.

He pulled back like he'd been burned.

"Come on, Goldilocks," he said, voice hoarse. "Let's go lie to some cameras."

He took my hand. But his hand was shaking.

And I was wearing his jersey, and Jax's hoodie was still in my bag, and I had just watched one boy win and one boy lose, both while thinking about me.

Jealous. That's what this chapter was supposed to be about. I thought it would be about Jax being jealous of Cole.

I didn't realize I'd be jealous of the girl who got to not feel anything at all.