Kissing In Cars (9 page)

I can't help but wonder if she'll show up.

So far, after scanning the crowd like a whipped puppy I haven't caught sight of her. And believe me, I've been watching.

Taking a few minutes to remove my helmet, I am standing in the sin-bin (otherwise known as the Penalty Box) for hooking an opposing player with my stick. The reprieve is only two minutes, but it's giving me back the energy that I need to get back in the game.

My hair is sticking to my forehead from the sweat dripping down my forehead, and there is blood on my tongue. The gash in the corner of my mouth must have torn when my opponent elbowed me in the chin; the same player who was talking trash during the face-off at the beginning of the game.

Which is pretty typical, actually.

But still. The little prick.

I reach up and wipe the blood away with the heel of my palm before strapping my helmet back on. I look up in the stands and see my mom pumping her fists at the action on the ice. She's waving a giant foam finger and her River Glen High sweatshirt has my button on it.

Jeez, Mom.

My dad on the other hand is sitting quietly to her right - his arms are crossed and he's leaning forward. From here I can see that his eyebrows are furrowed and his hard features are set in a rigid line. He has a dark mustache framing most of his mouth (that my mom hates), but I know he's frowning nevertheless.

Nothing new there.

I get my passion for hockey from him; he used to play for Illinois University. Dad never had any desire to turn pro or pursue it after college, but he did used to be my coach growing up, back when I was in the pee-wee league - although there was never anything remotely 'pee-wee' about me.

Okay, fine.

When I was younger I was mostly 'husky' but we won't get into
those
details. Dad bought me my first set of real blades when I was around four years old - that was also the first winter he froze a slab of ice in our backyard and taught me how to skate.

I was a natural.

The sirens go off on the rink: River Glen has scored another goal while I'm in the Penalty Box. To get my head back in the game and out of my ass, I begin striking the door to the penalty box with my stick in a steady rhythm. The plexi-glass is the only thing keeping me off that ice.

There are only twenty-five more seconds to stand here behind this gate.

I've already scored one goal tonight, and we've only been playing fifteen minutes; that leaves me forty-five more minutes to score another two.

Then I'll have my hat trick.

MOLLY

I know the second he spots me. I can
feel
it.

Even though I'm wearing a ball cap with my hair pulled back into a ponytail, he instinctually knows I've arrived - just as I instinctually know he's watching me without having to actually see it.

Shit. Shouldn't he be focusing on the game?

I'm totally late too, and maybe if I hadn't arrived in between the second and third periods I could have come and gone without being noticed
at all
. But I'm with Jenna, never the shrinking violet, and she's decked out in an eye popping hot pink jean jacket. Her long blonde hair is thrown into a messy top bun, and she's wrapped her head with an aqua scarf.

You would literally have to be
blind
to miss her.

Not to mention, she's balancing a large popcorn and soda (yup, just like we're headed to a movie) in her hands, all while teetering on platform sandals. You wouldn't
think
there would be concessions at a high school hockey game, but oh! That's where you'd be wrong.

And Jenna just loves her some popcorn. On the bright side, at least with this throng I won't have to listen to her crunching like I do at the movies.

She's a really loud popcorn eater.

We find a large group of our friends and shimmy across the bleachers, over through the crowd. Down on the rink our players are gathered against the boards while Coach Callahan barks at them as they stand in an assembly of panting, padding, and sweat. Even so, it's not difficult to miss the penetrating black eyes seeking out mine.

Weston wiggles his eyebrows at me.

Maybe I'm just being paranoid, but I feel a hundred heads turn to see who he made the gesture at, and my face lights on fire! Whispering and some pointing from within the crowd immediately follow.
Real subtle, Weston
. Thanks.

As I'm glancing around the stadium I catch sight of a woman - the foam finger on her arm is really hard to miss (she's obviously a mom with her school sweatshirt and spirit gear), and after Weston made eyes at me from the ice, she snapped around in her bleacher seat. I watch her watch me as I spread a fleece blanket out onto the small section of stadium seating next to Jenna. Surprisingly, this woman also appears to be studying me back, and I shift awkwardly under her open examination, finally unable to take the scrutiny.

I break the brief connection and plop my butt down onto the bench.

All this gazing and staring is really making me feel foolish
.

Everyone - both students and parents - begins to cheer wildly as our team reenters the ice for our last, and third, period. Ahead by 2 points, this should be an easy victory.

"They are kicking ass!" one of our guy friends shouts to me over the noise. "McGrath has scored two goals! Two!" He holds up two fingers to demonstrate.

"Gee, thanks Marcus, we couldn't figure that one out by ourselves." Jenna shouts a tease at him.

"Be nice," I say as she wedges her bag of popcorn between our bodies. Then I say, "Good crowd tonight."

"
Good crowd tonight
," Jenna mimics. "We're not here to be social Molly, so focus! We're here man hunting. Eyes to the front!" she snaps at me like a dictator and snaps her fingers in my face, pointing to the ice.

I can't help myself - I roll my eyes at her (yes, I probably roll my eyes way too much but I'm telling you, she gets to be a bit much). Despite my irritation at her highhandedness, Jenna doesn't have to tell me twice. We sit like this, attentively watching the action side-by-side and not speaking, until there are only three minutes left. I've gone from sitting on the fleece blanket, to clutching it with white knuckles from the intensity of the game.

My gaze has not left the ice
once
. It is entirely riveted to the center of the hockey rink as if a magnetic force is dragging it there. An asteroid could land behind us and I wouldn't notice.

And damn, did I mention how unbelievably
hot
Weston looks in this uniform?

Normally I'm not really a fan of hockey uniforms because truthfully, those pants make the guys hips look huge. I mean, I'm talking wide. But I will say this: the stark white of River Glen's home hockey jersey sets off Weston's tan skin, flush with sweat and adrenalin, to perfection.

Now, if only those pants were tighter (like, you know...baseball pants) and didn't have all that padding.
That
would be a sight....

Down on the ice, Weston is crouching for more speed; his hockey skates slice swiftly across the ice. With deft precision, we all watch as he rapidly cuts the puck back and forth between his stick as he rushes the opponents' goalie, earning his reputation as the superstar player he's become.

The goalie flies in front of him and manages to block his attempt. Weston skates wide, and I am at the edge of my seat holding my breath.

Anyone can see that he has natural talent.

And he's definitely on a mission

Weston passes the puck to Brody Russell, presenting him with a golden opportunity at a chance for a breakaway, but Brody soon loses control of the puck and allows a defender from the opposing team a steal before he can get the puck back to Weston. Everyone in the stands gives a collective groan and parents are shouting. Our student section is going wild. The puck goes back and forth between RGHS and the opposing team.

Suddenly, Weston gets a centering pass from the corner and blasts it past the goalies late glove. The noise from the crowd is deafening, accompanied by the sirens going off. My ears are ringing. People are jumping in their seats and screaming.

He's done it.

Three goals in one game.

Skating over to his teammates, they quickly celebrate the point and Weston skates around with his fist in the air. My heart is beating so fast just watching him.
How hot can one guy possibly be
? Then he's skating by, stick in the air as he stares up into the stands and I receive his message loud and clear.

Those were all for
me....

***

A few short hours later, its past 11 o'clock and I'm nestled deep inside my down comforter on my back, staring up at the ceiling. It's too dark to see anything but the remnants of small glow-in-the-dark stars sprinkled above my bed from my youth: not bright enough to cast a light - but if you strain your eyes, you can still see them casting a dull spark.

I won't lie: as I lay here, a tidal wave of disappointment has washed over me, because I thought
maybe
at this point Weston would have....something. I don't know. I'm embarrassed to even admit it, but I was hoping he would have gotten ahold of me maybe? Texted me? Ugh, what if he lost my number?! Which makes me wonder, how did he get my number to begin with? Don't judge me. I know this is ridiculous - after all, we're nothing to each other but noodle buddies. But... you know how girls are; always overthinking things. Wishing on stars and praying (when I don't even pray for good grades).
Dear Lord, please let him call me. Please let him like me. Please let me know he just can't stop thinking about me too.

Please, please, please....

I am certainly no exception to this rule.

So as the dark takes over, I make a futile effort to close my eyes but all I can do is stare at the ceiling, counting fading stars. I glance over at the alarm clock on my bedside table.

11:11

'Make a wish'
my head whispers
.

I wish Weston would send me a -
wait.

Hold on one second.

My phone lights up the dark indicating I have a new text message.

My stomach flutters, and even though I'm absolutely alone I reach for it nonchalantly anyways, not wanting to be too eager.

Holy hockey sticks it's him.

Weston:
you up?

I swear to you, if I wasn't tucked in this bed I would be doing a happy dance in the middle of my room right now. I resist the urge to pump my fist and scream out in the dark. Instead, I grab a throw pillow and shriek "Ahh!" into it. How horrifying would it be my parents heard and came running into my room thinking there was an emergency, or that I was being abducted, giving everyone a heart attack like the one I was having now? Yeah, exactly. I can see myself explaining it now:
Nothin' to see here folks! Not being murdered! Just receiving texts from the hottest freaking boy you've never met, in the middle of the night....

Me:
yup...wide awake. staring at the ceiling. u?

Weston:
you made it to the game
.

Well, he certainly doesn't beat around the bush now does he...? How awesome.

I bite my lip, not knowing whether to play coy or just go with it. Either way, I can't believe he's basically calling me out for attending the game simply because he asked me to. How embarrassing. But then again,
he's
admitting that he was watching for me in a
crowd
of people!

Me:
u noticed?

Weston:
i noticed. my MOM noticed.

I begin kicking my legs under the covers in a total freak out moment, and as my duvet falls on the ground I wrack my brain wondering what he could possibly mean by that. His mom noticed? Then it dawns on me.

Me:
lady with the foam finger
?

Weston:
lol
.
yup. she was freaking out when i got home
.

Me:
why???

He doesn't respond for what seems like an absolute eternity.

Weston:
for a bunch of reasons
.

Way to leave a girl hanging! I'm totally tempted to ask 'what reasons?' because obviously, I am beyond dying to know. But he's given me such a vague answer that I don't want to pry, as much as I...want to pry. My fingers hover over the keypad on my phone, and don't know what to say. First I type '
oh
' but then delete it. Then I type '
no biggie'
but delete that too. Before I can make my brain come up with a cohesive sentence, he writes:
were you impressed
? Sheesh, what a conceited ass.

But at least it's something I can sink my teeth into.

So I literally type
yes, you conceited ass. i was on the edge of my seat to the bitter end
.

Weston:
lol
.
i aim to please
.

I stare at that sentence, not really knowing what to say, and those flutters are back in my stomach. A million things come to mind, none of them even remotely appropriate for this conversation. Newsflash: I have a tremendously imaginative mind. And by imaginative, I mean vivid...and by vivid I mean I can out trash talk my brother.

Weston:
i noticed you were late. tsk tsk

Me
: shouldn't you have been focused on the game?

Weston
: and THAT'S the reason my mom was freaking out when i got home.

Me
: (snort) like you have never been distracted from a game before...

Again, Weston doesn't respond right away. I sit there in the dark thinking maybe I went too far. Calling a guy out for creeping on me?
Real smooth, Molly.
Jenna would be having a hysterical fit right now (and
not
in a good way) and would probably be hitting me with something at this point too.

Like, with a blunt force object.

After about four minutes of pure torture, my phone finally lights up the dark.

Weston
: nope. this would be a first.

My phone immediately dings again as he sends another text. i
was hoping we could have grabbed something at Kyoto after the game, but my hand had 2 get wrapped and the trainer took 4ever.