Chapter 9: The Win

Northfield beat Duluth four to two on Friday night, and Brody scored the third goal with a bad shoulder.

I screamed so loud in the stands that a stranger gave me his hot dog.

The house was a zoo by ten.

Forty people crowded the porch, and the speaker played the same song over and over.

Nate stood on the kitchen table in his jersey, giving a speech about goaltending.

I stood by the stairs with a cup of root beer in my hand.

Brody found me there.

He had showered, and his hair was still wet.

He put his mouth near my ear.

"Come upstairs."

"The term says someone has to be watching."

"Nobody's watching."

"The whole house is watching."

"Then they'll see us leave."

He took my hand and walked me up the stairs through forty people who whistled and clapped, and he didn't look back once.

His room was at the front of the house, plain and neat, with a window onto the porch roof and a bed made tight.

He shut the door and leaned his back on it.

The party thumped through the floor.

"Nate's in the doorway," I said.

He laughed once, low.

Then he crossed the room in two steps and kissed me against the wall.

It wasn't slow.

His hands went to the hem of my sweater and pulled it over my head.

He dropped it and looked at me in my bra, his chest rising hard.

"You're beautiful," he said, and his voice cracked on it.

I got his shirt off, careful of the tape.

I put my mouth on the bruise on his shoulder and kissed it, once, softly, and he groaned.

"Told you I wanted to do that."

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