Chapter 7: Stitches

I did not look at Jase's name on her lips for longer than a heartbeat.

"My stepbrother," I said, loud and flat, "is none of my business on Thursdays, and neither is your bed."

The lounge groaned in sympathy.

"Do you want to open a photo of him, too?" I asked. "Or are you going to explain why you've been counting his eyebrows?"

Somebody in the back said, "Oof."

Zara's face went the color of her coat.

"Scars aren't evidence, Holloway," Rhett said from beside me. "They're what happens on a Tuesday."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means the game starts at seven."

The arena horn sounded across the quad, right on cue, and half the room whooped.

Hallie grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the door, whispering, "That was the best thing I have ever filmed."

"Don't post it."

"Oh, I'm absolutely posting it."

At seven-fifteen, I sat on the bench with my clipboard and my heart in my throat.

Halverson Arena was a roaring white bowl.

Jase's line took the opening faceoff, and he tapped the post twice with his stick, the way he always did.

I wrote it in my notebook in tiny letters, and then I crossed it out.

Rhett's line came on in the second period.

He skated and was furious about it.

Twice a big Syracuse defenseman shoved him hard into the boards, and twice Rhett stood up, flexed his taped fingers, and skated away.

The crowd booed the other team.

On the bench, Coach muttered, "Look at that. Not one glove off."

"He's trying," I said.

"He's trying to impress somebody." Coach squinted at me. "Is it you?"

I stared very hard at my clipboard.

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