College newspaper beat writer Cameron Evans wants nothing more than to be crowned editor-in-chief, but she gets more than she bargained for when she meets the subject of her latest article; the brash, stubbornly aloof new star hockey player, Luce Fl...
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IF THERE'S ONE THING YOU MUST KNOW, it's that Essex College loves women's hockey.
It's always been this way. We've won 7 NCAA championships in the last fifteen years, including back-to-back titles my freshman year. Hockey is the reason Essex ranks in the top five best party schools in the nation and Natty Light is still in business.
The girls that don the Grizzlies green letterman jackets are worshipped on campus. They're the only team that packs The Barn – the undying nickname for our vaulted timber arena – to the very top of the rafters. Nothing at Essex quite compares to the electricity and drunken debauchery of a Grizzlies home game.
Game one of the season is no different.
It's a rivalry rematch against Ithaca, the team we lost a nail biter to in last year's National Championship semi-final game. We're all knotted up at 3-3 in the dying minutes of the third period. I watch from the scorer's box as the chew of skates breaks through the din of screaming freshman and sloshing pints. The Grizzlies o-zone attack develops like the perfect concerto. Tape to tape passes and forwards flying up the wings. I see a hole emerge in the defense at the same time the girls on the ice do, and like a composer, I signal across as a saucer pass lands perfectly on the stick of Stephanie Dupont.
Let's get one thing straight; I don't believe in 'the one', or 'soulmates', or any of that bullshit. It's antiquated and belongs in mid-2000s Kate Hudson romcoms. But if I did, Steph Dupont would be my Benjamin Barry.
More on her later.
Steph cradles the puck and dodges a defender to break the blue-line. It's just her and the goaltender squaring up. The arena rises to their feet, expecting a patented Dupont bar-down wrister to seal the game.
It never comes.
It never comes, because at that moment, Luce Flores lowers her shoulder and plasters an Ithaca defender into the boards beside me with a sickening crunch. The referee's hand shoots up, the play is blown dead, and a collective groan echoes through the grandstands.
And that's when I crack.
Not because I particularly care about Essex hockey. Contrary to everything I've said thus far, Idon't. Not because the first hockey house party of the year will be cancelled if we lose. Not even because the girl I've been unable to get out of my head was about to notch the game winner.
It's because when I look up, Luce Flores is tossing open the door of the penalty box with the most satisfied smirk on her face, as though she's proud of herself for blowing up a surefire goal with her stupid, broad shoulders and insufferable aggression.
She props herself up on the bench like she's soaking in an Ibiza all-inclusive. "So we meet again."
I level her with the most unimpressed expression I can muster. If she sees it, she does a good job of pretending she doesn't.
