right, up the ridged metal ramp.
They passed a group of huddled girls and then climbed the four steps to the top of the metal bleachers.
“What grade’s he in?” Skye asked.
“Ninth.”
Ninth grade—fourteen. Skye rested her back against the wall and wished she’d brought a cushion or blanket, some sort of barrier between the cold metal bleacher and her rear end. Her long underwear and jeans did little to disabuse her of the notion that she was sitting on a hard metal ice cube.
Skye’s gaze wandered to the group of five girls clumped together off to their left. Clothes, hair styles, body art and piercing, had all changed since she’d attended high school, but giggling girls going to the games and gawking at hot guys certainly had not. Three of the girls had a heavy hand with eye makeup; the other two sported more adventurous hairdos. All had multiple ear piercing. Safe enough rebellions. Rebellions Niki would never know.
Skye’s heart crushed painfully. Having only been in fifth grade when she died, Nik never got a chance to fight with her mom about makeup and wearing skimpy clothes. She never got the chance to do foolish things like freezing for vanity’s sake or wearing cute heels that made her legs look great and caused huge blisters—if not bloody heels. She never got the chance to experience that frightening jittery stomach that accompanied the obsession of puppy love. Niki had been robbed of so much. It wasn’t fair. Skye looped her arm through Mark’s and leaned into him for comfort.
Mark looked down at her, questioning.
Skye shuddered. “It’s cold in here.”
Mark smiled and gave her arm a little squeeze before returning his attention to the boys warming up on the ice.
At a sharp whistle, the boys lined up, facing off across the red line, and then the ref in the zebra-striped shirt dropped the puck. The boys exploded into action.
“Jeff’s number seven.” Mark pointed out the tall, lanky center.
“Why doesn’t he have his name across his shoulders like the others?”
“Borrowed jersey. He only plays occasionally for this team.” Skye cringed as the boys slammed into the boards with sickening thuds. She admired the smooth way they stroked down the ice with such concentration and graceful ease, passing the puck back and forth as if neatly choreographed.
The first period passed fairly uneventfully, with both teams feeling each other out. The second, they came out fighting. The pace visibly picked up, as did the tension. The boys eyed the opponents with steady determination, and sweat darkened their hair around reddened faces. Grunts and curses punctuated calls to teammates. The final period was intense.
Finding it increasingly difficult to block out the girls’ gum snapping and chatter about who was crushing on whom, and where the coming weekend’s parties were to be held, Skye turned around to glare at them, but quickly brought her gaze back to the rink.
A loud, rapid thump, thump, thump pounded the boards in front of them. Skye jerked back as three boys shoved and pushed each other until one of the guy’s helmet and face smeared against the Plexiglas.
The puck squirted out of the pack, and Jeff scooped it up. He gracefully moved the stick from side to side to keep the puck protected as he wove and darted around the defenders. With a quick flick of his wrist, he passed the puck to a teammate. The closest defender hooked his skate, and Jeff fell hard to the ice. He slid several yards toward the net, before rolling up and getting back into the action.
Skye smacked Mark’s arm. “He tripped him. Did you see that? He tripped him.” She sputtered. “Why aren’t they calling a foul?”
Mark nodded, yet kept his gaze on the ice, following the play at the far end of the rink. “The ref didn’t see it.”
“What is he, blind?”
Mark looked at her, then grinned, seemingly amused by her indignation. “Could be.”
Number six on the other team had a breakaway. Jeff sprinted
They passed a group of huddled girls and then climbed the four steps to the top of the metal bleachers.
“What grade’s he in?” Skye asked.
“Ninth.”
Ninth grade—fourteen. Skye rested her back against the wall and wished she’d brought a cushion or blanket, some sort of barrier between the cold metal bleacher and her rear end. Her long underwear and jeans did little to disabuse her of the notion that she was sitting on a hard metal ice cube.
Skye’s gaze wandered to the group of five girls clumped together off to their left. Clothes, hair styles, body art and piercing, had all changed since she’d attended high school, but giggling girls going to the games and gawking at hot guys certainly had not. Three of the girls had a heavy hand with eye makeup; the other two sported more adventurous hairdos. All had multiple ear piercing. Safe enough rebellions. Rebellions Niki would never know.
Skye’s heart crushed painfully. Having only been in fifth grade when she died, Nik never got a chance to fight with her mom about makeup and wearing skimpy clothes. She never got the chance to do foolish things like freezing for vanity’s sake or wearing cute heels that made her legs look great and caused huge blisters—if not bloody heels. She never got the chance to experience that frightening jittery stomach that accompanied the obsession of puppy love. Niki had been robbed of so much. It wasn’t fair. Skye looped her arm through Mark’s and leaned into him for comfort.
Mark looked down at her, questioning.
Skye shuddered. “It’s cold in here.”
Mark smiled and gave her arm a little squeeze before returning his attention to the boys warming up on the ice.
At a sharp whistle, the boys lined up, facing off across the red line, and then the ref in the zebra-striped shirt dropped the puck. The boys exploded into action.
“Jeff’s number seven.” Mark pointed out the tall, lanky center.
“Why doesn’t he have his name across his shoulders like the others?”
“Borrowed jersey. He only plays occasionally for this team.” Skye cringed as the boys slammed into the boards with sickening thuds. She admired the smooth way they stroked down the ice with such concentration and graceful ease, passing the puck back and forth as if neatly choreographed.
The first period passed fairly uneventfully, with both teams feeling each other out. The second, they came out fighting. The pace visibly picked up, as did the tension. The boys eyed the opponents with steady determination, and sweat darkened their hair around reddened faces. Grunts and curses punctuated calls to teammates. The final period was intense.
Finding it increasingly difficult to block out the girls’ gum snapping and chatter about who was crushing on whom, and where the coming weekend’s parties were to be held, Skye turned around to glare at them, but quickly brought her gaze back to the rink.
A loud, rapid thump, thump, thump pounded the boards in front of them. Skye jerked back as three boys shoved and pushed each other until one of the guy’s helmet and face smeared against the Plexiglas.
The puck squirted out of the pack, and Jeff scooped it up. He gracefully moved the stick from side to side to keep the puck protected as he wove and darted around the defenders. With a quick flick of his wrist, he passed the puck to a teammate. The closest defender hooked his skate, and Jeff fell hard to the ice. He slid several yards toward the net, before rolling up and getting back into the action.
Skye smacked Mark’s arm. “He tripped him. Did you see that? He tripped him.” She sputtered. “Why aren’t they calling a foul?”
Mark nodded, yet kept his gaze on the ice, following the play at the far end of the rink. “The ref didn’t see it.”
“What is he, blind?”
Mark looked at her, then grinned, seemingly amused by her indignation. “Could be.”
Number six on the other team had a breakaway. Jeff sprinted
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