And neither is the next one. I watch as he fires a shot on Silas, and then on Beacon, both of them at jet speed.
I have to look away to dive for a shot from Leo. But then Bryce comes back to me and sends me a puck at the speed of a grandmother riding on a donkey.
He’s soft-balling me, I realize. Bryce can see that I’m struggling, so he’s throwing me a series of easy shots. He’s coddling me.
And I am livid.
It’s funny what anger will do to a girl’s game. I am ferocious as I stop the next two shots from Leo. And when Bryce sends me another yawner, I slap it back to him so hard and so accurately that he has to dodge out of the way to avoid taking a shot to the nuts, because he’s not wearing any pads.
“Merde,” he curses softly.
“Whoops,” I say through gritted teeth. And I give him a look so bitter that his eyes widen in alarm.
But the boy does not learn his lesson. For the remaining few minutes of the exercise, he takes it easy on me. After ripping meteors at every other goalie, he sends me pucks that would embarrass a high school center.
I am incensed. I don’t need Bryce to humiliate me like this, when I’d been doing a fine job of it without his help.
When the coach finally blows the whistle, calling our session to a close, I gather up the pucks with everyone else.
“Whoa, that was intense,” Scarlet says, still breathing hard. “Great session, huh?”
“Yup. Great,” I manage. At this rate, I’ll spend the season sitting in the corner of the bench opening and closing the door for other players on shift changes, while Scarlet plays every last game.
I wait until the coaches depart. And then I skate up to Bryce, who’s moving one of the extra nets out of the way. “What the hell was that?” I hiss. “Why would you treat me like a child, instead of an athlete?”
Bryce jerks his head back in shock. “I did not treat you like a child.”
“You absolutely did! Don’t try to make my life easier, Bryce. That is not why I came to Brooklyn. And that is not what you’re supposed to be to me—my protector. You’re supposed to—” I bite off the rest of the sentence. Kiss me. Love me. Want me.
I don’t say these things out loud. I shouldn’t have to. And furthermore, we’re not alone. When I glance over my shoulder, I spy Anton Bayer crossing through the vestibule, in earshot of everything I’m saying. And his eyes look worried.
Luckily, I don’t have to stop yelling at Bryce. I can just switch to French, and insist that he doesn’t ever take it easy on me in practice again. On penalty of death. Or at least a good maiming.
“Je suis désolé, Sylvie. Je ne veux pas.”
He’s trying to appease me. But I’m still so angry I could burst.
So I turn on my skates and walk away without another word.
Eight
Such a Grind
ANTON
Oh man. The moment Sylvie busts me for eavesdropping on her argument with Campeau, I high-tail it out of the rink.
Not that anyone asked me, but she was absolutely justified in her anger. Anyone could see that he wasn’t shooting at her the same way he did for everyone else. That’s not what the coach asked of him, either. A player can’t grow without practicing at the highest level.
Yet any fool could also see that he’d done it out of love. There’s no way he intended to humiliate her. That’s just not the kind of guy he is.
I’m still thinking about them when I slip into the back of the video room, where the defensive coordinator is showing us tape in preparation for our first preseason games.
“This rookie sniper was named the MVP of the Junior World Championships in 2018…” Coach drones.
Campeau’s thing with Sylvie is none of my business. And signing up to teach swimming lessons with her was probably a stupid move.
My little crush is only going to get worse.
The coach drones on about New Jersey’s scoring style, and I try to pay attention.
When Coach is done, I somehow manage to enter the lobby from the video room at the same moment that Sylvie bounds out of the tunnel, heading for the door.
“Hey,” I say, startled by the reappearance of the girl I can’t stop thinking about. Her cheeks are flushed. Stealing glances at her for a week has taught me that she always has high color in her cheeks, as if she burns a little brighter than other women.
“Hi,” she says, slowing her pace as she approaches. “You’re not waiting for Campeau, are you?” The name sounds extra French when she says it.
And maybe I’m a jackass for thinking this, but I’d really like to hear her mutter French into my ear in bed. “Uh, no. No. Don’t know where he is.”
“Good.”
She sounds so fierce, I have to laugh. “Walk out with me,” I say with more nonchalance than I feel.
“Are you going to give me a lecture about patience, or gratitude?”
“Fuck no, I don’t give lectures. I’m usually on the receiving end of those.”
Her face breaks into a startled smile, and she follows me out onto the sidewalk. “Well, I probably deserve one. But I’m not in a forgiving mood yet.”
“Are you in the mood for tequila, though? That’s what I offer my friends after a shitty day.” It’s true, too. I’m not one to dole out advice. Who wants to turn into his father?
“I’m not much of a drinker,” Sylvie says, tossing her lush hair over her shoulder. “But I could use some food.”
“How do you feel about spicy Szechuan?”
“I feel great about it. You don’t have to cheer me up, though. If you have things to do.”
“Woman, it’s chow time. And you’re saving me from masturdating.”
“Um, what?” she says, giving me a startled look.
“That’s a Frankenword for taking yourself out to dinner alone. Masturdating.”
“A Frankenword?” She gives a shout of laughter and claps a hand over her mouth. “You are ridiculous.”
“True facts. Now follow me, newbie. It’s time for your introduction to the best cheap Chinese food in Brooklyn.”
She hitches her gym bag up on her shoulder and follows me down the street.
Soon we’re ensconced at China Garden and splitting a first course of green dumplings in tangy plum sauce.
“These are magnifique,” Sylvie gushes, plucking up another dumpling with her chopsticks. “How did you find this place?”
“Georgia Trevi. She has a thing for dumplings.”
“Bless her. And thanks for bringing me here. I was clearly in need of an intervention.”
“Hey, no problem.” I sound casual enough. But that’s not how I really feel. Sylvie has hovered at the edge of my consciousness these past ten days. Every time both teams are in the practice facility, I somehow manage to hear her laugh, or spot her down the corridor.
And now I have her alone. It’s no crime to buy a girl some spicy noodles and chicken after a bad day, but I feel a little guilty nonetheless. And it occurs to me now that Bryce Campeau hates this restaurant and never comes here.