He Shoots, She scores

Chapter Twenty-Three: Gracie | Compliments All Around

To say Tulsa loves hockey is an understatement.

As we enter the arena, we're forced to wedge sideways past people's legs just to find a seat crammed next to an elderly couple on one side, and a cute couple on the other. More people get settled, and then the announcer is calling in our team. Shouts go berserk. Madison has baby Sage strapped to her chest next to me. The baby's wearing a pair of headphones twice the size of her head and I'm close to taking a picture of it and making it my screensaver.

Nessa and I both hold up our neon green posters which reads: GO TULSA GO. There's a hurricane of lights flashing around the players while they skate around with grace and ease, amping up for the game. A heightened level of excitement and adrenaline swirl the air. The crowds increase with time, the music base is dropping, and all players are tapping their sticks against the ice. I don't understand any of it, but then again, maybe there's nothing to understand. You know how they say there's no better bonding than mutual hatred? Well, I'd disagree and argue that a love for masculine fuelled sports is even larger.

The national anthem finishes and we settle back down. Like the first game, I can't help but glue my attention on Weston. My knowledge on hockey is limited, but I can still tell that Weston seems off. His movements seem slower and delayed, like he's forgotten where he's supposed to be. I'll catch him skating one way before doing a double take and racing back to center. "That's weird" Madison mutters from next to me.

"What's weird?" I'm forced to holler so she can hear me.

"He usually plays right defense. But they switched him to center."

"Ohhh" I say, as if I know what that means.

She explains, "Centers have the most ice coverage. They get more flexibility and control the pace of the game."

"Ooohh. That's good. Right?"

Madison gives me the side eye which makes me feel like I've said the wrong thing. "Not if you've only ever played right defense."

"Oh."

We watch helplessly as our team loses (badly) to the first quarter. The score is 0-1. Weston rips off his helmet, and even from the bleachers I can see his discontent. His lips are barking orders and the team is racing off to the side. I, however, can't help but admire the way his damp hair sticks to his head. There's a furrow in his brow that I always thought was reserved for me everytime I leave behind a mess or sing too loudly in my room, but turns out, that's just his regular pissed off face. The other team that we're versuing, Jacksonville, seem relaxed and confident in comparison. They're taking their time to grab water while our team is in a rigid huddle. Geez. You'd think they were discussing tax evasion based off their body language.

Soon enough, the buzzer sounds and everyone is back on the ice. Weston goes to the middle for a face off against the opposite team. His tall body hunches down, his stick poised, and when the puck drops to the ice, Weston moves quick. People all around me are cheering. For once, it seems like the odds are in our favor. Weston passes to #4 who passes to RJ who takes a shot and-

Misses. Everybody is groaning. Nessa groans the loudest.

Half an hour of more losing goes by before Nessa leans over and shouts, "This is getting depressing. I'm going to get some hot chocolate."

"Bring back two."

Another ten minutes go by and then it's intermission. I stand up to stretch and sneak a peek at Weston, who's busy arguing with the coach by the penalty box. Hands are being thrown in the air. Fingers are being pointed. It's quite the scene.

Madison stands up next to me. "Hey, do you mind taking Sage for a second? I need to use the bathroom."

My fingers are already waggling in a 'gimme gimme' motion. With Sage in my arms, a sudden idea sparks in my mind. Not a particularly good idea, but that doesn't stop me from maneuvering my way down the bleachers to the rink.

I spot Weston right away in the halls. I keep my head high and strut there with purpose.

Weston stands there, chest heaving up and down as he's pouring water into his mouth. His helmet is tucked into his armpit, that shining glow cascading not only over his face, but also his hair, making it stick up into a million sexy pieces. I mean, not sexy, damn it, irritating.

He's still drinking his water when he notices me. His brows go up. "Gracie?" Weston frowns, but more in a confused manner than an annoyed one. "What are you doing back here?"

"I just thought I'd bring Sage here to say hello." I hold Sage's mini hand and wave it. "You seem significantly less bitter when there's a baby in the vicinity."

When Weston spots his niece, the earlier scowl quickly melts away, replaced by an expression of, not happiness per say, but neutrality. But hey, that's better than being pissed off. It's a Christmas miracle that my plan worked. "I can't hold her cause I'm sweaty" he says, while using a finger to tickle her belly. "But you're right. I feel significantly less bitter."

"See? Told you." I adjust Sage's headphones, which Sage keeps tugging off because she finds it hilarious. Weston watches this with a smile on his face. "So, not to state the obvious, but you're not playing very well tonight."

He snaps his gaze to me, as if forgetting I'm here too. I expect my comment to bring back his signature frown, but instead, I find a slight lip twitch. "You don't say."

"I'm no hockey expert, but maybe you should...I don't know, skate faster? Play better?"

Weston snorts. "You sure you've never watched hockey before?"

"Must be my natural talent." Despite everything, my lips crawl into a smile that Weston mirrors. For a split second, it doesn't feel like he's my nemesis. I don't want to say we're friends, because that's pushing it, but whatever is in between that. Roommates. There. 

I glance at the scoreboard, where I see there's less than five minutes remaining. "Well, me and Sage should get back to the bl-"

Suddenly, his non-gloved hand reaches out. Before I know it, he's taking a strand of my hair into his fingers and lightly twisting it back and forth. What in the world? "You did something different with your hair." He says it like a comment. Like it's a mind-blowing fact and he cannot believe it. And then he stares at me, waiting for me to respond, as if nothing else matters in the world except the answer to this question. As if he's not currently at a hockey game where his team is losing viciously.

"Um." I shift Sage to my other arm. "I curled it."

It was a spontaneous decision before we left the house. I've always been kind of bored with my pin-straight hair, so Nessa helped me try something different. Usually, I go for a bun or a ponytail. But leaving it down and curled is new for me. Personally, I think I look great.

Apparently, Weston does too. "I like it" he says. So quietly that I'm unsure if he said it at all. But then he's swallowing and glancing away, squinting like the sun just blinded him. "But I liked how you looked before too."

Um. What? Weston liked my old ratty buns? No way. Even I don't like them. Sometimes I see myself in the reflection and think a bird built its nest there. But then there's four minutes until play time and the rest of his team is approaching fast. Weston doesn't give me a goodbye or any other kind of greeting and Sage and I turn to leave.

I meet Madison and Nessa back in our seats. After handing Sage back to her mother, Nessa elbows me in the ribs and asks, "Why do you look paler than usual?"

Absently, my hand goes to touch my hair. "Weston said he liked my hair."

"Well, duh. Why wouldn't he? You look hot." She nudges me again. "Here. Have some hot chocolate. It'll bring the color back in your cheeks."

The game continues on in a flurry, but my mind is pre-occupied with Weston's comment. He said he liked my hair. I'm not going to overthink this. Roommates compliment each other's hair all the time.

Right?