Page 143 of A Little Secret
Right now, I’m crabby, I don’t feel good, and I want to go home. Or maybe I’m grouchy because the guys are down two to one. The tension is palpable, even from the stands, and I know I have a two-hour drive home after it ends. The Lady Hawks have a game at home, so I’m here with my parents. Griffin’s parents are here to cheer him on, too, but they couldn’t get seats with us, and I gave up searching for them in the crowd, too distracted by my achy body. If only we weren’t losing, then I’d at least have something to be happy about. Now, I just feel…blah.
As Everett heads to the blue line, meeting the waiting ref and the opposing team’s center, my dad squeezes my knee beside me.
“Hey, you good?” he asks.
“Crampy, but fine.”
He frowns. “You sure?”
“Yeah. I Googled it. It’s normal.”
“No dizziness?” my mom prods from his opposite side.
I fold at the waist, sneaking a peek at her from around my dad. “No dizziness. Just a little crampy and hungry.”
“Want me to grab you a pretzel?” my dad offers.
I shrug. “Maybe after the second period.”
With a soft nod, my parents turn back to the game, and I do the same, just in time to watch the puck drop from the ref’s fingers. Everett immediately rears his stick back, ready to steal it from the opposing center. Sticks clashing and bodies crashing into the boards, Everett passes the puck to a waiting Reeves.
Suddenly, near the center of the ice, Paulson, a burly defenseman known for his physical play and assholery all game, delivers a hard check to Griffin. With a gasp, I jump to my feet along with the rest of the crowd. Griffin stumbles but quickly regains his footing, turning to face Paulson with a glare I swear could cut through steel.
Shit.
The tension between the two has been building throughout the game since Griffin scored our only point through Paulson’s skates during the first period. Now, it looks like it’s finally reached a boiling point, and Paulson’s pissed.
Without hesitation, Griffin drops his gloves, and Paulson does the same, his gloves hitting the ice with a thud. I used to love this part. And maybe a part of me still does, but the other part? Well, no one likes seeing their boyfriend get hit, even when I know he can hold his own. The game is forgotten. Now, all that matters is my mannear the glass, his hands fisted. His expression twisted with fury. The ref’s whistle blows, ringing throughout the arena, though I’ve attended enough games to know it won’t do shit.
Nope. These two have been pissing each other off all night. Pressing my hand above my pubic bone, I shift from one foot to the other, ignoring the cramps that’ve been plaguing me all day, and hold my breath, preparing for an all-out brawl.
Eyes locked with his opponent, Griffin throws the first punch. His right hook glances off Paulson’s helmet, and Paulson counters with a jab to Griffin’s chest, followed by an uppercut that catches Griff on the chin. The crowd erupts, a mix of cheers and gasps filling the arena, as I cover my mouth.
Ouch. Er, double ouch.
Yup. There’s another cramp. I press my hand above my pubic bone as the fight intensifies, both players trading blows with ferocity while I watch from the stands. Then again, it’s not like I could join in and rip the two apart, but part of me wants to, just to keep Griffin from getting hurt.
“It’s only a game,” I whisper under my breath, rising onto my tiptoes in hopes of getting a better view.
Griffin grabs Paulson’s jersey, pulling him off balance and landing a solid punch to the side of his head as I hook my arm around my dad’s bicep, using him to keep me steady while we watch the chaos unfold. Paulson responds with a flurry of punches to Griffin’s midsection, each hit landing with a dull thud, and I wince. Blood trickles from a cut above Griffin’s eye, but he doesn’t back down as my brother races toward the chaos with the rest of his team.
Yup. We’re seconds from an all-out brawl, and I swear I can feel every hit all the way up here in the stands.
My mouth forms a small ‘o’ as I breathe out another sharp pain above my pubic bone.
Yeah, that one hurt.
The referees, now close enough, step in to separate the two. It takes a few moments, and the help of other players, but they finally manage to pull Griff off Paulson, their faces flushed with exertion and adrenaline.
As the refs escort them to the penalty boxes, the crowd roars with excitement. Griff sits down on the bench, his hands still fisted. He gives Paulson one last glare—the glass separating them not enough to dampen their animosity—then he looks up at the stands, searching for me.
Once he meets my gaze, I mouth, “You okay?” and give him a thumbs up, my brows stitched with concern. When another cramp hits me, I press my hand to my stomach again, fighting the urge to fold in half and vomit all at the same time.
Oof. That was a rough one.
Cramps are normal,I remind myself. They’re super normal. But this? This feels…this feels wrong.
Griffin’s smirk falls as he stands, looks up at me through the glass, and presses his hands to the see-through barrier separating us.