The Best Kind of Forever (Riverside Reapers)
The Best Kind of Forever: Chapter 9

AERIS

I swing my legs against the side of my pink comforter, my hands clawing for anything that can act as a stress ball. Lila, my best friend, has somehow convinced me to go with her to a hockey game tonight. I know jackshit about hockey. Roden was more interested in the arts, and the only sport my father watched religiously was football.

Lila and I have been best friends ever since my freshman year of college. We met at a house party that I’d been dragged to by my roommate—who wasn’t the nicest person, and who also used my hand towels to dry her vibrators without telling me.

After my roommate left me to fend for myself among upperclassmen, Lila found me like the unsuspecting mouse I was in a flock full of hungry hawks. She took me under her wing that night and introduced me to all of her friends, which was a welcome change from cowering in the corner and pretending to text on my phone.

I’m lucky to have found Lila. She’s helped me cope with my brother’s death and the estrangement from my parents. I don’t know where I’d be without her.

I’m used to Lila being able to ease my worries fairly quickly, but the more I think about Hayes’ curt departure and the fact that he hasn’t texted me back yet, the more it continues to nourish my unease.

She must’ve picked up on my tortured expression because her hands are on her hips and her head is tilted. “What’s up, Aer-Bear? You’ve been quiet this whole time,” she whines.

Anxiety beats like a second heart in my head, and my qualms express themselves through irregular breaths. “Remember that guy I mentioned to you?”

“The guy you tossed your cookies all over?”

“Yes…that guy…”

She minces over to her makeup vanity on wheels, picks up an eyeshadow palette, and lifts some of the charcoal powder onto my eyelids. “What about him, love?”

“I texted him, but I haven’t heard back from him yet.”

Once Lila gives me some room to breathe, I lean down and pick up Crunch, setting her in my lap. She chirps happily, then walks in a circle before burrowing into a little ball.

“Oh, sweetie.” Lila uses her thumb to tilt my chin up. “Guys are dogs. They lead girls on because they don’t know what they want, and then they let you down gently by claiming that ‘You’re a good girl, and I’m not ready for a relationship.’ Even though the entire time you were together, he treated you like you were his girlfriend. Even kissed you on the forehead!”

“Uh…”

She exhales abrasively, her makeup brush flittering in and out of my peripheral. “Sorry, unresolved trauma. Maybe he’s just been busy,” she supplies, her butterscotch ringlets bouncing against her shoulders. “Do you know what he does for work?”

“He said he’s a personal trainer,” I say, trying to tamp down the dose of anxiety suffusing through my veins.

“Maybe he got into a car accident on his way to work, broke all the bones in his body, had to be airlifted to the hospital, and hasn’t been able to use his phone?”

I laugh for what feels like the first time in forever, and the panic in my heart immediately thaws into a lukewarm splendor.

“Maybe it was something I said.”

Lila swats my arm, making me yelp. Crunch shoots straight up into the air, her needle-thin claws piercing my legs, and she zooms out of the room before I have time to pet her back into submission.

“Stop replaceing ways to blame yourself. This is on him. If he can’t see how incredible you are, then he doesn’t deserve a second of your time, okay?” she growls, practically flaying me alive with her stone-cold gaze.

Angry Lila is scary. She’s never unleashed her full wrath on me, but I did witness her tearing into a pledge during a frat party after he drunkenly poured his drink all over some girl. If I hadn’t stopped her, she probably would’ve harvested his balls and hung them over her rearview mirror like a pair of fuzzy dice.

“Okay.”

“Uh-huh. Say it once more, with feeling.”

“Okay?”

“Close enough,” she sighs, standing back to admire her work. “Perfect! You look beautiful as always.”

She hands me a mirror, bouncing on the balls of her feet excitedly.

She’s gone for a smoky eye—which seems a little intense for a hockey game, but looks gorgeous, nonetheless—a touch of blush on my cheeks, a brush of mascara on my lashes, and a shiny gloss that enhances my Cupid’s bow.

My hair has a slight wave to it as it cascades down my shoulders, ending at the hem of my cropped jersey top. The top was Lila’s idea. She’s gotten me to step out of my comfort zone and experiment more with outfits that don’t solely consist of oversized shirts and sweatpants. I’ve also tried my luck at a pair of bootcut jeans, ones that will hopefully slide off my legs without resistance. And no heels tonight. Or ever again.

Lila’s hair is curled into full corkscrews, and she’s donned a clean, natural makeup look. Her pink bodycon dress hugs her poised and elegant body, revealing tan, long legs. The neckline is low—a Lila Perkins special—and it accentuates every curve of her perky cleavage. Lila dresses up for every occasion. Nothing is ever plain and simple with her. She doesn’t mind the stares or the scandalized whispers. She’s confident in her body, and she doesn’t like to be relegated to stupid, sexist clothing etiquette.

I pick at the grime hugged to the underside of my fingernail. “Do you think I should text him again?”

“How about we forget about dumb boys and try to have fun tonight?” she proposes, yanking my arms and pulling me from my sulking.

LILA STARTS her parade of apologies as she ducks down in front of a row of people, snacks spilling out from the cradle of her arms.

“So that’s why it took you ten minutes to come back,” I snicker, snatching a kernel of popcorn from her and popping it in my mouth.

She rolls her eyes, ripping open a packet of Skittles and dumping at least half of it down her gullet. I don’t know how she doesn’t chew them one by one. I don’t even know if she tastes them. “Food is the best part of any sports game. Aside from the hot players.”

I stare down at the empty rink, crinkling my nose. “Eh, hockey players aren’t really my type.”

“Really?” she exclaims through a mouthful of food. “Have you seen their butts?”

Have I seen their butts? I can admit that it’s not the first thing I usually notice, but consider my interest piqued. I glance around to take in the atmosphere, mentally taking note of all the fans decked out in blue and black merchandise. Some are holding up glittery signs; others are waving foam fingers.

Something about being surrounded by comradery feels comforting. I sit through Lila’s ten-minute spiel about the rules of the game, but I honestly don’t know how much information I’ll retain. I lost her at “They can beat each other up.”

The announcer’s boisterous voice soon fills the entire stadium, stirring a rumbling amidst the crowd, hoots and hollers harpooning the glacial air. A crescendo vibrates in my bones, and the overhead lights flash in accordance with the epic beats of what I can only assume is the hockey team’s theme song. Particles from the ice swirl in the diaphanous light beams, lifting up in a fragile mist. A cracking animation feathers out from the center of the rink, and a large, black shape descends from the rafters. It isn’t until the spotlights illuminate the extravagant image that I realize it’s a giant grim reaper. Which makes a lot of sense now, considering the team is…the Riverside Reapers.

There are a few prerecorded cracks of thunder that reverberate in the arena, and the lights mimic a flash of lightning, backlighting the glowing red eyes in the skull of the reaper. Cheers erupt all around me, and everyone unanimously clambers to their feet, clapping in collective elation. The lights still, and the announcer’s voice deluges my ears again, clear as day.

“Please welcome your Riverside Reapers!”

And one by one, tiny hockey players—well, tiny from where I’m sitting—exit the tunnel, skating around the perimeter of the rink and raising their arms up, rousing the audience. Some of the fans’ voices rise to decibel levels, and I think I momentarily lose hearing in one ear.

The players spend about thirty minutes warming up before any of the actual playing starts. The game commences at the sound of the buzzer, and streaks of jerseys all shoot out to their designated zones. The puck is placed in the center of the rink, and the jumbotron zeroes in on the two players hovering on either side of the puck. The guy on the Reapers is handsome from what I can tell—brown hair that curls under his helmet, honeysuckle eyes, and a perfectly sloped nose. I’m not granted much time to gawk before movement stutters past my vision in rapid afterimages. The puck ping-pongs between players at a speed I didn’t know was possible.

Number thirty-six, Brenner, careens across the ice, practically moving at the speed of sound, and he closes in on the opposing team’s goal, but he doesn’t take the shot. He passes to another player, number eighteen, Hollings, who does some kind of fake-out trick before wrenching his arm on a diagonal and sinking the puck into the net.

Everyone bursts into a hurricane of frenzied euphoria. Even Lila is at the edge of her seat. She’s all endearment and enthusiasm, the two folding into one another on the canvas of her face.

When the camera pans to the first scorer of the evening, my heart sinks into the soles of my shoes, and every contradictory emotion crashes into me like waves against a rocky outcrop. There, definitely not in a full-body cast from a life-threatening car accident, is Hayes, giving the spectators a smirk that spells disaster.

No. Fucking. Way.