I can’t afford to shift once the clock starts. The game clock, and my positional clock, too. It’s what supe games use to keep track of every second players in each position spend using their powers. Three minutes. Any more, and we’re benched for the rest of the game.
It may seem harsh, but without it, the Yellow Jackets’ goalie would shift into his bear and plop himself in front of the net and stay there all game. Rodriguez would shrink the other team and then sit back, relax, and watch us score. And Zhang would zoom around the ice with super speed and steal the puck every time. Vampires, am I right?
I glance up at the stands one more time and look at my girl. Her cheeks are flushed, there are a few errant snowflakes in her hair, and I long to cover her lips with mine and—bam!—reindeer.
“Now you’re just showing off,” Dulka—who I just shifted into, by the way—taps my leg with his stick. “Come on, game’s about to start.”
I shift back, move into position, and focus on the puck drop. The moment it hits the ice, Rodriguez shrinks the other team to a tenth of their size, takes the puck, and heads for the net. Because the Blades? Best team in the league.
She shoots. And the Yellow Jackets’ goalie doesn’t shift into a bear. No point. He’s as tiny as the puck and it wouldn’t do him much good.
She’s about to score when the puck suddenly grows wings. The Yellow Jackets have a damn good witch on the ice, and that is her signature move.
The crowd groans—most everyone here is from Silver Springs—as the puck flaps its wings and flies up and over the net, then bounces safely off the board. I’m close, so I take off, and I swear I can feel Wynter’s eyes roving over me.
I swear I can hear her over the din of the crowd. Cheering me on. Hoping that I’ll score. I picture her—that smile, those lips, those fucking kissable lips—and just like that, I shift. Into Rodriguez. In human form. Taking precious seconds off my clock.
A vamp who plays for the Yellow Jackets reaches the puck first, takes possession, and zooms around me while the crowd groans. Then cheers as our vamp defenseman comes in to intercept.
The Yellow Jacket passes the puck to a teammate, and Dulka shifts, checks the guy in reindeer form, and takes possession of the puck. He shifts back, races across the ice, and passes. To me.
I hope my girl is watching, so she can see me score. Except thinking about my girl reminds me that I’m on the ice while she’s in the stands. And all I want is to touch her. Taste her. Fuck her until—and then I shift. Into a block of ice.
My clock kicks in, counting down the seconds while the puck bounces off my side. The Yellow Jackets take possession and Coach starts yelling from the bench. Groans echo around the rink. And people pull out phones and train them on the ice as I struggle to shift back.
Everything goes downhill from there. Every time I’m on the ice, I keep thinking of my girl. My stick—and not the one in play—is frustrated as puck and wants her bad. I want her bad. And I keep shifting. Then wasting precious time struggling to shift back.
By intermission, we’re trailing behind by four. Which isn’t a lot for supe games, but enough. The rightwinger clock—my clock—is down two minutes, which is embarrassing. We’re only a third of the way into the game, and Coach? She looks like she’s just about done with me.
I take her yelling. I’m a puck-up and I deserve it. She threatens to bench me if I shift unnecessarily one more time, asks what’s wrong with me a few times for good measure, and then I’m free. Thirty-minute intermission—twice the length of human games—to give supes time to recharge.
The vamps head off to feed. Frost powers up the Zamboni. And I spot Xavi and our girl coming my way.
I race across the rubber floor in skates. None of that dignified walking if it means seeing my girl. And when I reach her, I pull her into my arms.
Wynter gasps, but she doesn’t pull away. I spot some fans gathering around, phones out, but I pretend they’re not there.
“I’m going to grab some snacks,” Xavi says as he takes in our growing audience. “Want anything?”
“They’ve got really good salted caramel cupcakes at Candella’s,” I tell our girl, and the way her eyes light up makes me glad I took the time to ask about her favorite foods.
Xavi says he’ll pick some up, and gives her a quick kiss that makes her cheeks flush. And seeing him kiss our girl doesn’t bother me. At all. If anything, I like seeing the way her cheeks flush. Damn if I’m not going to shift again and get us trending on Screech.
“I’ll have her back to you after intermission,” I tell Xavi, and then I start pulling our girl toward the skate rental shack.
“Leith?” Wynter gasps. “Slow down!”
So I scoop her up and carry her to the shack and right through the door. There’s no one inside—can’t rent out skates when the rink’s closed for a game and the rental guy is sitting on our bench—and I turn the lock before setting her down.
“What are we doing here?” Wynter looks around.
“Whatever you want, baby.”
Instead of smiling, Wynter frowns. “I don’t get you.”
And seeing my girl upset has me frowning, too. “What’s not to get? I’m an open book. Ask me anything you want to know.”
She seems to hesitate, and then nods. “Fine. Why did you fly away, Leith?”
I rub the back of my neck, searching for the right words.
“Why didn’t you ask for my number? Why—”
“I got your number. From the side of your van.” I recite the digits, so there’s no question in her mind that I was going to call. “Could have gotten it off Screech, but still recited it the entire flight home.”
“Then why didn’t you say goodbye? Or call?”
The last question’s the easiest, so I start there. “Was going to call you yesterday after practice, but your ice block told me you had dinner plans.”
“You still could have called.” My girl pouts.
I shake my head and reach up to play with a strand of her hair. “I always play fair, baby. And he asked you out first.”
“You could have asked me out, too. Why didn’t you? Why did you fly away?”
I think back to that night, and how much I wanted to take her in that van. And when I realize I can’t have her—not here, on the skate rental floor—I shift. Into a bee. And I’m really—really—starting to hate fucking Wilson.
Wynter crosses her arms in front of her chest—and thank the chameleon she’s got that jersey over her coat, or I might keep shifting till I explode. The kind of explode where I overheat and cream my cup like a thirteen-year-old kissing his crush. Not the French teacher, thank fuck. And definitely some other thirteen-year-old, not me.
“I’m still waiting for an answer, Leith.” Wynter frowns.
I do the bee thing and buzz. Then shift. And blurt out. “I’m so turned on my cock hurts.”
And that is definitely not the best way to romance my girl.
Wynter’s cheeks flame. Her pupils dilate. And her eyes drift down, just as I shift… into a reindeer, of course. Fucking hell in a hockey net.
“I can see that,” my girl says. And then she snickers. While looking at my stick. Or, to be fair, Dulka’s stick. Definitely his fault my girl’s laughing.