Penalty Kill

Harper

If you would've told me two weeks ago that I'd be sitting in a sports bar in midtown Manhattan waiting for my best friend to show up so we could watch a hockey game, I would have easily ignored every word for pure and utter blasphemy. Yet here I am, chin in my hand as I look up at the big screen TV that's playing the pregame show before the puck drops in about five minutes.

Felicia, bless her beautiful, scatter-brained and endlessly optimistic Canadian heart, is fighting her way across town from the airport to meet me to watch a game that I'm not even sure why I'm watching. And as I sit alone at a table nearest to the TV, I feel hopelessly awkward and uncomfortable in Jake's Storm hat.

If anyone were to approach me right now, I'd probably panic and leave. I've done my best to look casually cool—I wore a shacket-type thing I picked up on sale a few weeks ago with a simple black shirt underneath, along with jeans and my Chucks. Nothing complicated, nothing screaming for attention. But the hat on my head feels like a burning beacon, as if it's screaming to the whole bar that I'm here for the guy who gave it to me and nothing else.

Well, they wouldn't be wrong. I just wish I didn't have to sit here alone, trapped in my own head with thoughts about how ridiculous this whole stunt is and why I shouldn't be doing things for some silly guy who probably won't end up being worth the time or—

"Loouuuuu! I've missed you babe!" The sound of Felicia's bright and cheery voice rings out through the bar, and I nearly choke on the sip of beer I'm trying to drown myself in as I attempt to endure being in this sports bar alone. The battle to keep my shit together is won as soon as I turn to see my best friend bouncing towards me, her face beaming as we finally lay eyes on each other for the first time in nearly two weeks.

"Oh my god, you look more Canadian than before. Is that possible?"

"And you are wearing a fucking hat from a man you sexy bitch!" She tugs on the brim for good measure, like someone would do to a little kid when they've done something particularly adorable.

She flings her arms around my neck and squeezes, the rich smell of her cheery floral perfume instantly soothing my frayed senses. Even after just a few words and a hug from her, I already feel like I'm whole again and could quite possibly take on anything—outside of this whole Jake debacle.

"Vodka soda, please," she asks a passing waiter who's quick to give her a nod and smile when he takes in her charming smile and batting eyelashes. She even rests a hand on his arm for good measure, and he instantly flushes red before nodding quickly and scurrying off to get her drink.

Tugging off her coat and knit beanie, she plops herself down in the chair across from me and lets out a huge sigh, her hand running up and through her gorgeous curls that I've loved admiring and cursing her for since we met. My pin-straight hair won't hold a slight wave for longer than two seconds, but knowing how much work Felicia has to put into maintaining them keeps my jealousy at bay most days.

Felicia puts her hands down on the table forcefully, her brown-gold eyes boring into me intensely as she leans forward onto the table slightly.

"Now tell me, Harper Lou Clark, why have I just madly dashed from the airport to meet you at some shitty sports bar on a Tuesday night?"

Dropping my head down to look at my nearly finished beer, I heave out an overly dramatic sigh before looking up to face Felicia. I have to try and tell the tale of the mythical and confounding Jake Bryers as concisely and accurately as possible. I launch into it at the beginning, starting with the bizarrely fateful night at the library.

I weave her through the following day, painting the picture of him showing up at the end of my shift, asking me out, going to the bar. It's a breathless rush, but the seconds are ticking by until puck drop, and my heart rate is racing, begging me to finish in time so I can focus on finding Jake on the ice.