Just Press Send (Just Press Send Book 1)

4 | For Puck's Sake

The buzzer rang out, and the players left the rink, leaving two empty hockey nets and markings within the ice. The chatter increased.

A t-shirt gun catapulted shirts into the crowd. I traced the catapulter to the front of the section, where a student started up a cheer in the stands.

"Hey, hey, it's time to fight!" she called out. I squinted and leaned forward in my chair, shoes sticking to the floor. Layla!

She wore a cropped red jersey with blue jeans. A camera swung around her neck as she cheered. The ends of her box braids were red, matching the face paint smeared across her cheeks.

"Everybody yell red and white!" she said, voice clear and louder than I thought possible of her delicate frame.

"Red and white!" the crowd repeated. There was a certain level of drunk I needed to be to do that, and I had no plans to drink tonight. I had to stay sharp to interview Tyler Sawyer.

They went on, somehow devolving into a jumping mass that yelled, "Go, fight, win!" over and over.

Swallowed in the crowd with her group of friends, I lost sight of Layla. I pulled back and rubbed my hands down the front of my pants.

The Zamboni cruised around the rink and left a slick trail of smooth ice in its wake. The surrounding seats had emptied out as people went to the washroom or concessions. So, instead of having to partake in that awkward, forced camaraderie between strangers that cropped up at sporting events, I pulled my phone out.

An email with the subject line "URGENT:" caught my attention.

Sitting on the edge of my chair, I delved into the long email. With a gleam in my eye, I typed out a response. A supply chain issue I could deal with, no problem.

Halfway through the email, my phone dinged. New post from @alecitorussell. My mouth went dry. I may or may not have turned on his post notifications.

Someone tripping returning to their seat in the narrow aisles. He jabbed me with his elbow and splashed beer.

Tapping on the little banner, I opened Instagram.

Blades sliced across the fresh ice, then scraped to a stop. In my periphery, the puck dropped.

What in the world was I going to do the next time I saw Alec? I waited two weeks for him to notice me again, and I missed my freaking chance.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and stared down at the gross concrete floor. Spilled beer, crumpled up candy bags, and discarded frilly paper hot dog holders. How lovely. I guess that was why my shoes were sticky.

I could waltz up to Alec next lit class and go for it, be wild and crazy and ask him to go to coffee. Or for his notes. That was more reasonable. But, I didn't want to be permanently friend-zoned by becoming the study-buddy-who-wants-your-notes-friend. Coffee was friend-like too. What are you supposed to ask to do?

Who was I kidding? Asking him to do anything would involve me actually going up to him to talk to him.

Following him on Instagram, on the other hand, was easy. We vaguely knew each other and had a couple of mutuals. I followed all the boys I made pro/con lists for- Summit wasn't that huge of a school, so it wasn't weird. Or at least, I hoped it wasn't weird.

Oh god, what if they all think I'm the weird stalker girl that followed them on Instagram? I sunk back into the chair.

People burst up from their seats, all together, on cue like I imagined people did when the LAUGH light went off on talk shows. According to the scoreboard, Summit scored. It was 4-3 with six minutes left.