Molly POV
I'd never have imagined that a quiet Friday night in would end with plexiglass shards on my arm and the scent of peppermint seared into my memory. But then, Alexis was involved, and with her, "quiet" had always been relative.
I'd settled onto the sofa around eight, surrounded by textbooks for my Plantagenet succession exam and armed with enough snacks to fuel an army or at least an omega cramming for academic domination. My hair was piled into a messy bun, my raccoon-eye mascara an unintentional fashion statement, and my pyjamas resembled a waddling penguin more than human attire. I had just started a particularly dry section on Marxist learning theories when Alexis burst through the door.
"You cannot be serious, Molly. It's Friday night!" she announced, tossing her keys onto the counter with theatrical flair. Her skintight black jeans and impossibly tall-heeled ankle boots contrasted sharply with my comfort-first ensemble. She looked exactly like she belonged on a glossy magazine cover or at a nightclub, not in our cramped student flat.
I glared up at her. "Isn't it obvious? I'm working." I held up my open textbook, hoping the sight of my feeble notes would dissuade her.
She perched on the edge of the sofa, fingers drumming on the armrest. "You have an exam in three days. One evening out won't kill you."
I sighed. "You mean one evening out at the hockey game where you flirt shamelessly with sweaty strangers who smell like" I paused, aware of how that must sound. "pine-sap and broken dreams. That kind of 'fun'?"
Alexis's eyes sparkled. "That kind of fun."
I leaned back, crossing my arms. "Lex, I've never been a sporty person. I prefer historical walks and cafes with quinoa salads." I planted my gaze firmly on my textbook, hoping she'd take the hint.
But she didn't. Instead she grinned. "That's exactly why you need this. You've been holed up in here since Monday. Get out of your penguin suit and come with me."
My resistance melted at the sight of her sheepish expression. Only Alexis could beg with such puppy-dog sincerity. "Fine," I muttered, closing the book. "Let me feed Potato and change clothes."
"Deal." She hopped off the sofa and snagged the remote, tossing it onto the nearby coffee table. "Hurry up. The tram's here in twenty."
Potato, my judgmental mini lop rabbit, received her dinner with a grudging apology. "Don't give me that look," I scolded, as her twitchy nose surveyed the pellets. She wasn't impressed, but I'd promised Alexis, and she was never pleased until I at least tried.
In my bedroom, I rummaged through my closet. Jeans and boots were out; my arm didn't need extra rubbing. Instead I grabbed the yellow—and gold—hoodie Alexis had insisted matched the Polar Blades' team colors, plus a loose pair of leggings. My hair got a quick brush, though I left it tied up. Anything to avoid risking an extra tram stop for a shampoo.
"Let's go," I announced, slipping my feet into slip-on ankle boots. Alexis appeared behind me, appraising my outfit.
"A bit… relaxed?" she said, one eyebrow arching.
I shrugged. "Comfort first." She huffed and grabbed her leather jacket. "You look fine. We're late."
The tram ride was mercifully silent. Alexis scrolled through her phone, occasionally nudging me with excited commentary about which players she thought would be there tonight. I pretended to be captivated but in reality, I was still visualizing the sofa, my tea, and a world without riotous crowds.
When we arrived at the arena, Alexis led the charge through the security checks, batting her eyelashes at the guards. I shuffled behind, clutching my small bag. The roar of the crowd hit me like a tidal wave as we stepped into the concourse: thousands of scarves, jerseys, and hoarse chants.
"Block fourteen, front row," Alexis announced, waving her ticket. "Right by the home bench. Maybe they'll toss us a puck!" She bounced on her heels, and I had to admit her enthusiasm was infectious.
We found our seats plastic fold-downs behind the protective glass and I settled in, heart thundering. The ice below gleamed under the spotlights, pristine and promising chaos. Alexis elbowed me. "Look there's Moskoviz warming up. Canadian tank, number fifty-four."
I blinked at the swarm of players. "Which one?"
She pointed. "Long hair. He's practically a statute on ice."
I peered until I spotted him, then tried to focus on the puck and not the thighs beneath the pads. My cheeks heated; I was definitely out of my element.
The whistle blew, sticks clattered, and the players sprang into motion. My eyes darted across the rink, tracking that tiny black disc. It moved at dizzying speed. I let out a small yelp when a puck thudded against the glass mere inches from my face. Alexis laughed.
"Told you to keep your eyes on the puck!"
I swallowed, trying to smile. "Keep the pep talks to a minimum."
Twenty minutes later, during the first interlude, Alexis had me halfway convinced that ice shavings and testosterone could be good for my GPA. She chatted nonstop about strategies, star players, and the sheer exhilaration of a good body check. I nodded along, clutching my frozen Coke, determined not to look as green as I felt.
But I barely registered her commentary when I felt it: a rush of air, a crackling sound like a firework, then Glass. Everywhere.
The world tilted, and a searing pain exploded across my left arm. My head snapped toward the barrier. For an instant, I saw a mass of pads and limbs crumple into the stands, and then darkness swallowed my vision.
My last coherent thought was the icy sting of peppermint as a voice I recognized only as Grayson's whispered, "I'm so sorry."
Then everything went black.
I came in a blur of fluorescent lights and murmured voices. Blood dripped onto my hoodie, and through the haze, Grayson Wood's sweat-dampened hair hovered above me as he murmured apologies. My arm throbbed, and distant bells rang in my ears. I tried to speak, but the world spun. Whatever happened next, I knew one thing for certain: Friday nights would never be the same again.