Page 44 of All That Glitters

Shadows and Symbols

Marigold Belmore

The last place I want to be right now is rink side. I don’t want to take photos of Jameson, or even watch him. If I didn’t care so much about impressing Charlie and being the best reporter on the Thrasher, I’d have asked to give up this article. Or quit the paper altogether. Dramatic, but it feels warranted after the past few days.

It’s hard enough for me to find time to sleep and relax. Now when I scrape up the meager minutes, they’re filled with thoughts of Jameson. I can’t get away from him during waking hours, and my subconscious is too mangled to fend him off during sleep.

To top it all off, Carson, who’s taken it upon himself to become a hockey commentator, sat right next to me. I don’t think the man knows a thing about hockey.

“If they keep this up, they’re going to lose,” he says before taking a not-so-subtle swig of his flask.

I give him an incredulous look.

“They’re up 3–0. What about that makes you think they’re going to lose?”

I shouldn’t bother speaking to him, but the itch to argue is strong tonight, and since I’m ignoring Jameson, I have to get it out somehow.

“I meant the other team,” he says, like it’s obvious.

“And why do you care if they lose?”

He shrugs. “Someone has to.”

“Yeah, their fans.”

“They don’t have many of those.” He gestures around. It’s a sea of navy jerseys and sweatshirts. There are a few pops of burgundy for the Velfort Huskies, but there is a definite imbalance.

“That’s because it’s an away game for them, and they’re from Michigan. Not many people are going to travel for that,” I explain, though it’s clear by the dazed look he gives me that he’s not paying attention.

He winces. “That’s not going to feel good in the morning.”

I whip my head toward the ice to see what I missed. I’m met with the tail end of Jameson checking another guy into the glass. The ref blows his whistle, and Jameson skates to the penalty box with a smirk on his face.

“And that would be why they call him Sin Bin Sinclair,” I mutter as I take notes on which period we’re in and the time to be able to report on it if it becomes relevant.

“Man, I wish they could fight in college,” Carson comments. “The Shadow Ring is way more exciting.”

I pause, pen hovering over my notebook.

“Shadow Ring?” I repeat, turning to look at the drunken frat boy.

He tips back his flask for another glug.

“First rule about Fight Club is you don’t talk about Fight Club,” he recites with a shake of his head.

Excitement floods my veins at his words. A secret fight club on campus? That’s a front page story if I’ve ever heard one.

“Come on, you can tell me, we’re friends,” I say with my most dazzling fake smile.

Carson blinks a few times, then grins and leans in close.

“Can you keep a secret, Ariel?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at The Little Mermaid reference.

“My lips are sealed.”

His gaze unabashedly falls to my lips. My stomach twists. Carson’s not unattractive. In fact, he’s probably a little too pretty for his own good. But he’s perpetually drunk and seems to have no qualms about kissing two—or more—girls in one night. In any case, I hold my smile and bat my lashes like I’d welcome a kiss from him.