Chapter Text
“Again, Pansy. Focus.”
I swallow a groan as Coach Olympe Maxime barks her orders from outside of the rink.
It’s been a long day—one of many long, long days. And if I’m basing it off of my coach’s impatience, it’s been a shittier day than usual.
She holds a manicured fingernail upon her remote control as I drag my skates along the ice to the center of the rink and assume my starting pose. A sweeping Chopin opus fills the air.
This piece for my free skate was not my choice; it was my choreographer, Tonks’s. She’d selected it in hopes that I would feel at ease back on the ice, but I can’t relate to it emotionally, and not even the violin’s keen vibrato can drum up the slightest bit of feeling in me besides ennui and frustration. It shows (or, well, it doesn’t) in my movements, which even to me are stilted. Dull. Forced. A Zamboni could do better.
My money shot combination is difficult tedium: I do a crossover into a triple flip. Then I go straight into a triple loop.
I stick the landing, but my loop is under-rotated.
Fuck. This. Shit.
I can feel Coach Olympe gazing impassively at my S-step sequence, or maybe at the way I sweep my arms. Whatever she thinks of it, I already know my routine is a far cry from how I performed at the last Winter Games. Hell, I don't even have music for the more technical short programme yet.
The truth of it is, I’m in a moderate—no, severe slump. Anyone in my skates would be. I’ve been figure skating for as long as I can remember. My life has been lived on the ice. My entire career—all my hard work and my gold medals, and even my first Winter Games where I didn’t place, were building up to two things: my second Winter Games’ short programme, and the subsequent free skate.
I broke an Olympic record in the former.
I broke my fucking ankle in two places in the final seconds of the latter.
I limped home with a silver medal and dashed dreams.
I haven’t been the same since.
Months of rehab, one missed season, and two disastrous exhibition tours later, my former skating coach, Septima Vector, ran out of ideas to bring my mojo back.
Her repeated diagnosis: I was “in no mental state to return to my peak technical form.”
As if to prove her point, I had a little menty b and told her to fuck off.
Well, she did, and that’s why I’m here in Gryffindor City, training under a new coach while Septima continues to hold a grudge.
I finish the last sequence of what I wish was a Celestina song, but Coach Olympe ends my suffering early and cuts the music short.
“Does this bore you?” she asks as I catch my breath.
“Do you want me to answer that?” Skating to some dead guy’s most sleep-inducing nocturne isn’t exactly fun. My routine begs for more energy. I can feel it in my bones.
“No.” Coach Olympe calls me off the ice. “Your first competition is in two months, and this is not it, Pansy. You must dictate your mood, not the other way around.”
“I’m not a robot,” I huff. I want to give it my all.
“Mmm.” She pulls an unimpressed, very French moue. She turns to where my training companion is pulling her skate guards off. “Hermione. Your turn.”
“Nice one,” Granger murmurs to me, and she’s actually being sincere. It’s all I can do not to stick my tongue out at her. I only sigh as we skate past one another and she makes her way to the middle of the rink.
I want to hate Hermione Granger, I really do. Skaters like us don’t really make friends, but since she’s not technically my competition, most days I can only stir up halfhearted resentment.
People call her the Golden Girl, and she and her injured partner, Percy Weasley, are the nation’s pride and joy. Together, they are the most decorated pair skaters the sport has ever known. Maybe it’s because they’ve been with the Madame Maxime all their lives. (It’s in her name, after all. Olympe.) I should probably feel some type of way about skating alongside Granger, but I don’t, because I’m here as Olympe’s charity case.
Percy, though, I adore. He’s the only one I allow to call me out on my bullshit and live.
He’s watching on the sidelines as usual, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.
“Ew,” I greet him. “You finished rehab early.”
“Early enough to witness you bollocksing it out there,” he jabs back primly. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth and I immediately want to rip his freckled lips off.
I settle for snatching his cup from him and taking a large sip. “At least I can still skate.”
"Excuse you,” he scoffs.
Percy tore his ACL last month and is benched for at least one season. That’s why Granger has taken to the ice alone: so she can work on her form while Percy recovers. His brace has just come off, so he’s been coming to watch every practice.
“Well?” I ask, though it’s unnecessary. Percy will issue his critique anyway, solicited or not.
“Your spins were sloppy on the windup and your jumps lacked confidence, but I’ll give it to you because, oh, what was it again? You twisted your ankle over a year ago?”
I told him about my phantom pains one time… “Bitch.”
Percy tuts, unbothered. “Touchy.”
“Shut up.”
He has to anyway, because Coach Olympe raises the volume of Hermione’s practice piece as she levels us a glare. “Pansy.” She beckons me over again. “Come here.”
I make a face at Percy and walk over, his cup of coffee still in my clutches.
“Watch.” Coach points to where Granger is executing a flawless Biellmann spin. She’s clinging to her left leg, which is extended behind her and above her head. Her back is arched into a perfect teardrop shape as she spins rapidly on her right foot. It’s one of the required spins in competitions, and one of many I haven’t been able to do with consistency since my injury.
“You can do it better.” She eyes me shrewdly, and I scoff.
“Maybe.”
“It was right, what Septima said about you. You must conquer and channel your moods so you can let your technical prowess shine again. If you manage it, you could be unbeatable.”
Unlikely. “So you’re saying I’m better than the Golden Girl?”
“Yes.” Coach Olympe says matter-of-factly. “Hermione, for all her skill, lacks emotion when she skates on her own. She brings the perfection. Percy brings the heart. You are capable of bringing both. At least, you used to be.”
Used to be. Has-been Pansy Parkinson, that’s me. I sneer. “Know where I can get a partner this late in the game?”
She slaps my free hand with her remote. “Listen to me. You and Hermione are two sides of the same coin. She thinks too hard, while you feel too hard. Do you understand? ”
I only rub my hand petulantly, so she dismisses me again. “Go sit with Percy.”
“You’re asking for trouble,” Percy says when I return, taking back his cup. “I don’t know why you talk back to Olympe that way.”
“Does Olympe know you call her that?”
“She hates it. Anyway, she has a point.”
“I know, okay.” I’m sick of everyone telling me what I already fucking know.
“Oh! Don’t look now,” Percy whispers suddenly, thwacking my arm, “but the guy who replaced my brother on the Lions’ lineup is here.”
I couldn’t care less. Hockey players are the bane of my existence. They’re all loud, rude boys who leave chinks and holes in the ice that the Zamboni can’t always fix. They’re the reason figure skaters everywhere need to train earlier in the day, because God forbid we get our own rink on our sport’s measly funding. Gryffindor Arena, with its too-hard ice, is no exception—it’s home to the Gryffindor Lions, who apparently have made it to the upcoming Stanley Cup playoffs.
Percy, on the other hand, has to care about hockey. He unfortunately belongs to an extremely large, extremely athletic, and extremely ginger family that fans have dubbed the Ice Weasels. (Hilariously bad, I know.) While his five brothers and only sister all became Olympic speed skaters and pro hockey players, Percy was never very interested in either sport. So he dropped his hockey stick and went on to become the first out and proud figure skater. (He still has to watch his siblings' events, though.)
“Which brother just retired?” I ask. “Charlie?”
“No, Bill.”
“How sad.”
“Don't look so heartbroken.”
“But I am. Bill's the fit one.”
Percy pretends to gag. “Okay, one, Bill’s married, and two, that’s the most disgusting thing that’s ever come out of your mouth.”
“Unless the new guy is somehow hotter, I’ll keep lusting over Bill,” I declare.
My eyes scan the stands until they settle on the lone figure sitting near the entrance. He’s wearing a beanie that covers most of his hair, but I know that shocking blond shade anywhere. “Percy, that’s Draco Malfoy.”
“You know him?”
“Yeah, but he’s with the Snakes!” Draco’s also my childhood friend from Slytherin City, and the only hockey player I can actually stand.
“Not anymore.” Percy tells me that their manager poached him at the end of the regular season, which sounds like a faux pas of some sort. “But Malfoy had been wanting to leave anyway.”
“How did he do that? The Malfoys own Slytherin Stadium.” Among other sports mogul things. I doubt the Snakes would have let Draco go willingly. He is, to my knowledge, a superstar, his scion status notwithstanding.
Percy whistles. “Rich boy. Hermione’s in luck.”
“Granger?”
“You left early, but I think I saw him flirting with her last week.”
I snort. “Draco can’t flirt.” All the hockey roughhousing in the world couldn’t weed out his posh, antagonistic sarcasm—I know that for a fact.
“Neither can Hermione. I have a good feeling about this.”
It makes an odd sort of sense. Granger is nice, but she has a shit sense of humour. “The Draco I know would either hate her, or fall arse over teakettle for her.” In both scenarios, he would probably act the same.
“Even better.”
“You just want to see her be bad at something, for once.”
“I confess,” Percy says, “I do.”
Coach Olympe calls me back on the ice as soon as Hermione’s routine is over. She has us take turns drilling the required elements for the short programme, and takes notes while Percy plays the part of Unofficial Judge.
According to him, Hermione outscores me by three points. But he’s biased.
When we debrief off the ice, Coach gives me a serious look. “You know what I think you need?”
“A new ankle?”
She looms over me. God, she’s tall. “Besides the obvious attitude adjustment,” she says, side-eyeing me, “you need to go enjoy yourself. Why don’t you and Hermione go out and do something this weekend.”
“Do something?”
“Yes. Live some life. Do something to forget yourself a bit.”
“I thought you asked me to focus,” I retort.
Coach’s lips press into a line. “That will come after you let go of whatever’s… repressing you. Hermione, please?”
“Yes, Coach!” Granger says. Swot.
“What about me!” Percy cries.
“You rest.” Coach raps her pen over his head with an air of finality. We watch in silence as she picks up her bag and walks out of the arena.
Granger hugs herself. “Well, you heard her. Would you like to do anything, Pansy?”
God, what a do-gooder.
“Parkinson.” The deep, familiar voice of Draco Malfoy calls my name, and all three of us turn to watch him swagger down the stands towards us.
“Draco.” Grinning, I walk over on my skates to give him a hug. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“I was about to say the same. You look good, Pans.”
“You too.” Draco’s always been handsome, and he is all too aware. I’m about to tell him off, but then his gaze darts over my shoulder. He only thinks he’s sneaky, but I know that look—he’s definitely eyefucking Granger. I’m low on good deeds today, so I decide to do him a favour.
“Come meet my training partners,” I say. “This is Hermione Gran—”
“We’ve met,” Granger snaps, crossing her arms. Her voice is colder than I’ve ever heard it.
“Oh?” I say, shooting Percy a look that says I told you so before continuing, “This is Percy Weasley. He’s Bill and Charlie Weasley’s brother.”
“Hey,” Draco says.
“Hey yourself.” Percy leers, and Granger smacks him on the shoulder.
Draco turns his attention back to me. “Physical therapy starts in a bit. Want to grab dinner later?”
“Like, a date?” I pretend to think about it. Draco smirks.
Behind me, Granger interjects, “We were going to get dinner, actually. Coach’s orders. Right, Pans?”
Okay, what the fuck is up with Granger?
“Dinner sounds…?” I look between her and Draco, unsure whose invitation I’m about to accept.
“Am I invited?” the chaos gremlin named Percy asks. “We could double. Hermione and Pansy, me and Draco.”
The other two balk.
Listen. I have very low tolerance for this type of pain.
“You know what,” I say, “rain check? I’m tired.”
“Well if you’re not going, I’m not going,” Percy says, positively thrumming with glee.
“Sure, Pans.” Draco smirks. He turns to Hermione. “What do you say then, Golden Girl?”
Oh, he’s using his best sexy purr. He’s down bad.
Hermione splutters, and her face goes tomato-red. “It’s Hermione, and no, I will not go to dinner with you!”
“Is Granger like this with every guy that asks her out?” I whisper loudly in Percy’s direction.
“Just the ones she likes,” he fake-whispers back.
Granger has just about had it, so she grabs her things and storms away in her uncovered skates. “Bye, Perce!” she shouts.
Draco is still smirking, so I pinch him hard.
“Ow!”
“I’ve never seen Hermione huff and puff like that,” Percy says. “I’m impressed.”
“What ever did you say to piss her off?” I ask.
“Misunderstanding,” Draco mumbles. “Charlie told me about your injury, so I said that if she ever needed a partner…”
Percy actually cackles. “Wow.”
“That can’t have been all.” I narrow my eyes at Draco. “Let me guess. When she got all uppity, you took it as your cue to pick a fight.”
He winces. “You’re not wrong.”
Percy’s phone buzzes. “It’s Ginny,” he says, typing up a reply. “My sister,” he adds for Draco’s benefit.
“I’ve met her,” Draco says.
“Is she here to pick you up,” I ask, “or to snog her new man before practice?”
“Both. I think they came over together. There they are—Gin!” He waves her over.
So, I lied. Ginny Weasley is probably the only other hockey player besides Draco that I can tolerate. She plays pro for the Holyhead Harpies, but since the ladies' league is in the off season, she stays in the city to watch her brothers and her boyfriend scrimmage.
She runs up to us and punches Percy in the shoulder. “I’ve been calling you.” She turns to me and Draco. “Hey, Ice Queen. Hey, Malfoy.”
Have I mentioned that Ginny’s something of a tomboy? I mean. Six older brothers.
“Ice Weaselette,” I reply coolly. Draco only smirks.
“Ugh!” Percy protests. “I’m injured! And you know the cell reception here sucks.”
Ginny’s boyfriend, Harry “Scarhead” Potter, joins us a second later and jerks a man nod at Draco. Potter is... well, I know he's the captain of the Lions. I’m also pretty certain he’s Granger’s best friend, so I wonder if he knows about this little thing she’s got going on with his new teammate.
“Locker room?” he asks Draco.
Draco nods tersely. “I’ll grab my gear.”
The two stalk off, and Ginny begins shimmying aggressively before Percy. If it’s to piss him off, it’s working.
“Get your tits out of my face,” he complains.
“No!”
“Don’t make me file a fucking restraining order against you.”
“Tsk. You’re not looking hard enough,” Ginny insists, pushing her breasts closer.
I reach over and pull at a few colourful stubs peeking out of her shirt. “They’re tickets, Percy.”
“Oh.”
“First game of the playoffs!” Ginny squeals excitedly. “This weekend. VIP. Lions versus Badgers.”
Percy takes the tickets from me. “Did you get these from Charlie?”
“No. You know he always gives his to Mum, Dad, and whoever he’s shagging that week. These are from Harry!”
“Why are you acting like a groupie? You play pro too, remember?”
“It’s my first time attending in a professional girlfriend capacity.”
“Took you long enough to bag him,” Percy mutters.
“What’s that now?” Ginny holds up a fist, and I feel a keen appreciation for the fact that I’m an only child. I could watch this nonsense forever, but living it looks tiresome. I sit down and untie my skates so I can leave.
“Oh, look! Three tickets!” Percy says. He pouts down at them. “I wish I could go, but I don’t want to.”
Ginny rolls her eyes. “As if you have anywhere else to be.”
“Coach told me I needed to rest. Isn’t that right, Pansy?”
I nod with false seriousness.
“Whatever,” Ginny says. Her face brightens suspiciously as she grabs my arm. “Pansy! You should come! It’s a home game, so they’re playing right here.”
God damn it, I should have left ten minutes ago. “Oh, no. I couldn’t.” I hate hockey, I want to say. I’d sooner do my boring routine ten times over, non-stop.
“Come on,” she presses, “it’ll be fun!”
Percy gasps, clasping his hands together. “That’s right! Ginny, make sure Hermione takes the other ticket. She’ll wanna support Harry. And the new guy.”
I blink, then suppress a smirk. Granger being forced to watch Draco play from VIP? Now that’s something I’d pay good money to see. “You know what? Count me in.”
“Enjoy!” Percy winks. “Tell me all about it.”
That’s how I end up watching the kickoff game of the Stanley Cup playoffs. I’m sandwiched between Granger, who’s admiring the view from our seats in the lower bowl, and Ginny, who’s talking my ear off about ice hockey. (Or at least, she’s trying to. It’s so loud in here, and the game hasn’t even started yet.) She was shocked to learn I didn’t know a thing about this sport, its rules, or its players. I mean, just because I’ve been forced to share a rink with hockey goons all my life doesn’t mean I have to understand a thing they do. Now, thanks to her, I finally know what all those dots, lines, and circles on the ice are for.
Once she starts getting into the rules, though, I order her to stop. Hockey’s easy enough. It’s just a bunch of overly padded guys skating around with sticks to smack a little black puck into a net. Oh, and they’re all wannabe boxers.
I’m genuinely curious though, so I ask, “Do women get into brawls too?”
“Oh, yeah. We don’t drop our gloves anywhere near as often, but it’s an essential part of the game.”
Granger makes a disapproving noise. “It's an injury risk.”
Ginny shrugs. “Emotions run high in hockey. Fighting provides an outlet.”
I find that oddly relatable. Maybe I should get into a boxing match with Granger, just to sort out my allegedly unpredictable moods.
“You have to admit,” Ginny adds, “it’s kinda hot when the men engage in fisticuffs. All that testosterone.”
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“Hermione agrees with me!”
I glance at Granger, and she isn’t denying it. Interesting. “I’ve seen Draco get into fights, you know,” I bait her casually.
She sighs. “If he’s anywhere near as aggravating on the ice as he is in person, then it’s no wonder he gets into them.”
“Yes, he's eminently punchable. I’m just glad he hasn’t damaged his pretty face.” I pull up his Insta profile on my phone. She pretends not to look.
“Yeah,” Ginny says. “He’s fit. If I weren’t dating Harry already, I might’ve… you know.”
“He’s rather pointy, though, isn’t he?” Granger remarks.
I shrug. “I’ve heard him described as chiselled. Have you seen him without a shirt on?” I tap on his most recent gym bro photo. It’s not as bad as I’ve seen other men post, but still. Gross.
Granger turns to me warily. “How do you two know each other again?”
“We grew up together. In Slytherin.”
“Did you date?” Ginny asks. Granger looks even more suspicious now.
“No,” I scoff. “He has a type.”
“Do tell.”
“Mmm, brunettes… long, curly hair… more swotty and insufferable than he is.”
“I’m not his type!” Granger says hotly. “I’m not insufferable.”
I exchange a glance with Ginny and we hold each other as we cackle. Granger’s gigantic hair looms over us as she jumps to her feet. “Stop it right now!”
“Sit down,” I tell her as Ginny wipes her eyes.
“Yeah, Hermione. Pansy never said he liked you. If you agree that you check most of his boxes, that sounds like a you problem.”
Hook, line, and sinker. Draco owes me a drink.
The arena lights dim and colourful spotlights begin to circle the ice. Ginny and Hermione whoop, all teasing forgotten, as the announcer’s voice booms over the cheering crowd. He urges everyone to make even more noise, and then some cheesy, magic-themed manifesto video begins to play. The players featured in it are all dressed as… wizards? I don’t fucking know.
Blah, blah, hockey, glory, magical Stanley Cup.
Afterwards, the teams’ mascots, a lion and a badger, emerge. They come up to the section before ours and twerk for the TV cameras.
The audience eats up their foolishness.
The mascots make their exit and the home crowd begins to chant. “GRY-FFIN-DOR! GRY-FFIN-DOR!”
Fog blasters go off on every corner of the rink. Dramatic music swells. The Jumbotron above us flashes live footage of a squadron of hockey players in white and red marching out of the locker room, followed by another team in yellow and grey.
“ARE! YOU! READY!” the announcer bellows. “THE LIONS!!!!! EAT!!!! TONIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!”
I hate it here.
The crowd screams as the two teams pour out onto the ice, skating circles around their respective sides of the rink.
The announcer rattles out the sponsors before calling over the din, “HERE!! ARE YOUR GRYFFINDOR LIONS STARTERS!! YOUR CENTER, YOUR CAPTAIN!! NUMBER SEVEN, HARRYYYYYYY POTTEEEEEER!!!!!!”
“Wooooohoooooo!!!!” Ginny hoots.
“Go Harry!” Granger cries as Potter’s face flashes on the Jumbotron. It’s a good photo—his signature lightning scar looks intimidating.
“AT RIGHT WING! NUMBER SIXTY-NINE, CORMAAAC MCLAGGEEEEEEEN!!!!”
“Sixty-nine?” I ask. “Really?”
“Cormac’s gross,” Ginny says.
Granger nods. “Agreed.”
“YOUR NEW!! LEFT!! WINGER!!!! WELCOME TO THE LION’S DEN, NUMBER SEVENTY-SEVEN, DRACOOOOOOOO MALFOOOOOOOOY!!!!”
Draco’s smirking face on the screen is met by cheers and jeers both, and I wonder at that as Granger squirms in her seat.
“Don’t worry,” Ginny says. “He’ll win the fans over in no time!”
“ON DEFENSE! NUMBER TWO, CHAAAAARLIIIIIEEE WEASLEEEY!!!!”
Weasley Number Two, whom I can identify from the unruly red hair poking from beneath his helmet, pumps his stick at the crowd and puts a gloved hand to his ear. The Ice Weasel fans are all too happy to oblige him.
“Boooo!” Ginny taunts merrily as though her brother can hear.
“NUMBER THIRTY, NEVIIIIIILLE LONGBOTTOOOOOOOOM!”
“Is that actually his name??” I demand incredulously.
I frown up at the Jumbotron, and sure enough, the ticker below this guy’s face reads, ‘Neville Longbottom’. His photo shows him offering a shy, dimpled smile that doesn’t suit the scar on his lip, nor the stubble on his jaw. His dark hair is cropped short and neat, and it brings out his eyes. They’re a warm, mossy sort of green. I blink. He’s… really cute.
The transition pane flashes, wiping his face away.
“Nev’s a sweetheart,” Granger says.
“Ya,” Ginny agrees. “That’s him over there!” She points at a tough-looking guy who, even as the crowd cheers, is waving in an embarrassed sort of manner.
“AND FINALLY!” the announcer booms, “IN GOAL!!! NUMBER THIRTEEN, OLIVEEEEEER WOOOOOOOOD!!!!”
A burly man who’s padded up like an angry starfish races to the net.
Ginny snaps a photo of him. “For Katie!” she hollers excitedly as she sends it, presumably, to Katie. Whoever that is.
The announcer doesn’t even introduce the Hufflepuff team and instead makes us rise for the national anthem.
“Will this fanfare ever end?” I ask Ginny.
“Patience,” she tuts. “The opening face-off is right after this.”
True enough, the players and referees take their places on either side of the red halfway line. Potter stands in the middle, and directly across from him is the Badgers’ captain, who Granger says is named Cedric Diggory. The rest of them are hunched over like gargoyles, sticks at the ready as a referee holds a puck above the center circle.
I'm bored just waiting to see what happens. The last time I deigned to watch a game, it was pee wee hockey, which is just kids swarming around the puck, pushing one another while trying not to fall over. I’m not optimistic that pro hockey is much different.
The puck is dropped, and Potter and Diggory slap their sticks against each other to try and snatch it. Potter gives the puck a mighty whack, and immediately it’s in 69 Guy’s possession. He makes a mad dash for the opposite goal, sliding the puck between either side of his stick’s blade. The Lions get on the move, skating in predatory circles until 69 runs into the Badgers’ first line of…
“Dementors?” I ask.
“Defensemen!” Ginny cackles over the roaring crowd. “They’re gonna do their best to make sure Cormac can’t score—look! He’s passed it to Harry! Harry to Draco! Draco slipping past their D— he shoots— can it get through the goalie’s legs, oh my fuck—”
“GOAL!!!” the announcer crows as the goal horn blares. “DRACOOO MALFOOOOOY!!!”
“SCORE!!!!!” Granger jumps and shrieks, pulling Ginny’s and my attention from the goal. She clears her throat. “That was just… really quick,” she says breathlessly, patting her skirt down.
Meanwhile, every single Lion save for the goalie hops out of the rink as a new set of five dash in. The Badgers do the same.
I frown. “That’s it?”
“They use up all their energy in short bursts, so they swap lines every minute or so,” Granger explains in a rush. “All the sprinting and the rapid gameplay is why hockey’s called the fastest game in the world.”
“That can’t be right,” I say, but I immediately stand corrected. Things progress at a much faster, more violent pace than I could have imagined. In a flash, the first line is back on the ice. In another, they’re out again. There’s so much shoving each time gameplay resumes, and I cringe as the players’ skates and sticks bash against the ice as they sprint in one direction and then the other.
It’s a rapid exchange that I am certain is exhausting, and my heart is actually racing as if I were the one on the ice. I hate to admit it, but this is exciting.
Fortunately for the Lions, the Badgers’ charge doesn’t amount to anything, and the time in the first period is fast dwindling down.
I can barely follow, but Potter fumbles the puck amidst some heavy pushing. He falls hard and slides across the ice, and a Badger named Finch-Fletchley has the puck. He smacks it out to Diggory, who catches it and breaks away from everyone else in a mad sprint.
“Where the fuck are the rest of them!” I scream.
In seconds, Diggory’s encroached upon the Gryffindor goal. But right when I think he’s about to score, the cute guy with the weird name—Longbottom—chases him down! He slams hard into Diggory, sending him flying into the glass.
“FUCKING BRILL!” Ginny hollers.
“Holy shit!” I cry, but it’s apparently a legal body check and it’s not over yet. The puck skitters behind the net and a mad scramble ensues. Weasley (I think) gains control, and then some Badger, and then Longbottom again. He passes the puck to Draco and then the Lions are charging back up the rink as the Badgers give chase.
There’s a whole swarm of men crowded around the Badgers’ goal. Draco passes to Harry, who passes it back to Draco. He feeds it to 69. They still can’t get past the barricade of sticks and bodies.
69 whacks the puck back out to the players on the outside. They’re so far from the net, but the Badgers jump to block them, quick as fuck. Charlie Weasley smacks it to Longbottom, who somehow finds an opening and—SLAP!
“SCOOOORE!!!” The announcer screams over the goal horn. “TWO-ZERO, NEVIIIIIILLE LOOOOONGBOTTOM!!!”
A rocked-up version of This Is the Night by the Weird Sisters plays, and I scream in spite of myself. Ginny is in raptures beside me.
“What a fucking shot!” she cries, and to my untrained eye, it had been. Longbottom had gone and smacked the puck into the upper right corner of the goal, clean past the goaltender’s head. An impressed tingle crawls up my spine.
My eyes track him as his teammates slap his helmet, back, and bum. I keep watching him as he and the rest hop into the bench area and another line of Lions takes over the ice.
He whips his gloves and helmet off and gathers big gulps of air. He glances up at the clock, and fuck, his Adam’s apple makes me swallow.
And then his eyes fall… and somehow find mine from all the way across the rink.
I’m not fucking making this up!
I startle, and my cheeks flush. Suddenly I’m out of oxygen.
We stare at one another, and it feels electric. His mouth twitches, and I can almost picture how it might feel against mine. But then Weasley Number Two jostles him back into the game, and he breaks eye contact. I take a dizzying breath.
“No, no, no!” Ginny is groaning next to me, because one of the Lions has committed some kind of foul.
He’s sent into what I know is called a sin bin, and Hufflepuff scrambles to maximise Gryffindor’s little time-out.
It’s a messy final minute, and finally, the buzzer sounds. Just like that, the first period is over.
“That was mad,” Granger says.
Ginny agrees. “You’re lucky to be watching this one, Pansy! Two goals straightaway.”
The players march out of the arena, and Ginny informs me of the break between periods so they can clean the ice and the players can rest and strategise. It’s a good thing, because I need a break, too.
I lean back into my seat and take a sip of water. This is definitely not the same as pee wee hockey.
The teams are back out on the ice a few minutes before the second period begins, and I don’t think I’m imagining it when Longbottom skates closer to our side of the rink. His eyes trail up the stands, and when he gazes in our direction, I awkwardly whip my head towards the Jumbotron.
“Hi, Nev!” Granger waves, and I hazard a glance back towards where he’s still standing. He pulls a little grin, and I bite my lip. That dimple of his should be illegal.
“Uh-oh.” Ginny elbows me. “If they lose tonight, Pans, it’s gonna be all your fault.”
“Shut up.” I cross my arms as Neville skates backwards and into one of his teammates.
“Don’t worry. I’ll introduce you after the game.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m secretly pleased.
The second period is nowhere near as eventful as the first. There are a few scuffles, but it ends with Hufflepuff making a desperate attempt at a goal from much too far away.
The Badgers finally score in the third, when one of them makes a lucky shot between Oliver Wood’s legs.
The Lions, however, are quick to rally, and the rest of the final period is spent in a tough battle for possession of the puck. Even this non-scoring action is exhilarating—each team always seems to be on the brink of scoring a goal.
With only three minutes left on the clock, the Badgers are looking increasingly frantic. When Potter steals the puck from them in a particularly violent play, one of the Badgers, Smith, skates over to him and shoves him hard from behind.
I gawk.
Potter whirls around and shoves him back. Smith immediately pulls his gloves off and grabs him by the collar. Potter tries to skate away, but Smith holds tight. He drops his other glove and continues to tug at Potter until Longbottom steps between them.
“What’s going on!” I shout over the crowd’s boos.
“Zacharias Smith is trying to instigate a fight,” Ginny explains. “He’s a spoilsport. Usually, fights start when someone believes their team’s been wronged, but in this case, he just can’t stand that they’re losing, so he’s acting out.”
Granger tuts. “You're so biased.”
“What Harry did was totally legal!” Ginny insists.
Smith’s behaviour irritates me for reasons I can’t articulate. I watch with frustration as Longbottom pries both players apart. “Why isn’t Potter fighting back? Why aren’t the refs doing anything?”
Ginny pumps her eyebrows knowingly. “Watch.”
A referee thrusts his arm out to one side, and Smith is sent into the sin bin. Ginny claps in delight. “Power play!”
The Lions already have their five best scorers on the ice, and in no time at all, Potter manages to score their third goal against the Badgers’ remaining four players.
The final buzzer sounds, and the fans go absolutely wild.
“They did it!” Hermione screams, and I want to scream too. But I contain myself, because hockey is still a boorish sport. I’d never hear the end of it from Percy if he found out I liked it.
The Lions are celebrating on the rink, clapping one another’s shoulders and clacking their sticks on the ice. Yet again, I’m drawn to Longbottom, who whips his helmet off and shakes out his sweat-slicked hair. I have to clench my jaw before it drops, because there’s literally! Steam! Emanating from his body!
It's an ordinary sight among ice athletes, but does he have to look so hot?
He nods modestly as his teammates jostle him, and he chances a glance in our direction—holy shit, I swear it, he’s looking at me—before disappearing with the rest of the team into the locker room.
“So? What did you think?” Ginny prods me as people get up to leave. She and Granger are waiting for Potter and Weasley Number Two, and since I came with them, it would be rude to just go home, right? Even so…
“I’m exhausted,” I confess, but I pull a compact mirror out of my bag to check my face and my fringe.
“But it was fun, right?”
“It wasn’t so bad.” In truth, it was exhilarating. It burned up my energy stores and woke a part of me that hadn’t felt this buzzed in a very long time. I’ll be real, though. The best part wasn’t even the hockey. I’m hoping it’s yet to come.
Granger is beaming. “Coach will be glad we did this.”
I nod indulgently. “Let it be known that I always do the assignment.” Do something, check. Loosen up, check. Lose myself in a hunky stranger's gentle, green eyes, also check. What do you fuckin’ know.
I briefly entertain the idea of purchasing VIP tickets to the rest of Gryffindor’s home games, but that’s extra poseur behaviour, so I dash it.
Ginny gets a text. “Come on, Harry says we can visit the lockers now! We have a bit of time before the post-game presscon starts.”
I sling my purse on my shoulder, ready to follow, but Granger grabs my arm. “Actually, Gin…”
My eyes spell bloody murder as I look at her. Her eyes are doing that weird earnest saucer thing, and I just know she’s about to kill the buzz.
Granger sighs piteously. “Pansy and I are training early tomorrow. You know how it is.”
“Hermione, you’re not even competing this year!” Ginny argues.
“Still.”
I whip out my phone and check my calendar. “Training doesn't start til seven.”
“Yes!” Ginny cries.
“Is there someone you’re trying to avoid?” I accuse Granger. “That’s the only other reason I can think of that you wouldn’t go.”
Ginny pokes her side. “See, even Pansy’s keen to stay.”
I jerk my head. “I’m not.” Fuck, but I am. In that moment, I just don’t want to look more keen than the Golden Girl.
Granger looks triumphant.
“Ughhh,” Ginny grumbles. “Fine. You guys suck.”
We follow her as she all but stomps out of the arena, and as I think of another dreadful practice tomorrow, I’m not sure who regrets going home more—Granger, or me.