“Of course not. You’ll be busy with Mr. Wonderful.”

I looked out at the ice and watched Sean skate. “February second,” I murmured. “Darn. That’s getting close, isn’t it?”

We stood in silence, sipping our coffee and watching the game for a few minutes. I couldn’t get over how good both Sean and Conor were. Sean was skating at top speed, and he made some incredibly great passes. But whenever he or his teammates made a shot on goal, Conor blocked it. Conor’s team wasn’t quite as good, so the puck ended up in his end of the rink more often than not.

Sean got a pass from the right wing and tried to flick the puck into the upper corner of the goal. It hit the post and bounced back, without going in. Sean jammed at it with his skates, then took a shot, his hockey stick nearly colliding right with Conor’s head.

It was a goal.

It was also bloody murder.

Conor dropped his stick and they started to wrestle, pushing and shoving against each other. Conor whipped off his big, thick goalie gloves and punched Sean, just as Sean was trying to slug him.

Pretty soon the rest of the guys were involved, either fighting and punching, too, or trying to pull Sean and Conor off of each other before anyone got too badly hurt.

Watching players fight during a hockey game is not unusual. My dad always says, “We went to a fight and a hockey game broke out.”

Most of the time, we’d probably applaud loudly and cheer them on—that’s what we do at our high school games, especially if someone on the opposing team ends up getting both pummeled and also time in the penalty box for it.

But this was Sean. Someone was trying to punch Sean’s face. His very nice, very good-looking face. Before my friends could get another really good look at it and be suitably impressed.

And Conor—I thought I could see that he was bleeding. And yelling. And Sean was yelling back and trying to take another swing.

“Come on, guys. Break it up, break it up!” One of the adult refs finally managed to get them apart. There was a short, official timeout, and Emma, Jones and I looked at each other uneasily.

“As I said, they’re just a tiny bit competitive,” I said.

“Typical,” Jones sighed.

I watched Sean sitting in the makeshift penalty box (a couple of folding chairs), holding ice to his eye. Near the goal, a friend of Conor’s was handing him a towel to clean off his face. Then he skated off and had to sit next to Sean. They’d both gotten penalties for fighting.

The game continued after a brief intermission to reset the goal posts, but we spent most of the time talking, and not watching. Sean didn’t score another goal, but one of his teammates did, making the final score 3-1.

“Would you guys mind going on ahead?” I asked when the final whistle blew. “I want to go talk to Sean for a sec. And I kind of want to do it in private.”

“Are you going to ask him about the cabin weekend?” Jones said excitedly.

I shook my head. “Not right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because—he’s totally injured and I want to see if he’s okay and—I’m just not.” Also, because I’m petrified. Because I’m all about procrastination.

“Do it,” Emma urged, giving my arm a squeeze. “We’ll be waiting in the car, which is way over there.” She pointed across the parking lot. “So don’t sweat it, we won’t be watching you and making you nervous. Take your time.”

Should I ask him now? I wondered as I started to walk over to the warming hut, where Sean had headed after the game. Maybe this was the perfect time, and not a bad time after all. He’d be extra vulnerable, what with the stitches he might need. I could drive him to the hospital. Those kinds of bonds—emotional ones, not stitches—lasted forever.

I was all smiles as I started to open the door and saw Sean sitting on the bench where he’d removed my skates when my feet were frozen solid.

Before I could step into the building, I saw a short girl with long, brown hair come up to Sean. She put her hands on his legs and leaned against him, practically crawling onto his lap. “Are you okay?” I heard her coo. And Sean smiled at her, and then she moved even closer.

Before he could see me, I let the door slam and turned around as quickly as I could.

Oh, God. “New city, new year, new Kirsten.” Yeah, right. No, same old Kirsten, perpetually single. Cursed. I wasn’t going to have a date for the cabin weekend. I wasn’t going to have a real boyfriend, period. Ever. I started running, keeping my head down to hide how upset I was, and crashed right into someone.

“What’s wrong?” Conor held my arm to keep me from falling.

“Nothing,” I said.

My eyes filled with tears, which I willed to stop because I didn’t want Conor to see, and I didn’t want them to freeze in my eyes or on my cheeks, either. The thing that really sucks about crying in the winter is that when your tears fall, they form little icicles on your cheeks.

“Are you okay? You look weird,” he said.

“Thanks. Great compliment,” I said, hating my voice for being so shaky. “It’s the wind, that’s all. My eyes always water when it’s cold and windy.”

Conor hadn’t let go of me yet. The next thing I knew, he leaned down from his skates-height to brush a tear from my cheek. There was a big spark when his hand touched my face, from the static electricity.

“Don’t—what—” I sputtered, pulling away from him.

“I—I’m sorry. You just—you looked so sad.”

“What is with you? You hate me. You do nothing but make fun of me. Now you’re done beating up Sean, and you try to kiss me?”

“What are you talking about? I wasn’t going to kiss you,” he said. “God, you can be so vain.”

“Then what were you doing?” I asked.

“You looked upset. I was trying to, like—I don’t know,” he said.

“Well, I don’t know either. But whatever it was, forget it,” I said.

“Fine. Don’t feel better.”

“Good. I won’t!” I said. Then I wondered what I was bragging about. “See you later. No, wait. On second thought, maybe not.” I darted around him and ran for Emma’s waiting SUV.

Now what? The only good thing about my encounter with Conor was that it had distracted me for a second from feeling as awful as I had when I saw Sean with that girl.

The sight of the two of them came back into my mind. They’d been too close—way too close—to have been just friends. So did he have a girlfriend? Why hadn’t he told me, if he did? God, how awful. No wonder he’d looked surprised when I kissed him.

“So? What happened?” Emma asked as I climbed into the front passenger seat. Jones was sprawled on the back seat, her feet up.

“Nothing,” I said. This could potentially have been the biggest day of all time in my love life, I was thinking. And it was, but not the way I wanted or expected.

“Kirst? You okay?” Jones asked.

“Oh, sure. Fine.” I managed a small smile.

“Did you ask him?” Emma said.

“No, I—I didn’t get a chance. Too many people were around,” I said. Especially the pretty one with long brown hair.

If I’d had anything to tell them about, beforehand, about me and Sean, now I wasn’t sure what was going on with us. Did I have a prospect, or didn’t I?

Jones leaned forward and rested her chin on the back of my seat. “I thought I saw you with goalie boy just now.”

I glared at her over my shoulder. “You said you weren’t going to spy.”

“Sorry,” she apologized.

“We were just talking. It was nothing,” I said.

“Oh. Okay. Well, who’s up for lunch?” Jones asked.

Somehow I couldn’t imagine summoning much of an appetite.