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She blinks. “The what?”
“Second line. Center. Coach read it at the end of practice.” I shift my bag. “It’s official now. It’s not a captain’s skate thing anymore. It’s the real list.”
“Is that—” She stops. “Okay, I don’t know what that means.”
“It means I’ve got it.”
She steps out into the hallway and pulls her door most of the way shut behind her. “Okay, explain it to me like I’ve never seen a hockey game, because I haven’t. I have no idea what that means.”
I look down at her curious face, and I hate how much I like it.
“There are twenty-some guys on a roster,” I say. “Twelve play forward. You put them in groups of three, and that’s a line. There are four lines. First line plays the most. Second plays almost as much. Third and fourth play less, and it drops off fast. By the fourth line, you’re out there not to lose the game, not to win it.”
She leans against the wall with her arms crossed. “Okay.”
“Each line has a center and two wingers. The wingers go up and down the sides. The center’s in the middle.”
“That’s why it’s called a center.”
“That’s why it’s called a center.”
“Wow,” she deadpans.
“Do you want the rest or not?”
“I want the rest.” She rolls her eyes. “God.”
“The center takes the draws. Faceoffs. Every time play stops, two guys line up in a circle, somebody drops the puck between them, and whoever wins it, their team has it. I take those. That’s my job.”
“How many of those are there in a game?”
“Sixty. Seventy, sometimes.”
She blinks. “You have to win seventy little fights?”
“You don’t have to win all of them.”
“How many do you have to win?”
“More than the other guy,” I say, and she makes a noise that means I’m unbearable. “And the center runs the line. The wingers stay on their sides. I’m in the middle, so I cover the whole width of the ice, and I’m supposed to know where both of them are at all times without looking. If one of them’s in the wrong place, it’s on me, because I’m supposed to be telling him where to be. If the other team scores, it’s on me too, because I’m the one who’s supposed to see it coming.”
“So it’s the position where everything’s your fault.”
My eyes drop to her mouth. “Basically.”
“And you like that?”
I look back up and nod. “Wingers score goals. Centers decide where the puck goes.”
“I knew you were a control freak.”
I grin.
She looks at my chest. “So when you say you got the spot, you mean between you and Declan?”
“Yeah.”
“So he’s—”
