Free The Fifteenth Minute by Sarina Bowen Page B

out my incident report. “The hockey rink is a public place, so that asshole isn’t even breaking any laws.” But if I try to sneak out, he’ll just follow me. And then I’d be alone out there with him. It’s not like I want to ask Bella to walk me home in the middle of the game, either.
    “You didn’t even get to eat your food . That’s just wrong.” She slaps her thighs, then turns to glance around the rink. “I have an idea. Follow me.” She stands and begins edging past the other spectators, toward the aisle.
    Clutching my hot dog, I trail after her. “Where are we going?”
    She doesn’t answer me. She just waves me up the stairs, then disappears behind a wall. I round the corner to see her opening a door signed PRESS BOX. She waves me over.
    Inside the little room, which is sheltered on three sides but open to the rink at its front, I spot her friend Graham tapping on his laptop. “Psst,” Bella says, and he turns his head. “Lianne needs to be out of sight for a little while.” Graham nods, beckoning to me quickly before turning his attention back to the game.
    Bella gives me a little shove into the room. Then she closes the door behind me.
    The little room is long and skinny, with a desk spanning the front. Five heads are bent over computers, all in a row. At one end, an older gentleman wears headphones, and speaks into a microphone. Graham sits next to him. In the center are two guys wearing Saint B's jackets—obviously from the visiting team. Then the fifth guy…My heart trips over itself. Because DJ stands in the corner, his eyes on the ice, his hand on a computer mouse.
    He hasn’t noticed me yet. All his attention is funneled onto the game. As I watch, he clicks something on his screen. And then I hear a Green Day song begin to jam from the stadium speakers. DJ’s hand moves to a lever on a sound mixing board, while his eyes stay trained on the action on the ice.
    Below me, the players line up for another faceoff. “When I Come Around,” thunders off the walls. But at the moment the ref drops the puck, the song quickly fades out while the skaters chase the puck toward Saint B’s goal.
    DJ’s eyes drop to his computer screen while he taps furiously on a keyboard.
    He still hasn’t noticed me.
    With my back against the press box wall, I feel handily invisible. I finish my hot dog in three bites. Then I dig some mints out of my purse and pop one in my mouth. Then? A fresh coating of cherry lip gloss.
    Because hope springs eternal. And you just never know.

8
    Surprisingly Competent Falsetto
    DJ
    M y awareness of Lianne is a gradual thing.
    I hear the press box door open and shut, but I’m too busy to look. As I cue up my next couple of song ideas, I feel eyes on me. In my peripheral vision, I see a pair of shapely legs in skinny jeans, and a delicate hand, its thumb hooked into the pocket of a tailored wool jacket. Her fingernails are shiny and pink, like candies.
    Below me, a whistle blows. I’m smiling—and then scrambling—because Saint B’s is getting called for hooking. I hit “play” on Inner Circle’s “Bad Boys.”
    This is good. We need the power play, and I fucking love this song. It’s Friday night, we’re winning the game and I’m in the zone, doing my job, thinking only positive thoughts.
    And in spite of the fact that I let her down, the most amazing girl at Harkness is watching every move I make.
    With one hand I beckon to Lianne, but I can’t look at her yet because I have to pay attention to the action on the rink. It takes a few seconds for the penalized player to make his way over to the sin bin and for the opposing team to send out their penalty-killer shift. So the rasta beat plays on.
    This is my moment of greatness, of course. Nobody knows it’s me, and maybe only half the audience will even get the joke. (“Bad Boys” is perfect for when the other team gets a penalty.) But five-thousand people are nodding in time to the groove I’ve chosen for them,