I screamed. I screamed at the top of my lungs, and my scream echoed through all three stories of the theater. I was sure it would shatter the light bulbs in the gold chandeliers. Then, over the echo of my scream, there was another sound: laughter. Boyish, smug, self-satisfied laughter.

Up in the balcony, a lanky kid with shaggy brown hair was grinning at me. As I watched, he hopped the balcony railing, hung from the lower bar for a minute with his khakis sliding down his ass until I could see most of his green-plaid boxer shorts, then dropped a good ten feet to the carpeted aisle below. That’s when I recognized him: it was my little text buddy, Hockey Player Pat.

He landed perfectly and stood up with lazy grace. He was wearing his uniform, but his shirt tails were untucked, his tie loose, his collar open at the throat. I was surprised he was wearing his uniform at all. Most athletes wear their grey varsity sweatsuits all the time just because they’re allowed to, strutting around campus, all smug with jock privilege and looking down on us green-plaid peasants. But Hockey Player Pat was plenty smug in green plaid. There was an irritating smirk on his face and annoying crinkles around his eyes when he laughed.

He was laughing at me.

‘You believe in the Iceman!’ he hooted.

I bristled. ‘I do not! The Iceman is typical St Mary’s fear-mongering, Catholic, superstitious bullshit, and I would NEVER believe in him! It! Whatever!’

‘You screamed. You seriously screamed! That was the best thing EVER!’ Pat was laughing so hard he was actually holding his stomach.

My heart was still racing, but I wasn’t going to let him know that.

‘Yeah, I screamed,’ I said. ‘I screamed because I didn’t think there was anyone in here, then some creep in the balcony started hissing at me! That’s why I screamed! It was adrenaline – that was survival instinct! And what the hell are you doing here anyway?’

‘You know,’ he said, looking at me from under his shaggy brown hair, ‘you’re cute when you’re mad.’

‘Excuse me?’ I spluttered. ‘Are you kidding me? You’re cute when you’re mad? Do you realize how ridiculously sexist that comment is?’

‘No, it’s not,’ Pat said. ‘I would say that to a guy. I say that to guys all the time. You know our center, Lundqvist? Six foot three, three hundred pounds, ginger stubble? He’s adorable when he’s mad. Of course, when I tell him that, he kicks me in the nuts, but I’m usually wearing a cup at the time, so it’s all good.’