HOLLY
Evan got hammered by that big New York player. Holy cow. I think I actually yelped when it happened, and it took every ounce of self-control to stay in my seat and not go racing down the stairs to get a closer look, to make sure he was okay.
As it was, I could tell he was concussed when they brought him out of the rink and into the tunnel. And I felt sick about it, like maybe it was my fault. I'd ignored him during the few moments before the game. He came to my side of the hallway to get on camera and I'd blown him off, pretended to check my boot just to avoid facing what I knew was going to be some inexplicable chemistry.
He looked for me several times while he was on the ice. I faked being hard at work. Which I was, but not so hard at work that I wasn't able to catch each glance he cast my way. Every single one went straight to my belly. Butterflies isn't a word that covers what I felt when I knew his eyes were on me. More like stampeding horses.