Sarina Bowen

I glanced around the busy room. Hartley and Orson were doing split squats against the windows. Those were the two players who rated highest on the Rikker scale. Orson was a solid eight. I always found him easy to talk to. And Hartley was a nine. That dude worked to include me, and never even seemed to notice he was doing it. In fact, he could earn himself a ten. But I was saving room on the Rikker scale. Maybe I'm a tough grader, but I hoped that the unlikely day would come when somebody actually told me that they were glad I showed up to play hockey here.

(...)

"I'm just glad you showed up to be on it [the team]."

Holy hell! It had finally happened.

Carefully, so as not to disturb the various food items on our laps, I pulled him by the back of the neck just far enough over to kiss me. "You're it," I whispered. "A perfect ten on the Rikker scale."

"The what?"