I LOST.
I’m the fastest hockey player in the NCAA and I lost to a five-foot-six sports psychology student who hates hockey.
“Holy shit! I won!” Summer skates circles around me.
“You seem surprised for someone who was so confident,” I grumble.
“Cause you’re a college athlete. You literally do this every day and I beat you!” She does a wobbly twirl, beaming brightly. Her wet leggings snatch my attention, the discolored area highlighting her ass. I pry my gaze away before she notices me staring. “Please tell me they have cameras here. I need the footage.”
“For what?”
“Future purposes.”
Blackmail. “That would also mean it recorded you cheating,” I say.
She lets out an animated gasp. “Cheating? I’ve never cheated in my life.” She stops in front of me and a sudden waft of something sweet hits me. “You decided to stop, and you were one second behind me. It was a fair race.”
“Depends. If you define fair as heavily skewed in one’s favor,” I say, and she stares back unamused. “Fine. You win. I’ll do your sessions without complaint.” Honestly, even if I won I would have done anything she wanted. It was a miracle she let me on the project to begin with.
“Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor. I might have used distraction but admit it, it was fair in the end.”
I sigh. “It was fair.”
Content, she skates toward the exit, and we head to Coach’s office. He’s letting us use it as long as we don’t touch anything. Once I fill out the preliminary self-assessment, she reads over it. “You’re an English minor?”
I nod. I took the responsible path and chose Economics as my major but decided to do a minor I would actually enjoy, hence English.
“So, you like reading?”
“Yes.”
“Like real books?”
I give her a blank look. “You mean those blocks of paper? Oh no, I’ve never held one, let alone read one of those.”
She ignores my sarcastic remark and skims the paper. “You left this blank. What’s your five-year plan?”
“Don’t have one.”
Alarm strikes her face. “Three-year?”
“Nope.”
“What about hockey? Don’t you have a dream team you want to go to?”
“I’m already signed to them.”
The Toronto Thunder signed me to a three-year entry-level contract a few months back, which means I’ll be playing with them later this spring. Eli also signed with them a month after me, so we’re headed there together.
“What about personal goals?”
I have no idea what she wants from me. I’ve lived and breathed hockey since I was four, there is nothing else I ever needed to focus on. I haven’t dated anyone in college because between playing, studying, and being a full-time dad to the guys, there isn’t any extra time.
“Maybe it’ll help if I give you an example,” she suggests. “I have five, ten, and twenty-year plans.”
Holy shit, she’s insane.
She eyes my reaction. “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy. I just know exactly what I want.”
“Life is unpredictable. You can’t plan it.” I know that much from experience.
“I can. When I was younger, I was in love with psychology. Everything about it, to the point where I had a thorough life plan at the age of eight. At seventeen, I would graduate high school and move here with a full ride to Dalton. Complete the accelerated degree program and get into grad school.”
I blink. “You figured that out at eight years old?”
“Yes.”
Jesus. The only thing on my mind at eight was how long my mom would let me play hockey before dinner. “What if you don’t get in?”
She stares at me as if I threatened her. “I will. I have one shot and I won’t let anything or anyone mess it up.”
I try to cut the tension. “But you’re basically done with all that. What’s your plan now?”
“After my master’s and Ph.D., I want to work with Olympic athletes as a sports psychologist. Then I’ll probably marry an accountant and have two kids, a boy and a girl.”
“An accountant? You’re into bald dudes who would rather choke on their coffee than sit in their cubicle?” I’m not even going to touch the fact that she had the kids all figured out. She probably knew what zodiac sign they would be, too.
“They’re good with math. People who excel in STEM fields are generally better equipped to last in partnerships.”
“So, you want to marry a robot.”
“I want to marry a stable man.”
“A stable man who probably can’t make you come.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can think better of them. To my relief, she ignores them, but not before rolling her eyes.
“Anyway, that’s my example. Your turn.”
“I don’t have one. I’ll go to the NHL, play as hard as I can, and hopefully win a Cup one day.”
“What comes after that? Do you want to have a family?”
“That’s not on my mind right now.” When you live and breathe hockey there isn’t much else to care about. Everything I have is spent on making sure I don’t let anyone down—my teammates, coaches, or family.
“So your only goals are hockey and…” she pretends to check her notes, “hockey?”
“Exactly. That’s why I don’t go a day without practice.”
Surprise morphs her features. “You practice on days you don’t have practice?”
I lean back in my chair, nodding. “I gotta make sure I’m keeping up. I’m heading to the NHL in a few months.”
Her expression is incredulous. It takes her several seconds to form a sentence. “You think working out seven days a week is good for you? When do you rest?”
“I get plenty of rest after practice and I usually get eight hours of sleep.”
“That is not healthy, Aiden.”
Her concern isn’t something I need. I’ve heard it enough from everyone else around me. “It’s been working fine for me.”
“But—”
“Are we done here? I have to be up early for more volunteering,” I say, with false excitement.
A twinge of guilt hits me when her expression falls, and I have the urge to fill the tense silence. Summer gathers her stuff and exits the office so quickly, I barely have time to think. When I follow her out, she murmurs a quick bye when the heavy doors lock behind us and takes off in the opposite direction. The cold air hits my face as I slip on my jacket and eye her impractical attire. Her half-dry leggings and thin sweater were not meant for January in Connecticut.
“Where’s your car?” I call after her.
“I walked. My dorm is right there.” She points to the direction of the building closer to campus.
“I’ll give you a ride.”
“I’m good,” she says, trying to tame her long brown hair that flows in the direction of the wind.
“Let me give you a ride.”
She stares at me.
I stare back.
When it seems like she would rather stay out here and freeze under the wind chill, I let my gaze soften. “Please?” I almost don’t recognize my voice, but this girl is damn stubborn, and I don’t want her walking alone so late.
She concedes and follows me to my truck. “Is that like the standard jock-mobile?”
With the click of a button, the black F-450 lights flash. “I see you’re a fan of hockey stereotypes.”
“More like empirical evidence. All you need now is a country playlist to seal the deal.”
I open her door and try to help her up with a hand on her waist, but she swats it away to climb in herself. Sliding into my seat, I let the heat blast through the vents and turn on the seat warmer for her wet thighs. When my Bluetooth connects, the first song plays and much to my pleasure it’s a country song.
She laughs suddenly, forcing me to look at her to fully grasp the sound. I thought a laugh from Summer Preston was the last thing I’d ever get to hear. I’d made attempts at jokes with her all night and nada, not even a smile. But now that I know what it sounds like, I want to make it happen again.
She looks around my truck with a frown. “It smells good in here.”
“Are you usually in smelly cars?”
“No, I just mean your gear is probably back there.”
I shake my head. “It’s in the truck bed. Can’t have my backseat smelling bad.”
She snorts. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.
“Did you date a hockey player or something?” I find myself asking as I pull onto the road.
She stares out the window. “Or something.”
Ex-boyfriend it is. Clearly, her aversion to the sport is due to a bad experience. It can’t solely be because she dislikes me.
The rest of our car ride is silent until I pull up to her dorm. She’s out and speeding to the entrance before I get the chance to walk her in. I’m watching her head inside when my phone buzzes in the center console and I answer immediately. Missing a call from Edith Crawford is not a position anyone wants to be in. “Hi, Grandma.”
“Did you get my package? I had Eric send it through the post,” she says.
“Yes, all the guys loved them. I’ll send you pictures.”
She knit sweaters for the team and wouldn’t listen to anyone, not even her arthritic hands when she spent the last few months knitting. She said it gave her something other than their diner business to focus on.
It’s been a while since I visited home in Providence, but my grandparents understand that my schedule is so packed I barely have time to come up for air. Asking them to come down for games doesn’t feel right, especially since it’s hard for them to schedule around managing their diner.
The last time I had any family in the stands I was thirteen and both my parents had come. I remember that feeling like it was yesterday. I was full of joy and it was one of the best games I ever played. So good I got recruited to the major junior team as a bantam player. That was also the last game my parents ever attended, and though the stands are filled with screaming fans wearing my jersey it has never felt the same. I have a feeling it never will.
“Okay, I just wanted to check in. Will you be coming home for break?”
Spring break felt so far away I hadn’t thought about it. The only thing on my mind is making sure we make it to conference tournaments without anyone getting ejected, suspended, or put on probation. Which is harder than it seems when the guys are hell bent on doing stupid shit.
“Yeah, I am.”
“It would be nice if you brought a guest one of these days.”
My grandma isn’t slick with her questions, so I know what she wants to hear. She has pestered me about a girlfriend for the past two years, saying she’s getting old and I should use my looks for something other than monkeying around.
“Just me. But I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
“You know, we would like to be coherent enough to talk to a girl you bring home.”
They love playing the old age card, though they are the most energetic seventy-year-olds I know. They would be in the mountains hiking if it weren’t for my grandpa’s knee replacement.
“I’m sure you two will be as spry as ever when that day comes.” Not anytime soon, because a girlfriend hasn’t been on my mind ever, and bringing one home isn’t something I’m willing to subject myself to. Casual hookups are the only thing I can sustain throughout the season, but now that seems impossible too.
“How are things with hockey?”
“Good. I’m coaching a class of mini mites tomorrow.” I omit that it isn’t of my own volition.
“You know, your dad used to volunteer for those when you were younger. Helped keep an eye on you too.”
I laugh. “Probably the reason I don’t get into nearly enough fights now.”
“Let’s keep it that way, I don’t need you losing any teeth,” she says sternly. “Well, I’ll let you go. Call me with some exciting news next time. You are boring an old woman.”
“I have plenty of exciting stories, Grandma.”
She hums. “None that you need to be telling me, I suppose. God knows what you college kids are doing these days.”
“Not me. I’m an angel.”
“I’m sure you are. Good night, bean.”
“Night, Grandma.”
