Getting stuck with my ex-boyfriend’s hockey team for my senior-year athletic training internship, however, is a surprise that I could have done without.
Clutching a double-strength gin and tonic in one hand, I reload the Lakeside University Student Portal for the umpteenth time. Much to my despair, no amount of prayer or denial has changed what it says.
Dahl, Violet – LSU Student no. 124668337
Program: Bachelor of Science, Athletic Training
Senior Internship Placement
Team: Grizzlies
Supervisor: Christina Hamilton.
I stare at the words until they jumble together, and my stomach curls into a fist. This is what I get after weeks of making inspiration boards and writing daily affirmations? After all my time spent on visualization and meditation? According to the countless crunchy-granola podcasts and the stack of self-help books I devoured over the summer, if you simply align your energy with the universe, you’re supposed to manifest what you want. Something clearly backfired because I sure didn’t want this.
Mental note to burn those books.
“What the hell happened?” Sighing, I slam my laptop shut and flop back into a pile of decorative cushions. Ice cubes clink as the drink in my glass spills over the edges, dripping onto my purple pajama pants and the tan-colored microfiber couch.
Julianna leans over, plucking the cocktail from my hand. “Okay, Violet. You’re cut off.”
Swaying slightly, I reach over and take back my gin and tonic, downing two hearty gulps. Julianna doesn’t protest, though she probably should because this is drink number three of the evening. If I make it to number four, there’s a solid chance I’ll end up rapping freestyle karaoke. Or vomiting. Possibly both.
“It’s my birthday and I’ll drink if I want to.”
“Your birthday is in March,” Julianna points out, tucking an unruly lock of auburn hair behind her ear.
“Close enough,” I mumble into my half-empty glass. The ice-to-alcohol ratio is way off. There is entirely too much ice, and not nearly enough gin.
“Let’s soak some of that booze up, kay?” Ever the mother hen, she gives me a wry smile and pushes a bowl of rippled potato chips across the coffee table to me.
Food. Brilliant idea. After the day I’ve had, I deserve some carbohydrates. I grab a handful of the plain chips, cramming them into my mouth. We should order takeout. Pizza maybe, or Chinese. Heck, why not both? Even better: a dozen cupcakes from Crave Bakery so I can drown my sorrows in red velvet and cream cheese frosting.
This is a two-cupcake emergency, easily. Probably more like three.
Except I don’t have a phone to order food with because Julianna confiscated it. To prevent me from “doing something regrettable,” she claims. Too bad that dates back to freshman year, and it can’t be undone.
I blink away the memories, channeling every ounce of strength I have to keep my voice level. “I don’t get it, Jules. I requested the women’s hockey team as my first choice.”
In addition to our men’s team, LSU is home to a highly renowned Division II women’s hockey team that I’d hoped to work with. My second and third internship choices were our men’s and women’s basketball teams, respectively. Our men’s hockey team, the Grizzlies, wasn’t even on my list. For good reason.
Julianna gives me a sympathetic smile laced with more than a little pity. “At least we’re together. Besides, you like hockey, right?”
Hockey is practically a religion in my family. Growing up, my older sister Grace and I watched games on TV with our parents every weekend, complete with matching team jerseys. When our father got promoted to partner back in elementary school, the first thing he did was purchase season tickets to the local professional team, the Blades. Grace and I always used to fight over who got to attend which game, especially during the playoffs. Actually, we still fight over tickets to the playoff games.
I do not, however, share the same degree of fondness for the LSU men’s hockey team.
In my former life, I used to religiously attend their games. Then my “ex-who-shall-not-be-named”—the Grizzlies’ top defensive enforcer—cross-checked my heart into the boards at the end of freshman year, and I’ve made a second job of avoiding him ever since.
It’s a task that requires herculean effort at our school because social life on campus revolves around hockey: pre-gaming, attending the games, and partying after the games. The recently built, twelve-thousand-person capacity arena sells out on a regular basis. Our hockey players are local celebrities, complete with hordes of fans—and the egos to show for it.
“I love hockey,” I concede. “But not under these circumstances.”
She shifts on the couch, tucking her athletic legs beneath her. “What happened with your ex, anyway? You’ve never told me.”
Julianna didn’t transfer to LSU until sophomore year, and I wasn’t exactly offering up a detailed play-by-play of how he turned my heart into roadkill to all my new friends. I give a halfhearted shrug, scooping up an obscene amount of sour cream and onion dip with my potato chip and shoving it into my mouth instead of replying. At this rate, I’ll gain five pounds before the internship even starts.
“Do we hate him? Because I’ll hate him if you tell me to. I’ll glare at him all semester long.” Julianna narrows her hazel eyes, trying to look mean, but she’s too baby-faced for it to be credible.
“We should absolutely hate him.”
He went from being the perfect boyfriend at the beginning to someone I didn’t recognize by the end. From being sweet and thoughtful to a study in emotional unavailability, with a heart colder than the ice coating a rink. After one especially shitty deed, I ended things with him and moved on without looking back.
Well . . . I moved on. There was more looking back than I care to admit.
Julianna waves me on with a ruffled potato chip. “But?”
“I don’t know. When I think of him, I feel lots of things. Hurt. Regret. Sadness. Maybe resentment. But hate? Not really.” I almost wish I did; it would be easier that way. “Long story short, we dated for almost all of freshman year. Rumor has it, he turned into a complete fuckboy after that. I guess I broke him.”
“Ugly breakup?” She grimaces behind her glass.
I slide down the arm of the couch and lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. “Hideous.”
While I know she means well, I’d rather not elaborate on the slow, painful decline of our relationship, nor the rocky parts in between. If I’m being honest, it was a pretty equal mix of good and bad, and not in the “evens out” kind of way. In the rollercoaster way. The highs were through the stratosphere, but the lows were deeper than the Mariana Trench.
“Maybe you should talk to Professor Rempel,” she suggests.
“I don’t know,” I mutter, flinging a fleece-covered arm over my eyes, peeking out at her beneath it. “I mean, have you met Rempel? She’s not exactly the type of person who encourages you to open up to her about your love life.”
“Fair. Rempel is a little terrifying.”
“A little?” Rolling onto my side, I arch a brow. “She made Professor Citas cry in the middle of Sports Nutrition last year.”
Julianna holds up a hand, squinting at her phone beside her. “Hold on. Rempel sent an email about the placements.”
A jolt of nerves shoots through me, and I scramble to sit upright. Super. What more could possibly go wrong?
She furrows her brow, reading aloud, “Congratulations on being awarded the top honor of being selected to work with the Grizzlies for your senior internship placement. As you know, the Grizzlies are a pivotal part of the Lakeside University community, and after their championship run last season, university administration has decided to devote our most valuable resources to support the team. In this case, that support includes extending our best students in the athletic training faculty for internship placements.”
“I see.” My head bobs in a nod, but it feels weightless, like it’s detached from my body.
While I hate to admit it, there is some merit to Professor Rempel’s explanation. As a Division I hockey school in the Midwest, our program is a massive draw for funding and donations. Between sold-out games, corporate sponsorships, media licensing fees, merchandise, and other revenue streams the team brings in, it’s said that hockey single-handedly keeps the LSU budget in the black.
Like the email states, the two of us have some of the highest GPAs in the program. Top ten, if not top five. Still, it feels a little like Jules and I are being punished for that by having our ranked choices completely ignored. Why did they even ask what we wanted if they didn’t care? I suspect the choice was driven by political will from a higher pay grade than Professor Rempel.
“Christina is supposed to be amazing,” Julianna points out.
“So I’ve heard,” I murmur, mentally cataloging the pros and cons. Christina Hamilton’s resume is a mile long, full of impressive accomplishments and extensive experience working with athletes at both the collegiate and professional levels. She’s known as “the injury whisperer” thanks to her knack for identifying and correcting maladaptive movement patterns. But my objection doesn’t lie with the internship supervisor.
Over in the entry, the front door creaks open and slams shut. Our other roommate, Claire, strolls in, eyes widening when they land on me. While Julianna is ready to go out like we’d planned, I am not nearly as presentable, in purple plaid pajamas with my ratty old bathrobe thrown on top, smudged remnants of the day’s makeup, and my hair in a messy bun. Not a cute messy bun, either. I’m rocking a rat’s nest.
I rarely pull out the bathrobe, but when I do, my roommates know it means business.
“When you said you were pregaming with some drinks, I thought…” Claire trails off, her mouth tugging into a frown as she takes in the disarray. She shrugs out of her camel peacoat and unwinds her plaid Burberry scarf, smoothing her glossy brown hair. “What’s going on?”
I cut off Julianna before she can reply. “We got our placements today.”
The words slur together but Claire seems to understand, and her expression brightens. “That’s great. Did you get what you wanted? Women’s hockey team, right? Are we celebrating?”
“No.” I chuckle darkly and raise my drink to drain the last of it, ice cubes rattling. “We most definitely are not. I got placed with the men’s hockey team.”
Claire freezes, ruby lips in a tiny “o” as she processes what I said. Her eyes widen the instant it clicks. “The Grizzlies? With—with him?”
“Yup.”
I’ve lived with Claire since freshman year. As the one who had to sweep up all the pieces of the wreckage he left behind, coaxing me out of bed with food and bribing me to leave our dorm in the weeks that followed our breakup, she is not exactly his number one fan. She’s also one of those people who makes their strong opinions known—loudly. I’m certain to receive a lecture from her about how I should ask for a different internship placement.
Realization stretches across her face. “So we’re not celebrating. We’re stress drinking.”
“Exactly. And stress eating.” I hold up the bowl of chips to illustrate. “Can we order from Gino’s?”
“Guess we’re not going to train for our 10K tomorrow like we’d planned, huh?” Claire bustles into the kitchen, glasses clinking as she pours herself a gin and tonic.
“Not unless you want me to die,” I call out.
Two orders of takeout later, I’ve drowned my sorrows in garlic breadsticks and red velvet cupcakes, reluctantly told Julianna all the gory breakup details, and effectively switched back into denial mode. I’ve also switched to drinking water at the suggestion of Claire and Jules, and by “suggestion,” I mean they took away the gin. Probably for the best. I’m going to hate my life when I wake up tomorrow enough as it is.
“You’re not going to ask to be moved?” Claire asks slowly, setting down her slice of half-eaten thin-crust vegetarian pizza. The subtext in her tone makes her opinion all too clear. And maybe she has a point, but it’s hard enough being a woman in a male-dominated field like sports; the last thing I need is to seem like I’m whining over a man.
Avoiding her gaze, I lick the last remnants of cream cheese frosting off my index finger. “No. Two years is a long time. I’ve given it some more thought, and I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”
It’s a lie. There’s a huge problem. Seventy-six inches of problem. Two hundred and twenty sculpted pounds of problem.
A four-letter problem.
Nash.
