SUNLIGHT STREAMS into Hazel’s tiny apartment. When she’s awake, Hartley is sharp, confident, and guarded, but asleep, all her rough edges are smoothed over. She’s on her side, knee bent forward, hand tucked under her face.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a girl as pretty as Hazel Hartley.
I didn’t know it could be like that, she said last night, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose. There’s something about Hazel telling me I’m doing a good job that sticks in my brain.
On the bedside table, my phone starts buzzing, and when I see who’s calling, my gut clenches.
“Hi.” My voice is quiet so I don’t wake Hazel.
“Rory.” It’s my dad’s usual no-nonsense, sharp tone. “Let’s talk about the game.”
For a split second, I think he’s going to tell me he’s proud of me. When I do well, he gives me a firm nod. That’s it. But it’s something, an acknowledgement that I’m not a waste of time and energy for him.
“I don’t know what the fuck you were doing out there,” he says, and my stomach hardens, “but you need to get your head in the game. They didn’t sign you to pass the puck.”
Why did I think he’d be pleased?
“Stars score goals,” he adds.
And yet, last night, hockey felt like fun. Flipping the puck to the guys and watching them sink it in the net felt like play, and I could enjoy the roar of the crowd instead of resenting it.
Awareness prickles on my skin the moment Hazel wakes up. She’s watching me, listening, but I don’t look over at her. I don’t want to see the look on her face.
He goes through my game, describing each missed opportunity, each assist like he was on the ice with me. He has a handwritten page of notes in front of him and he’s checking them off, line by line, because that’s what he’s always done.
“I don’t know what Ward thinks he’s doing, but if he keeps this shit up, the Storm aren’t headed toward the playoffs, that’s for damn sure.”
“Ward knows what he’s doing.”
A beat passes. “Why are you so quiet? You got a girl in bed with you or something?”
My gaze slides to Hazel. Her hair is messy and she looks so beautiful lying there in bed with sleepy eyes. My heart lodges in my throat, and I can feel the worry creasing my forehead. Protective feelings flood me. I don’t want my dad anywhere near Hazel. If he said something, even some small comment about how I’m wasting my time with her, I’d do something stupid and rash.
“Right,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re seeing that girl. The physio.”
My heart starts beating harder, and the hand not holding the phone is a fist tucked against my side. The photos are all over social media because we planned it that way, and Rick Miller watches my career closer than anyone.
“For all their shit coaching, the Storm have good PR. Get a nice girl on your arm and look like a good captain, and at the end of the season, move on.”
“It’s not like that.” Blood pounds in my ears. What if it is like that to Hazel and I’m getting swept up in a fantasy? What if she drops me like it was all nothing? Nausea rolls through me at the thought.
She doesn’t trust guys, and she thinks Connor and I are cut from the same cloth.
He laughs, that rough scoff. “Our lives are about hockey first. Don’t forget that.”
“Not always.” My voice is hard. He’s describing my nightmare, and yet it’s my reality. I’m pleading with the universe.
“Don’t let her get in your head. The last thing you want is a girl getting in the way.”
I hate how he does this—makes it sound like letting anything but hockey into our lives makes us weak. I want Hazel in my head. I like her there, taking up space, watching with that approving little smile. Hazel stepped into my mind, and good things started happening in my life.
“Yeah?” Anger rattles through me, followed by something heavier. Hurt, because he was part of the reason my mom left. Frustration, because I see his pattern and I don’t want to be like him. “Is that what you do? Is that why you’re still happily married?”
There’s a long pause, and I can feel his shock, followed by his own defensiveness. “People get divorced, Rory. Relationships aren’t meant to last forever. Grow up and stop living a fucking fairy tale.”
I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. “And you’re so happy now?”
“What are you on about?”
I don’t know why I went there; the words just burst out of me. My teeth grit as I take a deep breath, grappling for control before I unload everything in front of Hazel.
“I have to go,” I tell him.
“Alright.” His tone is weird, like he doesn’t know what just happened, either. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
I end the call and take another deep breath, inhaling myself back into the present, in Hazel’s apartment with her dragon and ballerina photo and closet bursting with bright yoga clothes.
“Was that your dad?” she asks softly.
My gaze swings to hers, searching her face. “You could hear him?”
“No.” Her eyes are steady on me. “Just had a feeling.”
I make a noise of acknowledgment in my throat, looking straight ahead at her dresser and the perfume bottle on top, but hearing all the things my dad said.
“How do you feel after yesterday’s game?”
My dad’s disapproval corrodes my stomach like acid. “I feel fine about it.” Yesterday, I was on top of the world, but today, I’ve been yanked back to reality.
She hums, still watching me. The morning sunlight illuminates her eyes, making them sparkle.
My gaze drops to her t-shirt, and I frown. It’s too big on her. Is it a guy’s shirt? She wore it the last time I stayed over, too. That possessive feeling floods my chest again.
“Whose shirt is that?”
“Mine.”
“But whose was it before it was yours?”
She frowns. “What?”
“Did you get it from a guy?”
She breaks into laughter. “What? No.”
“Was it McKinnon’s?”
Her expression turns baffled. “No. You seriously think I’m wearing his shirt to bed after what he did? Years later? After what I told you last night?” She lifts up on her elbows to stare at me head-on. “Really?”
“Sorry.” I wince. “I know you’re not hung up on him.” The possessive feeling ebbs, fading.
“Jealous,” she teases, the corner of her mouth tugging up.
“A little bit,” I admit, pushing my hair back. I swallow and look around her place, thinking about another guy being here, in my spot on the bed, and I feel sick. “Sometimes it feels like you’re the only good thing I have going for me, and I don’t want to share that with some other guy.”
I’ve said too much. I study her face, waiting for her to recoil.
Weak, my dad would say.
“What time is your practice today?” she asks.
“No practice this morning, but I have a training session at eleven. Do you have to get to work?”
A tiny head shake. “Not until ten.” She looks like she wants to say something.
“Can I take you for breakfast?” I ask.
Another tiny head shake, but she’s starting to smile. “I had something else in mind.”
