Lennon’s eyes narrow, clearly not impressed, but I just stare blankly at her. What does she expect from me?
“I’ve asked Coach Holloway to observe this week, specifically the two of you, before fully jumping in,” Alice tells them. “So don’t be surprised if you find him watching over your shoulder or if it feels like his eyes are always on the two of you, alright? I really think he’s going to be a huge benefit for you.”
Lennon looks suspicious, while Grace still can’t stop blushing.
“Any questions?”
“No, Coach,” Lennon responds, and Grace shakes her head in agreement.
Alice dismisses them, and as practice goes on, I find myself drifting toward the right end of the ice, where Lennon sits in goal. She’s not the biggest goalie, but she’s quick. Her movements are sharp as she alternates between dropping out of her stance to her knees and back up. She’s got quick reflexes and moves effortlessly throughout the crease.
But as the team runs a shooting drill, that’s where I start to see the cracks. When she’s challenged head on, it’s almost as if she panics. Or maybe flustered is the better word for it. She misses pucks she should be able to stop with how fast she is. And with each shot, instead of looking more and more zoned in, it’s almost as if she spacing out.
She’s clearly got raw talent. A few of the saves even stop me in my tracks momentarily, and the way she embellished some of them, adding in a little extra flair kind of reminds me…of me. A younger, hungrier version. She has confidence in the crease, but it falters when pressured. And if this is what happens when it’s just a drill, how’s she going to look in a game when there’srealpressure?
Not my problem.
But then a small voice in the back of my mind reminds me that yes, that actually is supposed to be my problem now.
Whatever.
4
Lennon
“To senior year!” Aubrey yells out, cherry vodka sloshing over the sides of the shot glass she raises in the air. Glasses clink as hands grow sticky with the spilled liquor. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself for the burn as I tip the shot through my parted lips and let it slip down my throat. The familiar heat comes quickly, and I toss my head back and forth, as if it’ll help it go away faster.
Grace makes a similar disgusted face, and we burst into laughter. “Why does that never get easier?”
“Cause it’s the cheapest liquor available,” I yell over the music. “One day we’ll drink smoother stuff.”
“You’d think the guys could spring for something a little better,” Austen chimes in, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and in the process, smearing her red lipstick. Aubrey immediately jumps in to fix it as Austen continues, “I mean, it’s senior year after all.”
As if that instantly means they can afford higher quality alcohol for these parties. It’s the first one of the year, andthe buzzing crowd, thumping music, and mix of colognes and perfumes send waves of nostalgia through me. The captain of the guys’ hockey team, along with a few other players, lives in this two-story house off campus and host the majority of our parties. It’s mostly a mix of hockey players from the girls’ and guys’ teams, but a few other students mingle about.
“I’ll miss these,” I say, looking around at the carefree nature of everyone blowing off steam from the first week of classes but also holding the excitement for an entire year of this to come.
Grace jabs my shoulder. “Don’t wish time away.”
I’m not trying to. But it’s easy when I get so caught up in work, classes, and hockey to remind myself that these carefree college days are dwindling.
“Vodka soda?” Austen passes around cups of mixed drinks, and I accept one gratefully. There’s a storage tub full of beers swimming in melted ice and a few miscellaneous bottles of cheap wine that no one is touching on a plastic folding table in the corner. When we first arrived, one of the girls instantly swooped up the two bottles of vodka sitting out to stash away with us for the night.
The floor is sticky beneath my shoes as our group settles into a corner of the kitchen. People overflow into the living room, where a crowd of people gather around a TV screen watching a UFC fight, and another group tries to get some dancing going over in the other corner.
“So are we going to address the elephant in the room?” Aubrey raises her perfectly arched brows at us. I wait her out, knowing she likes the dramatic effect. Everyone else does the same. In a dramatic sigh, she says, “Our new coach?”
“Is that an elephant in the room?” Grace says at the same time Austen murmurs, “One hot elephant.”
“What about him?” I ask, but I already have an idea where she’s going with this. The entire team has been giving him googly eyes all week, and sure enough…
“He’s ridiculously hot,” Aubrey practically swoons, and I laugh, not sure if it’s because of Coach Holloway or the alcohol.
“An understatement,” Austen pipes in. “Do you think he’s ever going to skate with us? I gotta see that man on the ice.”
“Doubt it.” I snort and am immediately on the receiving end of disappointed looks. “I mean, you guys see how he was at practice all week? Half the time sitting on his phone, the other half looking like he was about to doze off right there on the sidelines?” My initial excitement about all the things I was going to learn fromtheLuke Holloway has fizzled to a simmering disappointment.
“It’s only the first week,” Austen says. “Maybe he’s just warming up.”
