“You don’t think she’ll like it? She loves hockey.”
“No, that’s not…” My confusion, and new opinion of her, must be apparent, because her cheeks go red and she says, “It’s smutty.”
“As in…”
“There’s sex. A lot of it. Detailed.”
Oh.
But… “In a kid’s book?”
“It’s not for kids.”
“There’s a cartoon.”
“I know,” she tells me. “Hockey romance is all I read, and I promise you, it’s not because I love hockey.” Her face is red, and I suddenly understand why she was embarrassed.
I want to reassure her that we’re cool and I in no way judge her for her book preferences, or feel ogled or whatever, but then it hits me. That Savannah is currently writing a hockey romance. Which means she either won’t sell many copies, or she’s writing about sex. With college hockey players. Of which I am one.
I have a lot of feelings about this.
“All hockey romances?” I ask.
“The ones I read,” Abigail agrees. “I’m sure there are a bunch that aren’t spicy, and people must read them, but…” She lets the thought linger, but her face tells me she has no interest in that shit.
“If I had a friend who was writing a hockey romance set in college…”
“I’d bet ninety-nine to one there’s smut,” she tells me. “Unless she’s really into hockey, I guess.”
Nope. Hockey was definitely not the driving force behind Savannah’s decision.
“Cool. I have practice, but thanks for the talk.”
“Of course.” She swallows. “And this really isn’t my business, but thanks for coming yesterday. I get that it was for your sister, but my brother really appreciated it. My parents too. They try, but it’s hard.”
I want to say it would be easier if they stopped referring to themselves as Tatum’s grandparents, effectively excluding Izzie, but I heard her remind my sister to call her Aunt Abby, so my beef isn’t with her.
“I’d do anything for Izzie,” I say instead. “Guess I’ll see you over Christmas?”
“I’ll be here,” she says as if I’m the uncertain one, when this is literally my home…but I guess we have games and practices over the holidays, and watching Doug with my pregnant mom last year had me spending more time in my dorm, and at Coach’s than I had to. For a minute, I worry that my dislike of Doug is the reason Izzie doesn’t like them, and decide to make an effort and keep these opinions to myself from now on. She could use a father figure, and I do the best I can, but I’ll never be my dad.
Half the team goes to Slapshots after practice. Of the five of us living in the house on Ivy, two of us grew up within a few hours’ drive, while the other three are from Los Angeles, so they flew home for about forty-eight hours and look slightly worse for the wear after landing this afternoon.
“You good?” I ask Owen while David and Colt are at the bar getting shots, which are a terrible idea, but they have fake IDs and it’s none of my business. No idea how this place survives without getting shut down when they must know most of the team is underage.
“I hate leaving holidays early,” he tells me. “But this is nice. I’m glad we did the big off campus house.”
“Me too,” I assure him.
“What did you do? How’s Izzie?”
“Just dinner at home with my mom’s boyfriend’s family. We kicked a ball around in the backyard, which Izzie seemed to enjoy.”
“And your brother is Tatum, right? Half-brother,” Owen amends.
“I don’t use the distinction, but yeah.”
“That’s good. A twenty-year age difference sucks if you count the half.”
