Unlike my brothers, I like to follow the rules, so I head back to campus. When I walk into the state-of-the-art athletic complex, I head straight for the reception desk to hand it in, ignoring the pool and fancy weight rooms. It isn’t until I get to the intersection of administrative offices and the arena that I hesitate. The door to the rink is wide open, and I realize I’ve never been inside. Hockey is one of the few sports my brothers were never into, or at least not long enough for me to go to any games. I look around to make sure no one can see me before I slip inside. It can’t hurt to take a look, right?
It’s not as cold as I expected, or as empty, as there are a handful of guys on the other side of the ice, waiting for the Zamboni to finish cleaning it. I find the whole thing fascinating.
No one notices me, so I climb the stairs to a block of seats that are partially hidden from the ice, which would suck if I was here to watch a game but all I want is some peace and partial quiet to write.
I pull out my leather notebook and get back to work, coming up with my main plot points, and what makes my characters tick.
I nearly jump when I look up and see a little girl watching me from a few feet away. Her light brown hair is braided into two pigtails, and she’s wearing a sparkly outfit under two winter coats, the top one looking like it could belong to one of my brothers.
“Are you here to watch practice?” she asks, coming close.
“I’d like to,” I tell her honestly, scanning the area for whoever she belongs to.
“You must be special then. My brother says only special people are allowed to watch them practice, but a lot of people come to the games. Do you go to those?”
Without asking, she takes the seat beside me, and I can’t help but admire her confidence.
“I haven’t yet. Do you come here often?”
“Not here, but I used to. You should come. He’s good.”
I assume she means her brother. “I’m sure he is.”
“What are you working on?” She points to the notebook I closed when she walked up.
“I like to write stories,” I admit, though I would usually keep that to myself.
“Like fairytales or chapter books? I’m reading Charlotte’s Web, but there are some words I don’t know yet.”
“I loved that one,” I share. “This is more like a chapter book than a fairytale, but there will be a happily ever after.”
“I like that,” she tells me. “Noah makes up really good bedtime stories when he’s the one in charge. With voices and everything.”
“My brothers were really good at that too.”
“Are you too old for bedtime stories now? My friend Holly says they’re for babies, so I told my mom not to, but I still let Noah.”
“I don’t think we’re ever too old for stories. You’re what, ten?”
“Eight,” she tells me proudly.
“My apologies.” I smile, remembering when I was also thrilled to have people think I was older. “I was a camp monitor, and even the other monitors loved bedtime stories.”
“I was in the Ladybug group,” she admits, looking at me with some kind of regret. “Veronica was in yours, and she said you were the best.”
“That’s very sweet.” I remember the overly dramatic blonde fondly. “Tell Veronica I say hi.”
“Is your name really Banana?” the girl asks with a furrowed brow that makes me laugh out loud.
“Savannah,” I correct her. “But my brothers call me Banana, so I used it for camp. What about you?”
“Isabelle, but most people call me Izzie.”
“It’s really nice to meet you.”
* * *
We move on to what I’m studying, and she asks insightful questions, before I am fully distracted by the six foot something adonis walking toward us, looking concerned. His eyes are a deep blue I’d assume were contacts if the girl beside me didn’t have the same ones. He runs his hand through his dark hair to keep it off his face, and I’m shocked that my first thought is that I wonder what it feels like. It’s not even the fact that he’s tall and built and looks like he could bench press me but still look good in a suit – a very important quality. I grew up with athletes, but he struts up with a pink princess backpack over his shoulder, and when Izzie rushes into his arms for a koala hug and he looks relieved rather than annoyed, my ovaries melt.
