“Sorry, coach!” I can hear the wince.
The coach shakes his head. “Freshmen.”
Next to me, my companion lets out a quiet little laugh.
I crack a grin. “Yeah, that wasn’t on my bingo card.”
He looks over at me, like maybe he forgot I was there. “Sorry, what?”
“You know, my bingo card. There was no square for ‘puck nearly hits coach in the balls’ on my bingo card.”
This startles another laugh out of him, and I feel extra pleased. My reward is getting to see the corners of his eyes crinkle up.
“Uh, yeah,” he says. “That was pretty unusual.”
“Good to hear. I wasn’t sure. For all I know, that’s how you score points.” I hold out a hand. “Dash Dalton, hockey illiterate.”
He looks at my hand for a second and then slips his into mine. It’s warm and his shake’s surprisingly firm. “Caleb. Geller. Hockey semi-literate, I guess?”
I nod to the ice. “My roommate’s down there… somewhere.” I slide my eyes over to him. “How about you? One of them yours?”
He blushes slightly. Interesting. “Oh, uh, no. I just… I guess I’m a fan?”
Back on the ice, the team seems to have switched up what they’re doing.
“So, Caleb, since between the two of us you’re practically a hockey guru, maybe you can tell me—I’m not imagining it, right? They all just started skating backward?”
“Oh. No, you’re not. They are.”
“Okay. Good.” I wrinkle my nose. “Why?”
Caleb adjusts his glasses. “Uh, so the guys doing this drill are the defensemen. They need to be able to skate backward while following the play so they can block shots and passes. This drillhelps them perfect the kind of speed and maneuvering they need in a game. I think?”
No idea what he just said, but somehow just that he knows this stuff is seriously hot. Who knew hockey nerds were my kink?
I drop my voice low, put a little flirt into it. “Oh, okay, now I see. Youarea guru.”
I expect this to elicit a reaction. A little banter? A smile, maybe?
Instead, he turns to the ice and swallows. Hard. He focuses on the players with such intensity you’d think he didn’t know I was here, if he hadn’t just been talking to me.
Okay, then. I guess that’s my answer. And now I feel kind of like a jerk because I guess I did misread him after all. And I’ve just made this super awkward. So I think that would be my cue to leave. I grab my bookbag. “Well, I’ve got a date with a textbook. I’ll get out of your hair.”
I’m halfway to the aisle when he blurts out a kind of panicked, “No!”
When I turn back to him, he says, “You don’t have to go. I mean, unless you actually have to go. But if you don’t, I could maybe teach you a few more things. About hockey. If you were, like, interested…”
One thing I’m not interested in is making the guy uncomfortable. But when I search his eyes, I see nothing but earnestness in them. And a few gorgeous flecks of gold in the green. And, I think,hope.
So I drop back into my seat, still a safe couple of chairs away. “Okay.”
“Okay,” says Caleb, sounding more relaxed. He turns his attention back to the practice below. “Oh,” he says, sounding genuinely excited. “They’re starting a breakout drill!”
“Cool. And what is that, exactly?”
He cracks a smile. Then he starts to explain. I don’t understand half of what he says, but as we settle in and watch together, I glance at him every so often, catching glimpses of unfiltered joy on his face. I do not get the sportsball fascination. But he almost makes me want to try. I’m not sure, but I think I catch him looking at me once or twice, too.
I stick around for the rest of the practice.
