Each individual seat had the crest stitched into it. They look clean and crisp, just as everything on this campus does. Despite everything being clean, you can still smell the scent of hockey. It’s not as repugnant as the men’s locker room, but it’s definitely there.
Along the walls, framed photographs and plaques hang showing off teams from years past, famous alumni mid-celebration, and newspaper clippings immortalizing last-second victories.
It feels different when you’re in here all alone. When the lights are off and you’re standing smack dab in the middle. It’s almost like a stage, exceptthere’s no lights and no one’s here. I guess hockey and theatre aren’t all that different. Well, minus the hitting, slamming, and all-around competitive nature that hockey entails. But we’re both performing for an audience. So maybe that’s the only similarity.
And now I’m rambling in my head. God, I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous and I’m not even the one performing. I just want this night to go smoothly. I need it to go smoothly. Because I’m already trying to hold myself together and if anything goes wrong, I’m afraid that will be the last straw.
My mom called this morning to wish me good luck. She couldn’t be here since she’s got the flu or something. I don’t know how true it is. She hasn’t come back to Ellington since dad got arrested. I think it makes her upset, so I didn’t push her.
The light click of a door opening causes me to jump, almost slipping on the ice. I don’t see who’s walking toward me in the dark, and for a moment my skin prickles and my heart begins to race. Oh god, am I about to be murdered in the hockey arena? This is not the place I want to die in. I want to be surrounded by my family and friends when I’m old and senile.
As the footsteps grow closer, my vision begins to adjust, and I see that it’s not a murderer. It’s Jamie.
Which somehow feels even worse right now.
One hand in his pocket, the other carrying a cup of what I assume is coffee. His hair is disheveled, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. I don’t know why he’d be unable to sleep. He’s getting everything he wanted.
His knee is almost better, he’ll be able to get back to the NHL, the Wolves won their game theother night. So why does he look like he’s struggling to keep it together right now? Why do I care? My heartbeat reminds me exactly why I care. I love him. Stupid heart.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low, and I hate how his voice makes my entire body shiver.
“Hi,” I reply softly.
He shifts nervously. “Are you nervous?”
“A little,” I say honestly. There’s no point in lying, it’s probably written all over my face.
“Don’t be, it’s going to be great. Everyone’s worked really hard. Especially you.”
I watch his face, his eyes looking down at the coffee cup in his hand before reaching it toward me. I stare at the cup for a moment, wondering why he’s giving it to me. Looking up at him, he gives me a small, unsure smile.
“I got you coffee,” he tells me, and I almost melt into a puddle. Seriously? He brought me coffee? He’s really not making this any easier. Is he trying to hurt me more?
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Just take the damn coffee, Ellie. Don’t be stubborn,” he demands. I reach out and the cup from his hand, our fingers brushing slightly, and it instantly warms me.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
“Ellie, look. Can we talk about the other day at rehearsal?”
My brows furrow, acting as if I have no idea what he could possibly be talking about. Except, I know exactly what he’s referring to. Me finding out he’ll be going back to his team and leaving me behind.Okay, he didn’t actually say that, but I know how this plays out. He’s going to want to put all of his focus on a full recovery and getting back in the game. He won’t have time for me.
“What about the other day?” I ask and he shakes head with a scoff.
“You know what I’m talking about, El.”
“Jamie, there’s nothing to talk about. You’re healing, and that’s great. I’m so happy for you. You won’t have to slum it here anymore. You get to go back to your life, back to hockey, back to pretending I never existed.”
He looks as if I’ve slapped him across the face, as if I’ve just offended him with the truth. He takes a menacing step closer.
“Ellie, I was never pretending like you didn’t exist. It’s not like I just left and never thought of you again. I thought about you every goddamn day for months,” he seethes.
“Oh, is that supposed to make me feel better?” I ask, completely shocked as to why he thought admitting that he’d thought of me would bring me any comfort.
His head falls back as he lets out a frustrated groan. “I was eighteen, Ellie!” he shouts. “Dad was dead, and I got the offer of a lifetime, so I took it. I should have talked to you. I know I should’ve talked to you. But you had plans to go to college and my plans were bringing me away from home, away from you.”
Taking an angry step closer, my finger pokes at his chest.
