I groan. “Please tell me you’re not about to say I should think about transferring.”
“No,” she says quickly. “Actually, the opposite.”
That gets my attention.
She gestures vaguely toward the anatomy textbook lying open beside us.
“That thing looks like it’s slowly killing you.”
“It might be.”
“What you actually love about college,” she continues, “is the fun stuff. The lake. The games. Parties. Us.”
She pokes the textbook disdainfully. “Not… whatever that is.”
Katie peers at the open textbook solemnly. “Ligaments.”
“Exactly.” Willow leans back against the pillows.
“But Markus was wrong about the way you should go about it.”
“Oh?”
“You shouldn’t leave. We wouldn’t survive without you,” she says firmly. “Katie would never leave her movies, and I’d fall through the ice trying to do triple spins and have no one to pull me back out.”
“True,” Katie says.
“But,” Willow continues, eyes lighting up, “I’ve been thinking about what he said.”
That tone immediately makes me suspicious.
“He said it himself,” she continues. “You’re better than most of the team.”
“I did not agree with that statement.”
“Well, you are. So why not have some fun with it?”
“With what?”
She leans forward conspiratorially.
“I heard something at the rink yesterday. They’re holding emergency try-outs.”
“For what?”
“The left-wing position. Turns out there’s a bit of a shortage of good players right now. And you,” she says, pointing at me dramatically, “are a Shaw.”
“You’re joking.”
“I can help you.”
Katie lets out a scoffing noise. “Oh please,” she says. “Like she can pretend to be a guy. This isn’tMulan.”
Willow rolls her eyes.
“It’s hockey, not the military.”
Then she turns back to me, suddenly very serious. “Baggy jersey. Helmet. Pads.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “No one will know.”
