But they’re thousands of miles away. Adam is right here.
We walk together to the front of the store, where we exchange phone numbers and say our goodbyes. The rest of my shift crawls by until it’s time to close up shop and go back to the dorm, where I’m met with a whole host of issues—roommate drama, noise complaints, one student who has an ear infection and needs to go to the infirmary—that keep me hopping until after midnight. When I’m finally able to fall into bed, I’m so exhausted I can’t even muster up the energy to undress, and I wind up sleeping in my clothes
* * *
It’s a good thing I don’t have class until noon the next day. And no improv on the schedule, meaning I don’t see Adam until it’s time for our skating lesson.
I’ve never been to the arena where the team plays and practices, but it’s not hard to find. First, because it’s flipping enormous. The building is shaped like a giant egg. And second, because there are signs everywhere. Hockey is huge at Moo U. I guess the administration wants to make sure none of their big donors get lost on their way to games.
It’s dark when I get there, and I have to hunt around a bit for the players’ entrance, where Adam told me to meet him. He greets me at the door with a nervous smile, still in his hockey gear. The only things missing are his helmet and skates. His head is bare, his damp hair is plastered to his forehead, and his feet are shoved into a pair of well-worn Chuck Taylors.
If I thought he was physically intimidating before, he’s a beast now. All the pads—shoulder, elbow, shin—make him even more imposing. The overall effect is—well, let’s just say I never knew I had a thing for big, burly athletes. But I totally do.
“Please tell me I don’t have to dress like that.” I wave a hand up and down his big body.
“Nah. Practice went late, and I didn’t have time to change.”
“Thank fudge.” I don’t think I’d be able to move under all that stuff, never mind skate. Although the padding would probably help cushion my inevitable falls. Plural.
“Did I hear that right?” he asks, looking at me with a combination of amusement and astonishment. “Did you just say ‘thank fudge?’”
I can feel heat creeping up my cheeks. “Uh, yeah. I kind of have a little problem with swearing. It doesn’t bother me when other people do it, but I can’t seem to do it myself.”
“Is it a religious thing?”
“Sort of. Strict parents.” I leave it at that and pray he won’t push for more. The last thing I want is to have to explain my messed-up family situation.
Fortunately, he goes in a completely different direction.
“So you say ‘fudge’ instead of”—he stumbles, then recovers—“the F word?”
“Yes. And like I said, you don’t have to be a saint. I’m okay if you swear. It’s just hard for me. In my head, it doesn’t sound right coming from my mouth. All those years of not swearing have made it—weird.”
“Do you have other alternative curse words?”
I shrug. “A few.”
“What do you say instead of shit?”
“Shiz.”
“Damn?”
“Darn.”
“How about son of a bitch?”
“Sun on the beach. Or son of a biscuit eater.”
He busts out laughing at that one, and I shake my head. “You’re having way too much fun with this.”
“Guilty as charged. I can’t wait to hear what comes out of your mouth the first time your ass hits that cold, hard ice.” He opens the door behind him and steps back to let me through. “Speaking of which, we’d better get out there.”
I hang back, hesitating. “Is the coast clear?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said practice ran late. I thought you wanted to wait until the place emptied out.”
