“Mr. Van der Hoff, glad you decided to join us today.”
I come to an abrupt halt in front of the class as I am faced with the mostattractiveprofessor I have ever encountered. When I heard that Nate had signed up for a creative writing class, I pictured Professor Fiore as a quirky man in his mid-sixties who probably liked to wear different colored socks and speckled glasses—or whatever the theater kids look like when they grow old. Instead, I’m blinking at a guy in his late thirties with high cheekbones and tanned skin. Warm amber eyes are examining me with curious amusement. I feel like the proverbial mouse that ran into a cat.
“Do you plan on picking a seat or would you rather keep standing there?”
“I, uh…I’ll sit. Sorry, Sir!” I hurry down the aisle to find a free chair at the back of the room. While doing so I almost knock a few pencil cases off the desks with my huge duffel, apologizing with flushed cheeks as the eyes of the whole class follow me to my seat.
From my new viewpoint, I notice that all the girls have suspiciously flocked to the front seats of the room, now eagerly raising their hands as Fiore asks one of them to recap last week’s class just forme.
Everything the small blonde sums up goes right over my head. Whatever creative genes our parents managed to come up with must have gone straight into my twin.
“Very well done. Thank you, Miss Rosenberg,” Fiore cuts the monologue short just before my ears start bleeding. Taking one of the markers he writes three words on the board. “Today we’ll talk about: Motivation. Goal. Conflict,” he reads out loud, lightly tapping each of them with the capped end of his marker. “Something every good character should have. Something everyhumanshould have.”
His dark eyes roam the rows before zeroing in on me. I hold my breath as I reach for Nate’s pencil case, pretending to search for a pen.
Please don’t ask me anything, please don’t ask me anything, I silently chant, just to have my hopes shattered a moment later.
“Mr. Van der Hoff, why don’t you tell us about your goals?”
I carefully release the air from my lungs as my fingers close around a pen, starting to fiddle with it just to have something to do. Okay, this isn’t so bad—I don’t even have to think about it.
“Making it to the NHL?” I don’t know why I phrase my answer like a question when it is as clear as day. Making it big, playingwith the best of the best, has been Nate’s and my shared dream since we were old enough to watch our parents play on TV.
I’m not sure who formulated the idea first—probably Nate, since he’s the talker between us—but it has always been there, on the forefront of our minds. Playing hockey, and playing hockey together.
“Of course,” Mr. Fiore sighs and rolls his eyes, like I just picked the most boring answer he has ever heard.
A few of the students around me snicker. The jock with the huge-ass duffel bag picking professional sports as his life goal. Apparently, that’s totally embarrassing.
“So, what motivates you?” he continues, and I come up short for the first time.
“What…what motivates me to play hockey?” I echo, my fingers grabbing the pen with more force now.
“No. You said your goal is not to just play hockey, but tospecificallyplay in the NHL, yes? So, again, what motivates you to train every day—go to the gym before classes and get beaten up on the ice on the weekends. Restrict your diet. Cut back on parties. Why all of that?”
“I love hockey.” It’s the best I can come up with.
The heads of the other students have swirled around, regarding me with silent curiosity. My throat feels scratchy and dry as I become aware of their shared attention.
“Okay,” Fiore raises a brow at that. He wanders in front of his desk, leaning against it with crossed arms.
My eyes dart to his shoulders for a moment, the way his biceps stretch the sleeves of his shirt.
“But if you love hockey, why not stick to playing in your free time for fun? What is it that motivates you to put up with a grueling schedule? To face the prospect of being separated from your family by hundreds of miles, of missing out on important occasions, of facing staggering divorce rates, of running yourbody into the ground and probably getting yourself diagnosed with CTE later in life?” Fiore counts the points off on his fingers like he’s reciting his grocery list for me.
With every downside he names, my ribcage grows tighter, stealing my breath bit by bit.
“It’s worth it,” I say, my voice shaking on the last syllable, so I jut my chin out to make up for it with defiance. I don’t know what’s up with this guy. Maybe a hockey dude stole his girlfriend while he was busy stacking books in his office—or whatever a creative writing professor does to get arms like that.
“Is it worth it? Because of the fame and the fans that will have forgotten you after a career-crippling injury? Because of the money that will be drained from your bank account after your divorce is smeared all over the tabloids?”
I press my lips together in a thin line as my thoughts jump directly to the hit I took last year. The months of physical therapy race by before me, like a personal highlight show of every moment of frustration on my way back here.
“I can’t explain it,” I tell him, desperate to be let off the hook. I’m not good at this—which is why I should be sitting in my biology class instead.
I must have dropped the pen at one point in this interrogation, because my fingers are now rubbing over my bad knee. I trace the outline of the kinesiology tape I applied after my fall last week.
“Why not?” Fiore cocks his head to the side, regarding me with interest, like I’m a rare curiosity that stumbled into his classroom.
