“What kind did you get?” His eyes point to my yogurt.
“S’mores, obviously.”
“Stupid question.”
I smile, stirring in the crushed graham crackers and chocolate. “How many hours do you spend practicing?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “A week? A little less than thirty.”
My jaw drops. That can’t be right. “Noah, that’s…” I shake my head, trying and failing to mentally do the math. Instead, I say, “Insane.”
“It’s not that bad. It’s about twenty in the NHL, not including games and travel time.”
“Yeah, because that’s your full-time job. You’re telling me you do thirty hours a week of practice plus all your schoolwork?”
I’ve spent the last two and a half years listening to my dad and Leo talk about how practices are going. They tend to keep their hockey talk to themselves, in private texts and phone calls, but the occasional gripe about practice comes out. That’s how I know university student athletes are limited to a maximum of twenty hours of work per weekincludinggames.
“I know my dad wouldn’t have you working over the limit.” It’s an inside thought that I say out loud.
Noah only smiles and pulls his knee up onto the couch,turning to face me. “You know what, I’m glad you brought that up.”
I roll my eyes, sucking in my cheeks to hide my smile.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” There’s no accusation in his tone, just genuine curiosity, but it feels too vulnerable to admit that I didn’t want to be a tool for him to use to get to my dad. I go with a version of the truth.
“I’ve found that people treat me differently when they know who he is.”
I look up and find Noah nodding his head in understanding. It dawns on me that we might have more in common than I initially thought. I’ve been used as a golden ticket to get to my dad, and even to get to my brother—in a much less creative way by his rivals. Noah has been used for who he is. Everywhere we go, I see the way people fawn over him. I’ll never admit it to him, but I can secretly acknowledge that once you’ve had a conversation with him—or been looked at like you’re the only person in the room by him—then sure, his appeal is warranted. But these are people who just know who he is. People that just want to be near him. They want to integrate themselves with him and his group, seemingly for his status alone.
We stare at each other in a mutual understanding. Even if he doesn’t understand me fully, I feel like I’m starting to see pieces of the real Noah, and I don’t know how to feel about the fact that I’m starting to like it.
18
noah
With a groan,I silenced my alarm twice this morning, attempting to finish my dream that involved Savannah and me in a bathroom. Only, in my fantasy, it was going much further than where we ended things last weekend. It wasn’t until I woke up with the cold reminder of who her dad was that I hopped out of bed, showered, and now find myself playing NHL ‘25 with Silas.
“Have either of you taken Methods in Community Engagement?” Maverick asks from the kitchen.
“I did it last year,” Silas absently says from beside me, while never taking his eyes off the video game we’re playing.
“Alright, you guys—think. We need to come up with a good excuse for getting out of a class.”
“Crazy idea here, but why don’t you just take the class?” I ask.
“Because it says I have to complete a minimum of fifty hours of community service.” He drops the paper he was reading. “I don’t have time for that.”
“You spend fifty hours in one month alone atRowdy’s.”
“That’s for my physical health.”
“Beer?”
“No. Pussy.” He smiles.
I shake my head, the minute of back and forth with Mav cost me a goal.
“Damnit.”
