The walk to the coffee shop takes a few minutes, and, as promised, Emma treats me to a latte.
“Thank you,” I say, as we cheers our coffee cups.
“Ok, lovely, I’m off,” Emma says, glancing at her watch.
“Uh...what? We’re going to the same building. Why are you ditching me?”
“I love you, Paige. And I treasure our walks to campus. But Professor Hottie McDoucheface of the House of Evil Maths has taken to jogging on campus at this hour, and if I don’t leave in the next,” she takes another peek at her watch, “thirty-three seconds, I will miss the sight of his fabulous glutes in his tiny shorts. Love you! Bye!”
And with that, she’s off.
I scan the Green Bean for an empty table, since I’ve got a good twenty minutes to kill. Before I make my way over to an empty seat by the window, there’s a commotion at the door.
And by commotion, I mean six hot, wide-shouldered hockey players have entered the tiny shop. And one of them is my boyfriend. Turning on my heel, I head in that direction. “Morning, guys.”
There’s a chorus of heys and hellos. My boyfriend doesn’t say anything, though. Not a hi or good morning. Instead, he wraps his arms around my waist, leans down since I’m in flats, and kisses me like it’s his job.
Today might not suck, after all.
Today is going to suck. There is no scenario I can think of in which today doesn’t end in me failing the LSATs. Now, of course, I have to wait six weeks for the crushing news of doom, but I have no illusions that I’m going to pass.
God. I should have studied more, I think to myself as I throw on fresh leggings and a hockey hoodie. It feels like studying is all I’ve been doing for weeks, but some people have been prepping for this for years.
Holy hell. I’m not a nervous person, but I’m starting to freak out when there’s a knock at my door. “Paige, open up, baby.” My boyfriend’s voice carries through the door. I open it to see him standing there, looking stupid hot, and holding a latte.
“For you.” He hands me the drink, and drops a kiss on my forehead. “You ready? Or do you need a minute?”
“How do you do that?”
“What? Get unrestricted access to your dorm? The guy who sits in the lobby is a hockey fan. He just waves me through.” He shrugs, totally oblivious to my meaning.
“No, I mean, yes, but no. I want to know how you always seem to know exactly what I need and when I need it.”
“I’m the boyfriend. It’s my job to know. Also, the answer is almost always coffee or sex. And since you have the LSATs in thirty minutes, I thought coffee was a good choice.”
“I’m keeping you,” I say as we leave my dorm.
“Good to know,” he tells me and threads our hands together as we walk across campus.
Spencer
Unlike the last home series, I’m able to get a bite to eat with my dad afterward. We go to the steakhouse in town, like usual. For as much as my dad obsesses about healthy eating, both mine and his own, a post-game win is always celebrated with a steak. And also steamed broccoli and a salad, hold the croutons. But, hey, a steak is a steak.
“Toronto’s on,” he says, glancing at his phone where he’s no doubt streaming the game. “They need a backup for their backup, if you ask me. I just hope the powers that be weren’t watching last night to see that shot Wisniewski got on you. Left your five-hole wide open.”
I take a drink of my unsweetened iced tea to stop myself from saying something I’ll regret. Because yeah, Wisniewski got a shot on me. And yeah, I need to reflect back on that, take stock of any weaknesses, and work on them. But I also blocked every other shot they sent my way.
Believe me, I’m all for working hard, and I’m not one to pat myself on the back, but this whole let’s-only-discuss-the mistakes approach my dad takes is really wearing thin lately.
“But, if their guys were watching you today, that’s good news. You had your head on straight.”
I had my head on straight? Yeah, I shut them out while our guys put three in their net.
I don’t want to get into an argument or worse—fish for praise that will never come, so I take a bite and nod. Part of me wishes Paige were here. Every ounce of my stress seems to melt away when she’s near. But then again, if my dad found out I had a steady girlfriend? Yeah, that would not go over well. It’s not exactly that I’m keeping a secret from him. It’s just that he hasn’t asked and I haven’t volunteered the information. And I know my mom hasn’t told him. They talk only when absolutely necessary, and I’m fairly certain they haven’t said more than ten words to each other since my high school graduation.
We talk about the rest of the guys, who’s looking good and who might be drafted.
“Goodwin looked sharp out there. Never understood why somebody didn’t pick him up. There are other guys that size in the NHL and with his work ethic and pedigree? Hell, he’d be an asset. And you wanna know why I’d pick him over Vonne or Hunter or Daniels?”
