“Of course not.” It also can’t be easy dating her weasel of a boyfriend, but I keep that part to myself. Jake and I can’t stand the guy, but everyone else—including Sophie— thinks he’s amazing, so we keep the trash talk to ourselves, mostly.
“And, of course, Jake is already earning accolades in med school. But enough about everyone’s success. Let's talk a minute about you.”
Just so we’re clear, my success will not be part of the conversation. That’s because, according to my mother, I have none to speak of.
“We’ve set you up with a tutor, Justin. I’ve emailed you the schedule and you’re not to deviate from it. Justin also has instructions to report to your father and me each week regarding your progress.”
“Mom—”
“Don’t “Mom” me. You barely studied for your LSATs all summer and it’s a very difficult test. Do you know what some students would do for a private tutor? Be grateful, Paige.”
“Of course,” I acknowledge. “Thank you.”
“And it goes without saying that since you’ll be spending so much time preparing for the exam, you won’t have any time to take videos of your makeup routine.” She says this last part as though I have a social media channel solely dedicated to something as one-dimensional and uninspiring as choosing the right cantaloupe at the grocery store.
“I’m sure I’ll find some time,” I say, unwilling to budge on this. My channel—and my fascination with all things hair and makeup—have always stymied my parents.
My mother sighs. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with your test prep or your grades,” she warns.
“Of course,” I say in the same tone I’ve been using to placate my parents since I was about ten. “Sorry, Mom, the girls are here and we need to get going.”
“All right, dear. Talk soon.” And with that, she hangs up. And I sit alone in my bedroom trying to shake off the bad mood I’ve been in since the party at the hockey house two nights ago.
Soon enough, I hear the girls in the hallway.
“Lex Vonne is my boyfriend,” Emma declares loudly and inaccurately.
“Uh...you know he has a girlfriend, right?” I ask, opening the door.
“Don’t shit on my parade, Paige.” She frowns and strolls right into my room. “And can I borrow that lip gloss I like?”
I huff out a laugh. “ Which one?”
She pouts momentarily, grabs a gloss from my nightstand, applies it, and looks in the mirror. Satisfied, she begins rooting through my jewelry box for a pair of hoops. “Hey, Derek Meyers is single, right?”
“Yeah, he’s a free agent,” Lily replies. “See what I did there?”
We collectively roll our eyes and I concentrate on doing Lily’s eyes as the conversation veers back to who’s datable on the hockey roster this year.
Em leans toward the mirror to put the earrings in. “There’s Meysy. And Stillman, the forward. He’s single, I think.”
“And don’t forget the goalie. He’s one fine hunk of man,” Lily pipes up. “I mean, yes, all men are dirtbags, but I can still recognize that he’s hot.”
And that’s my cue to steer the conversation elsewhere. I have nothing against Spencer, per se. I’m surely not the only girl to make out with a guy only to be ghosted less than an hour later. But still, I'd rather not think about what might have been.
4
Spencer
Over the last year, I’ve gotten remarkably good at putting blinders on and focusing on the one thing that matters—starting in the NHL. I can’t let anything distract me. I know this truth like I know my own name. So why have thoughts of Paige been playing at the edges of my mind over the last few days? Granted, our night together didn’t end well, but the rest of it was pretty awesome. For the first time in a year, I had fun—real, actual, authentic fun. Yes, I love playing hockey and I have a great time when I’m out there, but that’s my job. Being with Paige for a couple of hours just felt natural.
But I need to let all of that go. First off, she didn’t answer my call after the party, so I can only guess she wants nothing to do with me. I can’t blame her. And even if, by some miracle, she did want to hang out, I need to keep my eyes on the season, getting to the Frozen Four, and maybe even going pro as early as next year. I have no time for anything else.
And yeah, the guys rib me for being obsessed. I mean, I was already drafted by the Toronto Blaze this summer. I should relax and celebrate, right? Ha. Not even a little. Besides, it’s harder for a goalie. Each team has two, sometimes three— and that’s it. The fact is, there’s a lot more competition for my spot than any of theirs.
But I’ve never wanted to be anything else. As a young kid, you rotate through all the positions, but my dad put me between the pipes by the time I was six, which is pretty young, and I’ve never left. There’s something about my vantage point that’s intoxicating, if that makes sense. I can see it all happening, but I only have seconds—sometimes less—to react.
And that’s what I’m doing now— reacting. I walked into class half an hour ago, and started toward the front. I need to do well in this course, and not just for my GPA. Also, for my pride.
