JT
“It makes no sense,”I repeat for the fiftieth time as Van and I walk from the dining hall over to the athletic center. “No fucking sense. Things were so good last night. I mean, crazy good. Like, am-I-hallucinating-good. I’ve been gone for her since that party Ollie dragged us to, and she was finally on the same page. Until my damn sweatshirt had to go and fuck things up.” After Maggie tore out of the library, I was sure she’d be a no-show for lunch, and I was right.
I figured I’d be eating alone, and that was probably for the best because I’ve been in a shit-ass mood since Maggie did her disappearing act once again. Lucky for me, Van wandered in and sat across from me, his mood just as pissy as mine. We sat there for a good half hour bitching about how crappy life can be sometimes. Van’s a great teammate, but his prowess on the ice doesn’t transfer to the classroom. He bombed a test this morning and is freaking out that he'll be riding the bench if his grades dip much lower.
I’m not super studious or anything, but school has always come fairly easily to me. I don’t work hard to ace all my classes like Pete and Rosco—I save that energy for the ice—but as long as I go to class and put a little effort in, I manage to keep my 3.5 GPA intact.
If only relationships were as simple and straightforward as college classes.
Van’s nodding along because he gets it. “Hate to break it to you, Norris, but women make no damn sense. Just when you think you know someone, think you’re getting somewhere and building something real, poof. It’s all over. I’m not tryna be the voice of gloom and doom, or anything. I’m just saying I’ve been there and it fucking sucks.”
Now it’s my turn to nod. I’ve been head-over-ass for Maggie since the moment I first laid eyes on her, but I’ve gotta be honest: this hot and cold thing she has going on is really starting to get old.
One minute she’s straddling me on her best friend’s couch and the next she’s losing her shit because I play hockey.
Hell, for most girls, that’s a draw. I can’t even calculate how much play my teammates get just because of the jerseys on their backs.
Van and I walk into the athletic center, and I’m not surprised that it’s still fairly empty. Most of the guys are in class or just filing into the dining hall about now. But Coach Baylor should be around, and Anderson, too, which is good. I want to go over some tape from our most recent faceoff with Woodcock last spring. “You heading up to study with the guys?” I ask. As freshmen, Deano and Will have a mandatory study hall, and lately Van’s been showing up and hitting the books. I feel for the guy—really, I do. He’s putting the effort in, but it doesn’t seem to make much of a difference.
“Yeah,” Van answers, checking his phone, “I’ve got some time, though, and I want to check in with Coach and let him know I just bombed my Contemporary Lit test.”
Inwardly, I wince. Coach is always in our corner, but I definitely wouldn’t want to break that kind of news to him.Coach is the kind of guy who wants things exactly the way he wants them. I can pretty much guarantee that having one of his star forwards sitting out for academic probation is not the way he wants to start this season. But I know Coach, and he’ll figure out a solution. The guy might be a bit of a control freak, but that works to our advantage most of the time. If there’s anything Coach can do to keep Van on the ice, I know he’ll do it.
As we round the corner, I see that his light’s on, but the doors open just a crack. I’m about to knock when Anderson opens his office door and peers out. “Baylor’s in a meeting over at the admin center, guys. What can I do for you?”
Van starts telling Anderson about his Contemporary Lit woes, and I head back to the locker room. Now is as good a time as any to get started on my warmup. I’m deciding on a playlist when I hear Coach’s door creak open and see a flash of blonde hair.
What the hell?
I turn to see who is in Coach’s office, and when I do, I freeze.
So does Maggie.
I stare at her for a moment as my brain tries to figure out why the girl I can’t stop thinking about—the girl who apparently hates hockey—is doing in my coach’s office. I take a step toward her, and she takes one backward, retreating into the space she was just about to leave. I’ve just crossed the threshold when Maggie closes the door behind me before taking a seat on one of the hard metal folding chairs along the wall.
“Want to tell me what the hell you’re doing here? I mean, I learned earlier today that you hate hockey, or at least you’re disgusted by the idea of associating with anyone affiliated with the sport. So, how’d you get into Coach’s office? And why? You hate hockey so much that you’re trying to steal ourplaybook and sell us out to Woodcock?” My theory is straight out of a bad 80s sitcom, but my brain can’t come up with anything else. There’s literally no logical reason for her to be here. And yet, she’s sitting a foot away from me, looking every bit as fucking beautiful as she did when I left her sleeping on Viv’s couch at three this morning. All that silky blonde hair cascades over her shoulder while the other one is predictably bare. God bless whoever made off-the-shoulder shirts a thing. The lacy strap of her bra peeks out and I see that it’s the same blue as her eyes. Her lips are full and glossy, her cheeks tinged with pink. Her legs are crossed at the knee and she’s gripping onto the bag on her lap like it’s a wooden door and the Titanic is sinking in the background.
She looks beautiful, yeah.
But she also looks tired. Stressed. The fuck over everything.
“What is going on, Maggie?” I ask, forcing some gentleness into my tone.
Instead of answering me, she sets her bag down on an empty folding chair and opens it wide for me to see. “No playbook, I swear. Just my Calc packet, some pens, my favorite lip gloss, and a crushed granola bar I forgot about.”
I nod, though I never really thought she was on a covert mission in the first place.
She stands, taking a minute to tug her shirt down and smooth some imaginary wrinkles. I take that same minute to admire the curve of her waist and the swell of her breasts. I’m confused as fuck and annoyed as hell, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to peel that shirt right off her, tug her leggings down, drop to my knees, and remind her how damn good last night was.
Maggie’s quiet as she walks across coach’s office and behind his desk. She reaches for a picture frame of the top shelf of a bookcase, but it’s too high and she can’t get it. I’mbehind her in a second, breathing in her scent just because I can. With ease, I lift the silver-framed picture from its shelf and hand it to her.
I’m close with Coach. I love the guy like an older brother, and I admire the hell out of him. I owe him a fuck of a lot, too. I have no business being in here when he’s not, and I shouldn’t be helping myself, or Maggie, to anything in his office. But my brain isn’t thinking logically right now. She wanted something, so I got if for her. End of story. Rules and manners be damned.
We’re standing so close that I could kiss the top of her head with no effort at all. She could fall into my arms in just a step. But there’s a cavern between us, and I have a feeling it has something to do with that picture. I never noticed it before, but then again, I don’t make a habit of studying the knickknacks in Coach’s personal space. When I’m in here, we’re talking hockey. Hell, we talk hockey everywhere we go.
Coach and I don’t talk about a ton of personal shit. He knows my baggage, but that’s because my stupid mistake almost tanked my hockey career before it started. I know he has a sweet wife, no kids, and a perfectionist streak that keeps him here at the training center at all hours. We have that in common.
The picture Maggie is holding must be ten years old, at least. Coach Baylor’s wearing his pro jersey and standing with an older couple, a blonde woman, and a girl with a ponytail and braces. The blonde isn’t his wife, Jules, because she’s damn near as tall as he is, and the woman in the picture is at least a foot shorter than Coach. Before I can try to decipher anything else in the photo, Maggie starts talking and the puzzle pieces fall into place.
