Chapter Eighteen
Dallas
I can’t help but feel like I fucked up.
After the jumbotron incident, the vibe in the arena was weird. Everything was off, including me.
I played like shit.
We ended up losing by four in a shutout.
I didn’t stay in the locker room any longer than I had to tonight, so I could search for Ella immediately after the game.
No such luck.
I tried to inquire about her whereabouts to anyone I could, but that was also a dead end.
Do you ever feel like you are missing something?
That’s how I feel now, even though I officially know the name of my mystery Cinderella. Not only do I know her name, I actually know her. At least, I thought I did.
But I can’t seem to find her anywhere now.
I figured once I knew her name it would be so easy to locate her, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.
She hasn’t been to the ice rink or to any classes, including the biology class we apparently had together.
It’s finals week on campus, which could account for the eerie vibes and such, but Ella didn’t show for her biology final.
I even asked the professor to confirm, and the only thing he could tell me was that he hadn’t seen her.
Does she not want to see me?
Is she avoiding me?
That thought prickles my neck as I lace up my skates on a small park bench.
It’s a week before Christmas, and I only have one more final left, then I leave for a minuscule break before arriving back on campus for hockey practice and games.
But right now, I’m doing a little stress relief for myself.
It’s a cold December day, and the pond ten minutes from campus froze over for the first time this season. I discovered this ice by accident last year, getting lost on unfamiliar roads as a freshman. It led me to a quaint spot in the woods, with only a few houses around.
After my laces are tight, I zip up my jacket and throw on my winter gloves.
I stand up and walk the two feet to the ice before my legs take over, and my brain focuses on other things.
I’ve been skating since I was two, and it’s muscle memory at this point.
The wind whips my hair and my face as I speed up, taking a lap around the pond. When I close in on my first lap, I notice a lone shadow on the ice.
Another skater.
The shadow is petite, and her strides are perfection on the ice. I pick up my speed, but the shadow does too, as I do my best to catch up. It takes much longer than I anticipate, but as I match her stride, she turns and huffs.
“Dallas,” she sighs. “Figures.”
Wait.
I know that sweet voice.
“Ella?”
“Uh, yeah,” she responds with a little bite.
“What are you doing here?”
“Trying to avoid everyone. Clearly, I can’t even do that right.” Her shoulders slump as the words leave her lips.
“Why would you want to avoid me?” I ask, confusion lacing my tone.
She lets up on the speed, and I follow suit, as we transform into a slower stride.
“Are you kidding me? You’ve been avoiding me ever since you found out that I’m BBUGirl.”
“Wait, what?” I stop cold on the ice.
She raises her brow as she skates around me in a circle, assessing me, before stopping right in front of me.
A fake laugh bubbles out of her mouth. “We made eye contact. Twice.” After a second of no response from me, she tacks on, “After I was humiliated at my dad’s rink, my favorite place.”
My throat is dry and scratchy as I take a gulp. “Will you sit with me as I explain?” I point to the bench toward the parking lot, as she nods.
We skate over in silence and take a seat, leaving a foot between us.
I swallow.
This is it.
“I, uh,” I scratch the back of my neck. “I need to tell you the truth about me. Not many people know this, but I, uh…”
God, why is this so hard?
Her beautiful blue eyes stare back, patiently waiting for me.
“I have prosopagnosia,” I blurt out. She tilts her head to the right as I continue. “Face blindness. I have trouble seeing different faces.”
My vision is fine, but my brain has trouble recognizing faces even when they are friends or close family members. I’ve spent a lot of time memorizing pictures to help, but if someone changes their hairstyle or wears glasses, it can throw my brain off.
She slides a half foot closer to me on the bench and places her soft hand on my knee.
“Everyone looks the same to me.” I can detect certain features like eyes and mouth, but I can’t connect the dots. I sigh. “I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t know that about you,” she whispers.
“Nobody does.” I scratch behind my shoulder. “I don’t know how this would affect my game if this got out.”
Two seasons ago, a hockey player from Bristol Bay lost his peripheral vision during a playoff run, and it killed his career. He was destined to go pro, but his vision held him back.
I don’t want the same fate, which is why I don’t tell a soul. I’m not even sure my dad knows, if I’m being honest. My mom does, as she was with me when I got diagnosed a few years ago after a head injury on the ice.
My parents divorced when I was young, and I doubt she told him since she makes it a point to speak with him as little as possible. She knows the pressure I was under, even at a young age, and she let’s me be me.
I’m able to manage fine without seeing faces for the most part, especially with people I interact with often. Their voice, gait, body features, etcetera, cue me in, but this whole Cinderella debacle is when my face blindness really sucks.
I can’t believe she was right in front of me this whole time.
I feel like such an idiot.
“Hockey?” she questions, drawing me out of my thoughts.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t see how this would be an issue.” Her voice rich and gentle.
“Who wants the guy who can’t see people on their team?” My words are honest.
“A lot of people. Plus, everyone wears helmets anyway.” Her voice is strong and firm. “You are a great player, and clearly, you don’t need to see faces in hockey to be a badass.”
I chuckle at that, and my lips tilt up at the corners without trying.
“A badass?” I quirk my brows.
“Yes. And stop fishing for compliments. You know that you’re a phenomenal hockey player!”
“Phenomenal, huh?” I flash my eyelashes at her. “What else?”
“Knock it off!” she says, as she playfully whacks me on the arm.
I grab her elbow, not letting it go. Our eyes clash together, neither of us looking away.
She sucks in a breath as I inch closer to her.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmur into her ear.
“You are only saying that because you can’t see me,” she punches back.
Ouch. Does she not know how gorgeous and amazing she is?
“Even when I couldn’t recognize your face, I could always recognize your beauty. You are beautiful inside and out,” I say with all the passion I feel.
She scoots a little closer to me on the bench and leans in, brushing her shoulder to mine. I swivel my body for a better angle, inching toward her until I close the gap between us altogether. I tilt my head and press my lips to hers.
Her lips are soft and sweet, warming me up from the cold instantly.
After a few minutes or more—I’m not really sure—we break away.
Our foreheads are still connected, both hearts beating fast.
“Hi. Ella. My amazing BBUGirl. I can’t believe both of my crushes were you.”
She whacks me on the arm again. “You couldn’t possibly have a crush on snack bar girl.”
“Wait. Why?” I blink. “Snack bar girl had some killer moves on the ice. Plus, she is kind, humble, and brave.”
“Brave,” she laughs, but it’s completely hollow. Her eyes are dark and elsewhere.
“I wish I were brave,” she says just above a whisper.
“You seem pretty brave to me.” My eyes stay locked on hers.
“Let me tell you, Dallas. I am not a catch at all. Feel free to walk away after I tell you the truth about me. The truth is, I am no longer a student at the school, and I’m homeless. I sleep on my sixty-year-old former co-worker’s couch. I also have no job. No prospects.”
“What about hockey? You are incredible on the ice.” I state. “And I know what I’m talking about,” I say with a cocky smile.
She lets out a small laugh, which was my intention.
Then she lets out a long, wistful sigh. “I wish.”
I lift a brow for more information, but she doesn’t continue.
“I know the coach of the women’s team. I can put in a good word.”
“Thank you, but no,” she huffs. “I’ve already been rejected. Don’t really want to go down that road again.”
My mouth drops open as I scratch my temple. “Rejected by Coach T?”
“I think? Yeah. I just don’t have what it takes.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal.
I would have been traumatized if I hadn’t made the team at Bristol Bay. “What about a lower division, then transfer back?”
“Well, I currently have no money for school, and no job…” Her words trail off. “Also, I was rejected everywhere for hockey.”
I can’t help it. I laugh.
“What?” she asks with an awkward laugh.
“There is no fucking way that is true.”
“Well, I would show you my letters, but…”
When it’s clear she’s not going to finish that thought, I probe. “But…?”
“But, then I would have to go back to my stepmother’s house to retrieve it, and I’m pretty sure she probably threw out all my stuff by now.”
“Stepmom?” I question. “What about your mom?”
“Dead,” she moves a shoulder up and down. “My mom died in childbirth, and my dad died in a car accident when I was around ten. My dad remarried two years prior, so I stayed in my childhood home with her and her daughters.”
“Wow,” I say, taking in her story. I can’t imagine losing both my parents so young. I thought I had it rough that my dad is always on my back about hockey and my choices. Those things seem so minor now in comparison.
Something is nagging me, though, and I can’t quite place it. I scratch my head and mull over her previous words.
“Wait. Earlier, you said your dad owned the rink?”
“Yeah. He was a h—”
“Hockey player,” we both say at the same time.
I blink my eyes twice. “Your dad was Pete Simmons? The hockey player?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow.” This guy was incredible for the years he played in the league. I’ve always admired him as a player on and off the rink. He was always great to the Bristol Bay community, offering free and low-cost hockey programs to children in the area, getting kids on the ice and out of trouble.
“So,” I start as I try to figure out all the thoughts in my brain, “I highly doubt Ella Simmons, hockey prodigy and daughter of two very famous alumni, got rejected from both the hockey team and any kind of financial aid as an orphan.”
“They know my stepmom has money,” she says with a shrug.
“I think we need to find the letters.” I quirk my eyebrow in challenge.
“Okay,” she agrees without putting up a fight.