Chapter 3
DASH
The next day, I’ve got some time to kill after class before the cafeteria opens up for dinner.
My path just happens to take me near the hockey rink.
Or okay fine, within ten minutes’ walk of it anyway.
I figure it can’t hurt to peek in at practice again.
Might give me something to chat with my roommate about, right?
And if the guy from yesterday happens to be there again, well, that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, now would it?
I’m honestly not really expecting him to be there. I mean, I don’t know what his deal is, but what are the odds, he’d…
He’s here.
Aaaand now he’s seen me, so there’s not much point in pretending I’m not here to see him.
I can’t help it, okay? I love a good mystery. Hot guys don’t hurt, either.
I climb up the stairs toward the back row of seats. He’s making a show of focusing on the team, but he looks over at me enough it’s clear he’s watching me, too.
I don’t want to spook him, so I take a seat a half dozen down from his. For a few minutes, I watch the ice. Gavin and the boys are doing… skatey-puck things.
I steal a glance at the boy beside me. There’s something sweet about him.
His hair is not quite blond, not quite brown, a little shaggy around the edges.
He’s got ridiculously long eyelashes behind his adorkable glasses, and he’s wearing a hand-knit sweater that’s slightly too big on him.
The sleeves cover most of his hands. I find it completely endearing.
He’s clearly interested in me—whether in a hey-you’re-kinda-cute way or a what-the-hell-are-you-doing-dude kind of way, I can’t tell.
He’s also clearly not going to talk to me first.
Okay, well, if I’m going to do this, I might as well do this.
I hop over a few seats. He looks up, only slightly alarmed, and I flash him what I know is my most winning smile.
He gives me a hesitant one back and the slightest of nods before turning his eyes back to the ice. Okay then.
We watch in what might be (sorta, kinda, if you squint) companionable silence for a few minutes. Just two guys watching a bunch of other guys do their jock thing. Like you do. He doesn’t pack up and flee, and I didn’t have a plan beyond this, so I’ll take it.
I do my best to study him out of the corner of my eye. He’s watching the practice intently. Although he definitely does not look like your typical sports bro.
I try to follow the action of the players, but I honestly have no idea what they’re doing.
They’ve got the guy in the little net thing—the goal, I guess—and all the other guys are lined up, whacking pucks at him, one after the other. I am really not up on my hockey, but I am pretty sure this is not how it normally works.
One guy manages to whack it extra hard and at a weird angle, and it somehow bounces off the metal part of the goal and goes flying at the coach, right at crotch-level.
The coach jumps out of the way, surprisingly fast for a guy his age. “Watch it, kid!” he booms.
“Sorry, coach!” I can hear the wince.
The coach shakes his head. “Freshmen.”
Next to me, my companion lets out a quiet little laugh.
I crack a grin. “Yeah, that wasn’t on my bingo card.”
He looks over at me, like maybe he forgot I was there. “Sorry, what?”
“You know, my bingo card. There was no square for ‘puck nearly hits coach in the balls’ on my bingo card.”
This startles another laugh out of him, and I feel extra pleased. My reward is getting to see the corners of his eyes crinkle up.
“Uh, yeah,” he says. “That was pretty unusual.”
“Good to hear. I wasn’t sure. For all I know, that’s how you score points.” I hold out a hand. “Dash Dalton, hockey illiterate.”
He looks at my hand for a second and then slips his into mine. It’s warm and his shake’s surprisingly firm. “Caleb. Geller. Hockey semi-literate, I guess?”
I nod to the ice. “My roommate’s down there… somewhere.” I slide my eyes over to him. “How about you? One of them yours?”
He blushes slightly. Interesting. “Oh, uh, no. I just… I guess I’m a fan?”
Back on the ice, the team seems to have switched up what they’re doing.
“So, Caleb, since between the two of us you’re practically a hockey guru, maybe you can tell me—I’m not imagining it, right? They all just started skating backward?”
“Oh. No, you’re not. They are.”
“Okay. Good.” I wrinkle my nose. “Why?”
Caleb adjusts his glasses. “Uh, so the guys doing this drill are the defensemen. They need to be able to skate backward while following the play so they can block shots and passes. This drill helps them perfect the kind of speed and maneuvering they need in a game. I think?”
No idea what he just said, but somehow just that he knows this stuff is seriously hot. Who knew hockey nerds were my kink?
I drop my voice low, put a little flirt into it. “Oh, okay, now I see. You are a guru.”
I expect this to elicit a reaction. A little banter? A smile, maybe?
Instead, he turns to the ice and swallows. Hard. He focuses on the players with such intensity you’d think he didn’t know I was here, if he hadn’t just been talking to me.
Okay, then. I guess that’s my answer. And now I feel kind of like a jerk because I guess I did misread him after all. And I’ve just made this super awkward. So I think that would be my cue to leave. I grab my bookbag. “Well, I’ve got a date with a textbook. I’ll get out of your hair.”
I’m halfway to the aisle when he blurts out a kind of panicked, “No!”
When I turn back to him, he says, “You don’t have to go. I mean, unless you actually have to go. But if you don’t, I could maybe teach you a few more things. About hockey. If you were, like, interested…”
One thing I’m not interested in is making the guy uncomfortable. But when I search his eyes, I see nothing but earnestness in them. And a few gorgeous flecks of gold in the green. And, I think, hope.
So I drop back into my seat, still a safe couple of chairs away. “Okay.”
“Okay,” says Caleb, sounding more relaxed. He turns his attention back to the practice below. “Oh,” he says, sounding genuinely excited. “They’re starting a breakout drill!”
“Cool. And what is that, exactly?”
He cracks a smile. Then he starts to explain.
I don’t understand half of what he says, but as we settle in and watch together, I glance at him every so often, catching glimpses of unfiltered joy on his face.
I do not get the sportsball fascination.
But he almost makes me want to try. I’m not sure, but I think I catch him looking at me once or twice, too.
I stick around for the rest of the practice.