Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Savannah
A Babysitter
The library is quiet for a Wednesday night, so I put my headphones on and listen to Taylor Swift while working on my psych paper.
I love the library for studying, and I think my mom likes it when the Find My Friends app shows me anywhere other than my dorm, but the weather outside is gross, which makes it more likely a serial killer will find me here than a new friend.
But I can’t take out their reference copy of the DSM-V, and Anna had friends over earlier, so I took refuge here to not be a weird fifth wheel creeper.
I blame all these things on why, when someone puts their hand on my shoulder, I scream instead of just taking out an earbud and looking to see who’s there.
I have my hands raised as if to karate chop my opponent when I see it’s Noah, the hockey player I’ve come to picture whenever I draft my new – hockey themed – romance.
Losing my notebook has been devastating, so I’m trying to take notes on my phone, which syncs to the cloud, but I hate plotting digitally. And I feel like a limb is missing.
I didn’t think using Noah as a reference would be a problem, because I wasn’t planning on seeing him again, at least not up close and personal. Except he’s standing in front of me, hands raised in surrender, and for a second, I can’t breathe. Then I notice what he’s holding.
“My notebook!” I exclaim, reaching for it in a move that pulls the headphones out of my ears. “You found it.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Noah apologizes, handing over my notebook as he takes the seat beside me. “Or to steal that. It somehow found its way into Izzie’s backpack, and I’ve been trying to return it to you ever since.”
“Thank you so much, this book is my life. I’ve been going crazy without it.” I stop admiring the pages and look up at him, even more afraid than when he tapped me on the shoulder. “You didn’t read it, right?” I try not to sound accusatory.
“I opened it to see if it was yours, which took less than half a page,” he assures me, but he’s smiling.
I want to ask which one, because half a page is more than incriminating enough to mortify me for the rest of my life, but I don’t think I want to know.
“Thank you.” I swallow, telling myself it’s relief, but it’s also the fact that he’s been carrying it around campus, looking for me, which is sweet. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“It’s no trouble at all.” He waves it off, not exactly uncomfortable, but like he doesn’t think it’s worth mentioning.
“Donovan has this notebook he’s always writing in, and they took it last year as a prank, replacing it with a blank one that looked the same.
I swear to God, I thought the entire team would either be dead or in jail by the end of it. ”
“I’m not that bad, and it was mostly empty, but…it just feels like a lot of wasted potential. Even if everything in here sucks, in my mind they were my best ideas that I would never get back.”
“Ideas for what?” Noah asks, but I don’t answer. “I was also hoping I would find you, because I still owe you one for Sunday.”
“No, you saved me. And this,” I say, holding the notebook to my chest, “is above and beyond. You’re set for life.”
“We both know you were never in any real danger. And this was the least I could do after stealing it in the first place.”
“We’re good. Even Steven,” I assure him, but he presses his lips together like he doesn’t agree.
“I still think there’s an imbalance.” He lets out a breath and moves his chair closer to me, as if he’s been debating something and finally decided. I’m overwhelmed by the nearness of him and how earnestly he looks at me. “I could teach you hockey.”
Out of all the things that could have come out of his mouth, I wasn’t expecting that.
“You…what?” My confusion turns to understanding when I see the guilty expression on his face. He definitely read the page where I decided to have my main character play hockey.
“I only saw your drawing of the rink and a few questions underneath. Which are entirely valid, by the way.”
“I don’t even remember what I wrote,” I say before addressing his offer. “I can Google everything or look them up here now I have my list of terms back. I’m used to it.”
“You could,” Noah agrees. “But that sounds like a lot of work when I can just explain it to you and answer any questions over coffee.”
I’m wondering if this is some elaborate scheme to ask me out, but he hastens to add, “Or here at the library. I wasn’t asking you on a date.”
“Of course not.” I sigh, but I’m not sure if I’m more annoyed that he felt the need to clarify it, or because I –very briefly – wanted him to be.
“That’s not…I don’t date,” he explains. “I don’t have the time or the energy to properly…with school and hockey and—”
“Then you really shouldn’t concern yourself with this,” I stop him, gathering my books. “I’ve taken up more than enough of your time, and I’m sure it won’t be too hard to figure out the logistics of hockey.”
I’ve asked Google what the day-to-day life of a hockey player looks like, but it was very unhelpful.
I’m hoping it’ll be like football and baseball players, so I can just ask my brothers, but I’ll eventually have to find someone to make sure I haven’t gone completely off base with the sports stuff.
Assuming I’m dedicated enough to finish something for once.
“That came out wrong, and you’re not…monopolizing my time.” He practically winces. “I’m happy to be here. Just like I would be happy to spend a few hours answering all your hockey questions.”
I could use a source to understand the sport, terms used among players, schedules, and all that jazz, but that would involve telling him what the research is for. Which I don’t want to do. But a general understanding of how the game is played couldn’t hurt.
The logical part of my brain tells me YouTube is just as useful, but the butterflies I get whenever Noah’s close tell me I wouldn’t mind another chance to hang out with him.
As friends – or acquaintances – obviously, because he doesn’t date.
Or at the very least, not someone like me.
And spending time with him will only make me like him more.
Want to spend more time with him. And that’s a terrible idea.
For a million reasons. Not even counting that I know – rather unfortunately – that college athletes saying they don’t date in no way means they don’t hook up, and I’m either not on his radar, which makes sense but still sucks, or he’ll try that with me, which I think might be worse.
“You’re off the hook, Callahan,” I say softly.
“Maybe it’s self-serving and I’m about to tip the scales again.”
If he looked the least bit flirtatious, I’d assume he was coming up with excuses to see me. I’d probably be downright giddy and have to remind myself he probably doesn’t mean it that way, because no one ever does. But he looks sort of lost. And guilty. Very similar to the first time I saw him.
“How so?” I ask cautiously.
“Izzie asked if she could come to a real game next time,” he admits.
“So you thought—”
A babysitter. He wants me…as a babysitter for his little sister, so she can watch him play.
Which makes so much more sense than him wanting to date me.
The butterflies take it like a punch to the gut, but the melting ovaries see how much he loves his sister, and remind me he could have been asking me to babysit so he could hook up with someone else.
My brain also points out that this means seeing him again, learning more about hockey, and getting to pretend I’m selfless and kind instead of just pathetic.
“You want to learn about hockey, Izzie wants to see me play and can’t stop talking about how awesome you are…so many birds with one stone. Plus, it’s hard to say no when she does the puppy dog pout.”
He demonstrates, and I have to bite my bottom lip to hold back from the overwhelming urge to do the same to his.
Not that I’ve ever bitten someone before.
“That would be hard to say no to.” I manage to sound way cooler than I feel.
“Glad you understand my predicament.” Noah smiles and it’s like I can’t prevent mine from mirroring. “So, do we have a deal? You let my sister sit close to you during a game and I’ll answer whatever you need to know for…whatever it is you’re working on.”
He looks like he wants to know but won’t ask.
“Please?” he tries. It’s not Izzie’s puppy stare, but it’s a genuine plea that goes straight to my heart.
“Okay,” I breathe. “I mean, of course, I’ve been meaning to get to a game, so you don’t even have to help—”
“I want to,” he says in a tone that brokers no arguments, putting his hand on my arm to drive the point in further. “Can I have your number? To coordinate and make sure everyone’s available.”
“Right, yeah, that helps.”
I give it to him, and he texts me immediately.
“Perfect. I’ll text you to set up our first lesson.”
“First?”
“Not sure how in depth you need to go, but I really appreciate you doing me this solid, so I’ll give you as many lessons as you need.”
I want to tell him one will be enough, that I don’t want to take up more of his time, but he gives me a warning look, as if he knows.
“I’ll see you later, Savannah.” He tips his head before leaving.
I watch Noah go and wait for my heart to settle before taking out my phone, planning to add his contact info. I assume his message will be something like his name, or a hi with the assumption that I know who it is, but he’s a fast – and smooth – texter.
Thanks for the assist, you saved my butt! Can’t wait to talk pucks ;)