Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Noah
You Job Is To Score
I have Friday afternoons off, because I didn’t feel like having to rush to catch the bus for away games.
Usually, my roommates and I end up at home, eat together, maybe play some video games, before we carpool to the arena, but today I head to the library with Mike.
He’s tutoring to help one of his regulars, and I’m meeting Savannah to talk hockey.
Which feels ridiculous now that I’m here.
Especially when I tried to make a course plan last night and realized I have no idea why she wants to know about hockey in the first place.
My first thought about it being for a class isn’t likely, but it could be to impress a guy who’s taking her to a game.
Or she might have a crush on one of my teammates, but I don’t think that’s the case.
And not just because the thought of it makes me irrationally unhappy.
Because I feel protective of her, not because I’m jealous.
“I’m done at 1:30, you?” Mike asks when we reach the tutoring center.
“Not sure yet. I’ll text you when I’m done.”
I said I was coming to study with a classmate.
I’m not sure why I lied, other than studying doesn’t warrant as many questions as me coming here to teach someone something.
Especially when I don’t have the answers as to why.
As in why she needs it, or why I offered.
Insisted, really. The asking I can blame on Izzie, but Savannah gave me the perfect out and I worked to convince her.
Mostly succeeded, though she hasn’t agreed yet.
She says she’d be happy to watch Izzie regardless, and even pointed out that my sister could teach her stuff during the game.
Which is true, as Izzie both watches and plays a lot of hockey.
But I hate asking for help or owing people favors.
And, for some reason, I want to do this.
It doesn’t hurt that Izzie screeched with excitement when I told her Savannah agreed to come to the game with her on Sunday.
I find Savannah at the same table as last time, by the fireplace. It’s getting chilly outside, but in here I’ll be sweating. Her coat is off, but wrapped around her in the seat while she types away on her laptop with a frown, biting her bottom lip.
“What are you working on?” I ask once I’m beside her, stopping myself from peeking, but I can’t help but smile when she jumps at the sound of my voice, putting her hand to her heart, again.
“Just a…something,” she says, her cheeks turning red. “Are you studying?”
“I said I’d help you,” I remind her, nodding to the seat across from her. “Is it taken?”
“No, but…you really don’t have to.”
“I want to,” I say, again. “I love hockey and as much as my teammates do as well, we never really talk about it in broad terms. I realized when prepping for this that I could improve how I teach it to the handful of kids I coach who haven’t grown up watching it.”
“I don’t know if I’m more surprised that you prepped for this or that you teach kids.”
“I coach my sister’s hockey team,” I explain. “Do I not seem like the type who’d—”
“No, of course not. Or, yes, you do. I just assumed you’d be too busy with school and your own hockey, and—” She gestures to me with her hand, and I remember telling her I wasn’t dating because I was too busy. Which is true. I just choose which headaches I want to deal with.
“It’s excruciatingly early, which is probably why they were short an assistant coach.
As long as I don’t have away games, I just sacrifice a few hours of sleep, but they’ve always been understanding when I can’t make it.
” They were so thrilled to have me back when I called to switch Izzie to Sunday mornings that I feel like an ass for being upset about it.
“That’s…Izzie’s really lucky.”
“I’m the lucky one,” I say dismissively before opening my notebook.
“And as far as prepping, I tried, but I didn’t know how deep you wanted me to go, or what I should focus on, because I never found out what it’s for.
Why are you interested in hockey?” I look up expectantly.
It’s a straightforward question, but a blush creeps onto her cheeks, and she looks like she wants to sink into the floor.
“Just curious.” She shrugs, but there is nothing casual about her.
I want to press, but she looks ready to bolt.
“I’ll start with the basics, then.”
“You shouldn’t waste your time on—”
“I’m practicing for the kids,” I stop her from turning me down. Again. “So let me know if I use too many big words.”
I wink and finally get a smile, but she still looks nervous.
“Each team starts out with six players on the ice.” I draw the rink with our initial positions. “Three forwards, two defensemen, and one goalie.”
“You’re a forward?” she guesses. Unless she looked me up.
“Forward center, yeah.”
“Which means your job is to score.”
There’s something about the way she says it so confidently, a statement not a question, that has me fighting both the juvenile urge to say, ‘that’s what she said’, and the strain in my pants at the idea of scoring with her.
“It is,” I agree instead. “That’s the goal, for each team, to score the most goals.
Stats will consider how many wins or losses, goals and assists we each have, how many shots we take on the net, how many pucks are stopped or let in by goalies…
but every time the puck gets past this line and into the net, the team who scored – or I guess the team who’s net it isn’t – gets a point. ”
She’s nodding until the last bit, where she smiles.
“Do a lot of eight-year-olds score on themselves?” she asks, but the joy and mischief in her expression have turned the only thought in my head to she’s beautiful, and I can’t believe that wasn’t the first thing that hit me when I met her.
“Especially at the beginning of the season. But I’ve seen twenty-year-olds do it too.”
“What are your stats like?” She takes notes, and I really wish I was better at reading upside down.
“They’re decent. I haven’t scored on my own net in at least a decade.” This gets me a laugh from Savannah.
“Nice to see you’re humble.”
“I’m the top scorer on my team, but not in the division, and I think a lot of our wins have more to do with Steele, our goalie, who often doesn’t let any goals in.”
“Which is called a shutout, right?” I nod. “You realize you won seven-nothing on Tuesday?”
“We did,” I agree with a huge grin. “Did you watch it?”
“No.” She laughs like the idea is silly. “But it’s all over campus. My high school only cared about football and basketball. You had to join a city league for anything else, but I feel like all the Wyn U teams are doing well, so everyone follows everything. Or at least everyone who is into sports.”
“Are you?” I ask. “Into sports?”
“I like the players,” she says before her face turns bright red. “I mean I watch sports if I know someone on the team, not for the love of the game.”
“Who do you know in hockey?” I can’t help but ask.