Chapter 5 – Hannah
“Yes!!” I shout as Greyson scores the first goal of the game. Being in a hockey arena is unlike anything else. In high school, I’d often find myself at the local ice rink on Thursday nights, watching every game on the schedule. There’s always been something about it that calms my soul. Whether it’s the smell of greasy food, the bite of the cold once you step inside, or maybe it’s the sound of the puck as it hits the boards, whatever it is, it’s always felt like home.
I remember one specific Thursday, my brother Eli needed to be dropped off at my dad’s office. Once we were there, I grabbed a soda before saying, “I’m leaving. See you later!” Good ole’ Dennis popped out of his office to ask where I was going; his eyebrows were pulled low over his dark brown eyes. It was one of the first times I remember thinking they looked cold.
“Cole has a game tonight. Then we’re going to stay and watch The Monarchs game after.” I said as I spun on my heel, walking towards the door. The sound that followed sounded so evil it sent chills through my body. I froze on the spot; I didn’t turn around, though I wasn’t strong enough to look him in the eyes when he went on a tangent.
“Why anyone wastes their time on you, I will never know—chasing men with potential athletic ability. One day, they’ll see through your scheming. Enjoy it while it lasts; your appeal will wear off eventually, and you’ll be all alone—nothing to show for your time and effort. Trust me, no one in their right mind would ever bring a girl like you along. You’d only hold them back, just like you do for this family.” He chuckled as he walked back into his office.
This was the first time my brother witnessed our father’s less-than-desirable behavior; his eyes widened, and his lips parted in surprise that our dad was speaking to me like that. Eli had never been on the receiving end of it; I did my best to be a buffer so that he never would be.
The thing was, my father never asked why I went to the games. I genuinely loved the sport and the atmosphere it provided. But hey, what can you expect when you have a narcissistic parent who knows everything about anything and anyone?
The goal buzzer snaps me out of the movie reel playing in my head, and I see that the Hawks are now up 2-0. With 25 seconds left on the clock, Markus Samuels steals the puck and skates around the back of the net, sending it to the other side of the neutral zone. Brett Wilson picks it up, and they play keep away for the next 15 seconds until the final buzzer sounds.
That’s my cue; grabbing my iPad, my phone, and my favorite game day drink, hot chocolate, I head to the media room for post-game interviews. Once inside, I take my seat on the right side of the room by the door. Coach Stevens walks in first; I immediately open my voice memo app and start recording. The beautiful thing about my job is that I don’t have to edit videos, and I can listen to the interviews from wherever I want.
It makes it easier for me to write my articles in spaces that give me more inspiration and freedom, like the beach or Beautiful Pour; I sometimes even write my interviews in the stands at whatever arena I’m working at. It’s one of the things my inner introvert loves about my job. I don’t get my energy from people like an extr overt would, but I do get energy and inspiration from places.
A woman a year or so younger than me asks the first question, “Coach, it was a slow start to the game today; what did you say during the first intermission to get the guys in gear?”
Coach shakes his head a bit before he responds. “The usual coaches motivating speech. Get your heads out of your asses; toddlers work better together than you do, and so on.”
There’s a variety of questions before a man I really can’t stand asks, “Do you think this is the way these boys will play when the season starts?”
My eyes roll at the way he calls these grown men “boys,” and it looks like Coach is trying hard not to do the same. “The point of preseason games is to work out what works best for the team, which players work best together under pressure, and so on. But honestly, guy, we’re just out there to have fun. The men on both teams work hard in the off-season, just like they do during the season. If there’s no time to just play the game for the fun of it, what’s the point?”
That effectively shuts Condescending Carter up; you go, Coach Stevens. As he wraps up his portion of this interview, Reed, Monroe, and Greyson come in and take a seat behind the table.
Greyson catches my eye, giving me a small, knowing smile and a wink before looking over at ugh. No, not again. “Wilder, it looked like you guys were struggling a bit in the first period; how did you rectify that issue during the second?” Does this guy have anything positive to say? I’m starting to think his life mission is to be a human raincloud.
Greyson, however, doesn’t miss a beat. His response is as smooth as the ice after intermissions.
“I wouldn’t say we were struggling,” he says, voice calm but with just enough edge to remind Mr. Negativity who he’s talking to. “Sometimes takes a minute to get a feel for how the other team is going to play. Yeah, we watch films in preparation for game day, but that doesn’t mean they always play the same. That’s the beautiful part about life and the game: you can always make a change. Today, that caught us off guard, but we rectified it before a goal could be scored by the Patriots.” Mic Drop.
A few more reporters ask some questions before they call for the last one; the same woman who asked Coach Stevens his question asks, “Reed, you and Wilder had the only two goals today; how does that feel?” They both give a small chuckle, for as good as they are, they seem to be extremely humble.
Reed runs his hand through his hair before looking at Greyson to answer. “It always feels amazing to put points on the board for our team, but today, I’d have to say it felt purrrrty good. I think it’s safe to say I have a new good luck charm.”
He draws out the first part of the word to make it sound like a cat’s purr. Reed chuckles beside him while I choke back a laugh and shake my head while I return my focus to my notes. Meanwhile, Mr. Wilder looks far too pleased with himself. His face is the epitome of “mission accomplished. This man is going to make this season...interesting, that’s for damn sure.
After wrapping up the interviews, I sit outside the team training room and wait for Abby to finish her check-ins. She says this is the most essential part of her job; it’s easier to get the truth out of athletes when they’re tired and can’t hide their grimaces when she checks an area that is clearly causing them pain.
She has this uncanny ability to read people, too; she can tell from body language if you’re favoring one side. I remember one time in college, I hit my rib on the bleachers, and she could tell the following day that something had happened because of the way I was standing. She made me sit down so she could check it. I mean. How?
With my iPad open to my notes page, I start writing today’s stats, the two goals, their times, and who had the assists. The noise in the back halls of the arena fades into nothing but static as I focus on my work. That is until the faint sound of a bell pulls me from my thoughts. The sound grows louder until it’s right in front of me.
I glance up and have to clench my jaw to keep it from hitting the floor. Holy cannoli, Batman, did I mention how freaking gorgeous this man is?
His shaggy hair is still damp from his shower, dressed in his game-day suit that clings to him in all the right places. It should be a crime to look this good after playing an entire hockey game. The stubble on his face makes me wonder if it’s as soft as it looks. His eyes, those mesmerizing eyes, scatter my thoughts like a puck on the ice.
The corner of his mouth pulls into a devastating half-smile that could melt ice in negative temperatures. He runs his hand through his hair, and that’s when I see it: wrapped around his right wrist is the cat collar. The bell catches the light as he drops his arm back to his side; my heart dips, flips, and does the macarena at the sight.
“Kitten,” he says, his voice teasing in a way that is completely unfair.
“Dozer.” I manage to squeak out.
“Did y ou enjoy the game?” he asks, dropping his bag and sitting down on the floor next to me.
I gasp and instinctively grab his forearm. “Greyson, that has to be a ridiculously expensive suit. Get off the ground. You’re going to ruin it!”
The heat that meets my hand where it rests on his arm sends an unexpected jolt through me; I quickly pull my hand back and brush a stray piece of hair back behind my ear. His cheeks still have a slight flush to them; his eyes crinkle at the corners as he lets out a soft chuckle. I like the sound of it. It’s deep and raspy yet light and playful at the same time. Danger zone, Hannah.
“Your concern is sweet,” He murmurs, voice low and slow, “but trust me, I like where I’m sitting more than I like this suit.” The soft smile that plays on his face is dangerous to my health. Hello, butterflies. I feel my cheeks heat; my eyes fall to my hands, which are folded over my iPad. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Huh?” Wait, he asked me a question. “Um, yes.”
There’s a gleam in his eyes as he studies my face for a second. Then, as casually as if he were telling me the time, he says. “Perfect, I’ll pick you up at noon tomorrow.” Then he gets up and wipes his hands down the side of his legs. Blinking rapidly, I will my brain to catch up to what just happened.
“Wait, what?!” I hop up from the floor fast enough that it makes my head spin. “Why are you picking me up?”
“For our lunch date, the one you just agreed to.”
I gape at him, my mind completely void of any coherent thought. He’s halfway down the hallway when he glances back at me over his shoulder, throwing a smile in my direction that should be on the cover of a magazine.
“I nee d to properly thank you for my new good luck charm,” he says, raising his arm and bringing my attention back to the collar wrapped around his wrist. The bell jingles softly, the sound as teasing as his tone.
Before I can find a single word to say, Greyson Wilder walks out the door, looking everything like my next heartbreak, and I’m left standing here stunned and breathless.
I’m still standing in the same spot I was when Greyson walked away when Abby walked out of the training room. “What the heck are you looking at?”
I turn to face her; my words tumble out of me like I’ve been holding my breath for days. “Greyson sat on the floor next to me in his expensive suit and somehow got me to agree to a lunch date that I don’t even remember him asking me on. Then he walked away, but not before releasing ten thousand butterflies in my stomach and making my heart soar like a pterodactyl. And then he decides he needs to properly thank me for his new good luck charm, which is the dang cat collar I got as a joke that he wore around his ankle the entire game. I mean, am I awake, or is this some weird, twisted dream the imagination station has concocted?”
I’m rambling at this point, and Abby is eating it up. “A lunch date, you say?”
“Is that all you got from this conversation?” Her entire face lights up like the sky on the Fourth of July.
“Yep! ” then loops her arm through mine and all but skips us through the hallway and out the door.
My phone lights up as soon as we get in the car.
Greyson: I’ll pick up lunch, and we can talk about the
Carnival if it makes you less nervous.
Hannah: I’m not nervous. I just don’t remember you asking.
Greyson: You were too busy checking me out in my suit. ??
Hannah: In your dreams, Dozer.
Greyson: Maybe. See you tomorrow, Han.
I should shut this down right here. I should tell him no, how awful of an idea this is. Here’s my line in the sand; don’t you dare cross it. I’m too close to my goal to get distracted now, even if said distraction is a handsome as hell hockey player. But I don’t because I need his help planning the carnival. I can do this; I can keep things professional. I’ve done it for years.
Since Kyle, I’ve kept all men at arm’s length, and up until this point, it’s been relatively easy. I work in sports, for crying out loud; most of the people I interact with are men, and none of them have had the effect on me that Greyson seems to have. Abby would ask me, “What do you have to lose, Hannah?” and the answer to that is complex.
One, I have a history of taking dynamite to good things that come my way, and two, I’m still responsible for reporting on him and the rest of the team this season. When you put those two together, it’s the perfect recipe for an atomic bomb to take out my entire life. A risk I’m unwilling to take at this point: laser focus, Han, laser focus.
Harley sits on the floor, watching me pace the length of my room. Her head follows me back and forth as if she’s following a ping-pong match; the movement makes me pause mid-stride. With a sigh, I sit on the floor, put my legs out in front of me, and cross them at my ankles; she saunters over in all her cuteness, puts her paws on top of one of my legs, and rests her head between them.
Her brown eyes meet mine, full of unconditional love, and my chest tightens. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for this girl.
Rubbing my hand down her back, I recount the day to her as if she had any idea what I was saying. Sometimes, it helps me to decompress and process things. It mainly helps when the days are hard, but other times, like today, it helps me talk through my inner conflict. The never-ending cycle of wanting to have friends and a family of my own one day, but the action that is required to have both of those things, I can’t do it.
I can’t let myself be vulnerable; I can’t let anyone in. Abby was the exception because I didn’t have a choice, we were thrown together at the height of it. Time and time again, I let myself shed a layer, and as soon as that layer hit the ground, people realized I wasn’t as put together as they thought, so they left.
And me, I was left reeling. Almost two decades of being told you’re not enough, only for it to be solidified every time glimpses of the real you come out. If that’s not enough to keep the mask firmly in place, I don’t know what is.