Chapter 5 #2
She rolls her eyes so hard I think she sees her brain, and then she lets out this frustrated growl that shoots straight down my spine. The girl is so dramatic, but with her head tilted like that, and making those noises, I can’t help wondering if that’s what she sounds like when she’s—
Don’t think it. Don’t think it. Don’t think—
“Please,” she snaps. “I have much better things to do than sit around and watch your sorry ass practice. Believe me. I’ve seen better.”
“Pfft.” I grin. “Doubt it.”
“Trust me. I've watched Olympic gold-standard hockey… and you're not it.”
I wince—not because the insult hurts (none of the Olympic guys could touch my skills on their best day), but because she just admitted she’s been around other hockey players and apparently had no idea who I was.
How’s that even possible?
“Oh, so you are a fan of hockey. Thought you didn't know who I was?”
What the fuck was that?
Did I just toss out a jealous don’t-you-know-who-I-am line?
Idiot.
See. Everything comes out wrong when she’s around.
Her eyes widen, and I render her speechless for a few seconds. “Wow,” she drags the word out, full of disgusted wonder. “I honestly didn’t think I could think any less of you.”
Smooth move, Hendricks.
I step a little closer to her. “So if you’re not here to watch me… what, are you trying to distract me from practice?” I ask in a vain attempt to change the subject.
Her nose scrunches. “Why would me being here distract you from practice?”
I stare at her. Hard. Long. Trying to telepathically send her the answer that she clearly doesn’t want to hear.
Nothing.
She just blinks at me like I’m speaking Finnish.
I sigh. “No reason.”
“I'm here because you told me to meet you outside the library at one,” she explains, exasperated. “I waited out there for half an hour, and you didn't show up, so I thought I'd check the rink.” She gestures to my gear. “Lo and behold, you're here, doing anything except working on our assignment.”
“You wanted to meet me at one?”
She nods. “Mhm.”
“I'm sorry, Princess, but I asked you to meet at three.”
“No, you didn't.”
“Yeah, I did. I have practice every single day one to two-thirty. Only exception is game day. I definitely wouldn’t schedule something when I’d be…you know”—I gesture at myself—”here. Especially knowing how much you hate me.”
She inhales sharply, and for the first time, her shoulders actually drop a little. “Shit. Did I get the time wrong?”
“Yeah, you did.”
I should rib her about how hilarious this mix-up is…but she looks genuinely frustrated.
She shakes her hands out before pulling them together anxiously. “I, uh, can’t do after three. I’ve got to get to my job.”
“Your very top-secret job?” I ask, amused. The way I’ve been thinking about what she does that she doesn’t want me to know about is unhealthy as fuck, but I can’t stop myself. The girl’s a mystery to me.
“Yeah. My car is in the shop, so I have to take the bus, which takes an extra hour.”
I look back at the team. We have another forty-five minutes, but I’m willing to miss it to spend time with her.
“Let me talk to Coach McKibbon,” I say gently. “Maybe he’ll let me out early. We can work in the concessions area—save us the walk.”
She mumbles out a small thank you as I walk backward to the door.
“Wait here,” I tell her, maintaining eye contact longer than necessary. Can’t help myself. She’s just so damn good to look at. “Don't go anywhere. And—just saying—none of this would've happened if you'd just given me your number on Monday.”
That makes her roll her eyes, and if I'm being generous with myself, I'd say I see the smallest hint of a smile.
“Right. Because I’m totally the girl who gives her number to dudes whose… personal physics almost drowned me,” she mutters, but I still hear it. Sassy as always.
I skate over to Coach McKibbon, who's setting up the next drill with his son, Connor. Poor guy’s been stuck on the second team forever. I mean, how bad do you have to play for your own father not to let you get out there and skate? Opposite problem in my life—my dad cares too much.
Connor tips his chin while Coach McKibbon eyes me suspiciously as I approach.
“What's up, Hendricks?” Coach asks.
“Hey, Coach. I, uh, have a bit of a situation.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “A situation.”
“Yeah, see that girl in the stands?”
He glances past me. “Hard to miss. She looks like she wants to murder somebody.” Then he turns to Connor. “What did you do?”
Connor throws up his hands. “Whoa, wait. I do a lot of things wrong, but I’ve done nothing to her. I don’t even know who she is. I’m just trying to keep my GPA alive.”
“It’s okay, Coach. It’s me she wants to kill,” I say with a half-smile.
He whips his head in my direction, looking at me with confusion. “You? No one wants to kill you.”
“Ah, that's where you're wrong. She’s my English Lit partner. We had a mix-up with our meeting time, and she's been waiting for me.”
Coach sighs heavily. “This about the paper Foster assigned on Romeo and Juliet?”
I blink, surprised. “How'd you know?”
“My wife's maiden name is Foster. Same Professor Foster who's been complaining about how her students can't seem to grasp the concept of tragic love despite having it shoved in their faces for the past month.”
Well, shit.
Small world.
“Look, I don't want to bail on practice, but—”
“But your grade is equally as important as your ice time,” he finishes for me. Then he smirks—actually smirks. “And trust me, my wife would kill me if I got in the way of her…pairing project.”
“Pairing project?” I echo.
He waves a hand. “Yeah, she was extremely pleased with herself when she came home the other night.”
My brows pinch. “Pleased how?”
Coach snorts. “Hendricks, I’ve been married to the woman for twenty-six years. I know the look when she thinks she’s orchestrating a love story.”
“She… thinks—me and Laura—what?”
Behind us, Connor, who has been pretending very poorly not to eavesdrop, chokes on his Gatorade, spraying a mist of fruit punch across the ice.
Coach doesn’t even look at him. “Wipe it up,” he commands, then turns back to me. “Anyway. My wife’s convinced you two have chemistry. Personally? I think she’s been watching too much Baseball Wives, but she’s never wrong about her partner picks.”
“Uh.”
“So, go. Work on your assignment. She’d kill me if I was the reason her best student failed a group assignment.”
Wait, I'm her best student? Nah, it has to be Laura. She's the one always reading.
Coach must see the surprise on my face because he lets out a laugh. “What, you think she doesn't brag about you? First hockey player in years who can actually analyze Shakespeare beyond ‘they die in the end.’ She likes you, so don’t screw it up.”
I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. “Thanks, Coach.”
“Don't get used to it,” he warns, but there's no heat behind it. “Thirty minutes of extra conditioning tomorrow.”
I nod, already skating away. “No problem!”
Thirty minutes of extra conditioning to spend more time with Laura… worth it.
When I turn back toward her, my blood pressure rises immediately because Erik is halfway across the ice, heading straight for Laura. Thankfully, Brooks and Alex distract him.
She’s pacing along the side, looking at her phone when I’m through the door and back to her.
“Good news,” I say.
“I've been granted early release for good behavior.”
“Thank goodness,” she says.
Running a hand through my sweaty hair, I say, “Give me ten minutes to shower and change, and then I'll meet you at the concession area.”
“Fine.” She stands, closing her book. “Ten minutes, Hendricks. Not a second more.”
I raise my hands in surrender. “As you wish, Princess.”
As I skate off, I’m smiling like an idiot. Something about the way she threatens me with bodily harm really does it for me. I’m either a masochist… or hopelessly attracted to her sharp tongue and take-no-shit attitude.
Maybe both.
In the locker room, I speed through my shower routine, barely taking time to properly dry off before throwing on a clean pair of jeans and a Covey U hoodie.
Eight minutes. Not bad.
When I push through the concession doors, Laura is sitting on one of the tables, reading through her handwritten notes. She looks up as I approach, surprise flashing across her face.
“You're early.”
“Don't sound so shocked,” I grin, pulling out the chair opposite her and taking my seat. “I can be punctual when properly motivated.”
She narrows her eyes. “And what's your motivation exactly?”
A dozen stupid jokes rise to the surface, but the look she gives me—braced for disappointment—kills every one of them.
“I respect your time,” I say simply. “And I don't want you to fail this class because of me.”
She narrows her eyes, giving me that look again—the one that implies she’s debating between speaking to me or filing a restraining order.
“Right,” she says. “Respect my time. Of course. Very wholesome of you, Hendricks. Pretty soon you’ll be breaking the internet with a ‘Scotty Hendricks: Surprisingly Responsible?’ headline.”
I grin. “Breaking the internet? That sounds like you’ve been Googling me.”
Her face freezes for half a second, just long enough to incriminate herself.
She fucking did! She fucking looked me up.
Why am I grinning so wide? Does it mean what I want it to?
Then she rolls her eyes, and gives me a shove to the shoulder.
“Relax,” she says. “I only looked you up because I wanted to make sure a video of the fountain incident wasn’t posted anywhere. The last thing I need is to go viral for being taken out by a rogue hockey player and his… physics-defying momentum.”
My stomach drops.
Of course that’s why she’d look you up, you idiot.
Laura has absolutely no interest in me, and I can’t blame her.
“It won’t,” I say sternly, hoping she can see how serious I am about it.
She raises a skeptical brow. “Oh yeah? How are you so sure?”
I lean in slightly—mostly because her dubious expression is adorable, but also because I want her to know I’m not joking.
“Because I made sure of it.”
“Do you control the internet now?” She stares at me, confused.
“No.” I shrug. “But I know a guy who does. There’s a guy on the football team who can work wonders with a firestick and a little time.”
“Are you talking about Matty Mathieson?”
“Yeah, you know him?”
She’s about to say something, but then she closes her lips and shakes her head. “Yeah, I know him a little.”
Wait, did she date him? Is that why it was so easy to get him to agree to help me?
Get a grip, Hendricks.
You’re fucking spiraling over your English Lit partner who can’t stand to look at you.
“Well, great. He’s a good guy to know around here.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I quickly pull it out to see a message in the hockey group chat.
Cade: Anyone know why Scotty bailed on practice early today?
Erik: His girlfriend asked him to.
Brooks: Scotty specifically stated that she wasn't his girlfriend.
I roll my eyes, quickly typing out a response.
Scotty: She's not my girlfriend. We're working on a paper together.
Erik: Yet. Operation: Splash and Smash is underway.
I put my phone away before I send the guys a text that I might regret.
“You ready?” Laura asks pointedly. “Or are you too busy responding to messages from your fans to engage with me?”
“Believe me, no one takes precedence over you, Princess.” I wink, and as usual, she rolls her eyes as she writes a few more notes.
I don’t mind that she looks at me like she wants to kill me.
We’re sitting together, and she’s talking to me, so all in all, that’s progress. It’s all I can ask for with a girl like her.