Chapter 8
EIGHT
COOPER
The bell above the door to The Mean Bean, everyone’s favorite coffee shop in downtown Bensen, chimes as I open it. There’s a group of three girls balancing to-go cups, books, and their phones in their hands not paying attention. I keep the door open for them, assuming they’d run into it otherwise.
It’s busy, no surprise. Most of the tables are taken, couples sitting in each other’s laps on the mismatched couches. I scan the place, searching for deep auburn curls.
My gaze sweeps over people I recognize, and some I should but don’t. I flash my golden smile at them either way, increasing it when two girls studying in the large bay window wave at me—I went out to dinner and hooked up with the brunette once freshman year.
I check in the back and amongst the hidden nooks for Sutton, ensuring my smile stays plastered to my face. I’m the confident, golden hockey captain they expect me to be. By the time I conclude she isn’t here yet, I’m exhausted.
Making a final sweep of the place, I find a wooden table near the back with a chipped checkerboard painted on it. Slightly secluded, tucked partially behind a large bookshelf that has books and games you can borrow.
I drop my backpack into one of the chairs and tuck my hockey duffle behind the table. We agreed to meet this morning between my morning skate and classes. I walked here after practice, preferring to park at the rink. Made it in record time.
Did I think I’d beat here her? No.
Is there a part of me that’s delighted, and possibly wants to brag, that I beat her? Absolutely.
I could use the spare minutes. My upper-level math classes are kicking my ass. We’ve barely made a dent into the semester, and I’m already reminded why most athletes choose to go the route of communications, or something not as time consuming or daunting.
But college has always been important to me. Not just playing, my education, too—even more so when Sutton’s plans were flipped upside down because of her injury.
I thought she’d recover. If anyone has the grit and ambition to come back from multiple complex tears and a blade to the upper thigh, it’s her. The amount of emotion she pours into everything she does is contagious. Admirable. Even when it’s hating me.
And she did recover…or so everyone thought.
Sutton already blamed me for what happened in high school. Claimed that if we hadn’t gotten into a fight before her game—not like the bickering matches we get into now. A friendship-ending, relationship-altering fight—she wouldn’t have played distracted.
Almost two years later, wearing number twenty, she skated out onto the ice for her debut as a Lakeland Bear.
I was in the stands with the rest of the men’s team and watched with a strange combination of wonderment and fear.
I almost broke one of the plastic charms of my bracelet, white knuckled as she received a pass.
Maybe we could be friends again.
Maybe she’ll overcompensate, favor her right leg.
Maybe she’ll score. Show everyone the damn good player she is.
Maybe…maybe this is…
Sutton was hooked by a defenseman, then tripped.
All the air in the arena went stale. My lungs were as dry as the Sahara.
She stood up, and at first glance, appeared fine.
Skated back to the bench. Seated, she took her helmet off, and that’s when I saw it.
Sucking in air, tight jaw, and every other blink, there was horror in her eyes.
A week later, Elliot asked me to bring something by their dorm.
I don’t remember what, the memory confiscated by Sutton opening the door, phone pressed to her ear.
Hazel eyes rimmed in red, and the collar of her green striped shirt damp.
She snatched whatever was in my hand, slamming the door closed.
Through thick walls and thick doors, I heard her conversation with her sister.
I knocked again. She didn’t answer. Slumping onto the floor, I sat there, devastated, as she told Meave her doctor suggested she stop playing.
I fell backward, Sutton almost trampling me when her door finally opened again.
Sutton groaned, staring down at me. “You didn’t need to wait around to gloat. Hockey’s yours.”
It never has been just mine. Never will be, but I don’t think she realizes that.
I fiddle with the plastic skate charm on the bracelet tucked underneath my long sleeve. Turning it over and over as I make my way back to the counter to order.
Five minutes till our scheduled meeting time, I second guess myself. I shouldn’t have ordered her a drink. What if she doesn’t drink chai tea anymore? What if she drinks black coffee or doesn’t do any caffeine at all?
I push up on the table and almost tip our drinks over. My hands grip the edge of the table to stabilize it. I can feel eyes on me, and when I turn around, several are staring at me—at my slightly panicked state. I force a weak, closed-mouth smile.
Get it together Carmichael.
Sutton likes sweet treats. Always has. Sutton has never been able to say no to candy at the movie theater or a milkshake from the drive-thru. But it has to be chocolate, she refuses anything else.
I scan the case of baked goods, because if she doesn’t want the coffee this will make up for it. Right?
My stomach growls.
Okay, sue me. I have a sweet tooth too. Girls aren’t the only ones who can do a hot walk to grab coffee and a sweet treat—that was Jaxon and I’s Friday afternoons over the summer and fall.
The blueberry scone is calling my name. I order one of those and a chocolate birthday cake donut. Now I’m the one awkwardly balancing an armful of items to our table, trying not to drop the goods.
“You’re early,” she greets, brows scrunched in surprise, fifteen minutes later.
I cough and drag my attention away from the cluster of blueberries on top of my scone to her. “Came straight here after practice.”
“Sorry I’m late.” She’s a minute late.
“You have nothing to apologize for. Honestly, if you didn’t show up, I wouldn’t have been surprised.” I let out a singular ha.
“I told you we’re doing this.” Sutton shrugs her canvas tote bag off her shoulder, letting it hang off the side of her chair. She doesn’t respond as she pulls out her laptop, a folder, and two pens.
“I’m sorry.” I nudge the thrifted mug toward her. “About the other day,” I clarify, but not entirely. The apology isn’t for missing our session, but for my panic attack. I didn’t mean to have one, or make her stay with me during it.
She held my hand, talking to me, brushing my hair and sweat away till it passed.
Didn’t question, or judge, me when I admitted to hating the feeling even though I could tell she wanted to.
Sutton helped me stand up and skate to the door for the locker room.
Told me she’d wait till I showered and changed to drive me home.
“Please don’t apologize about that.” I open my mouth to speak, but Sutton shakes her head. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
I temporarily change the subject, stalling us from diving into the storm that is my head right now. “You still drink dirty chai lattes with oat milk, right?”
She takes it, gently. Her fingers curl around the handle. Bright purple nails with a metallic finish stand out against the faded pastels.
“Sorry if it’s cold. I ordered when I got here,” I add in, a foreign, nervous anticipation taking over my tone.
Sutton brings the cup to her mouth. Takes a sip, then another. She sets it back down in front of her, and I’m holding my breath. Foam clings to the corner of her mouth. The tip of her tongue sneaks out, licking it away.
“You remember?”
“Never forget.” I have to swallow discreetly, my words staccato, then remind myself not to be jealous of foam.
Something flashes through her eyes.
She opens her mouth to say something, licks her lips, again. Then shuts it, turning to grab the folder and rifles through it.
“We should get started. I only have an hour.”
Sutton hands me a stapled packet. She walks me through the overview of what we will be doing.
Explains that each of our ‘sessions’ together will look different.
Some will be evaluations, some might be working through an activity.
She wants to go at my pace and mold this to work for me, which I appreciate.
I ask a few questions, she answers; everything is going smoothly.
“I don’t want people knowing that we are working together,” I work up the courage to tell her.
“Yeah, caught that vibe when you ran out on me. Why? Am I some sort of dirty secret?”
I swallow. “Not you…”
“Part of my job is confidentiality. It’s none of my business to tell anyone about what you are going through. I’m only subjected to tell someone if you ever want to hurt yourself.” There’s a tremor in her hand and she looks at me in my eyes. “You aren’t thinking that, right?”
“No. I promise.”
“Okay.” Our gazes hold and we inhale in sync. Sutton reaches out for the donut at the same time I do and our fingertips graze. “My paper and the evaluation will all be anonymous. Okay?”
“Thank you.”
She flips around a paper that looks like a test. “This is our pre-evaluation. This will help me gauge where we are at now. You’ll do it at the start of each month to track progress.”
I skim the questions. “Are you going to ask me how does that make you feel?” I joke. Sort of.
“No. Not necessarily.”
“But you will?”
“Take the evaluation.”
We fall into a foreign yet comfortable silence. I read and answer a question, circle the number correlated, and peek up at Sutton between each one.
She’s either scribbling onto a paper or chewing on the end of her pen. The cap mutilated with teeth marks. Her mom does the same thing.
“Done.” I slide the paper over to her side of the table.
“And how did that make you feel?” Sutton jokes, bright eyes peering up through her lashes. A hint of a curl upward to her glossy lips, probably cherry flavored.
My shoulders shake with a laugh, and she matches it with her own.
Truthfully, I don’t know how I feel about this. Eager? Nervous? Ansty? Hopeful?
“I need to get to class, but I’ll look over this and then we can coordinate a time to meet next. You are away this weekend for games, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then next week?”
“Sure. Can I walk you to class?”
She shakes her head, curls catch on the strap of her tote. “I think I can manage.”
A few paces away, everyone sees me chase after her. “And what about tonight for your first lesson?”
“Oh. Yeah, sure. I kind of forgot about that.”
“No you didn’t. I’ll pick you up, I have an idea.”