TWO
HAYDEN
MICHIGAN
OCTOBER - EIGHT YEARS AGO
“Are you...” I squint at the blurry letters. My eyes try to focus on the name at the top, “Emerlad... Osgod?”
It’s a dumb question since she’s the only one in this room, but asking dumb questions has always been one of my talents. Which is why I’m here, standing in the University of Michigan tutor center, failing English with the school threatening my hockey scholarship.
No playing, no scouts. No scouts, no draft.
Most of the guys I’ve played with since peewees have already been drafted.
I was told I needed refinement.
“We really want you, Hayden, but you’re just not there yet.”
I’m good at using my size and fighting, but my footwork needs work. My father spent a fortune flying me to private skating coaches, skills trainers, and specialists. Any means necessary to get me to the elite level.
“Close,” the girl says, not lifting her gaze from the piece of paper she’s scribbling on. There are books, papers, and an ancient laptop making a concerning amount of noise scattered across the circular table. “I’m Emerald Osgood.”
She enunciates the name—not unkindly, just purposeful—and I glance back down at the paper.
“Oh,” I mutter, my cheeks flaming .
Fuck.
“Emerald. Right.”
That’s when she finally glances up.
I feel my entire body go still.
Her eyes are dark green like the forests around our Jackson Hole lodge, flecked with brown and gold, a mix I’ve never seen before.
She underestimates my height, and I watch as her eyes trail up until they meet mine. My shoulders hunch on instinct, trying to look less intimidating and take up as little space as possible. Not exactly an easy feat when you’re as big as me.
“Oh,” she says softly, then smiles. She sticks her pen into the dark hair clipped back from her face. “Huh. I didn’t know they made them in your size.”
I blink. “What?”
“Humans,” she says, gesturing to me vaguely. “You’re like a giant. Hayden Sawyer, I presume?”
Whenever someone comments on my size, it’s usually in a way that makes me feel like it’s wrong, or followed by Frankenstein comments. But her tone is more in awe than critical. And it makes me feel good, especially when paired with the soft smile on her face.
“Yeah, I’m Hayden,” I say, trying to control the volume of my voice in this quiet space.
Her smile widens, and I swear it feels like I just took a clean hit to the chest.
Her hair is dark brown, with a couple of wavy pieces framing her face. High cheekbones stand out as her full lips curl into a mischievous grin. Her face contradicts itself—soft yet angular, warm yet teasing.
Her smile shows off a set of nice white teeth, and her one front tooth sticks out slightly crooked. For some reason, I find it adorable.
She’s beautiful.
Which already feels like a huge fucking problem.
Can I back out? Find a new tutor—a male tutor that’s not gorgeous and is not going to make my heart race.
How the hell am I going to focus on learning?
The hope welling in my chest is frustrating; plans I have no business making start forming anyway. Stupid, insane plans like asking her out. That feels wrong because she’s my tutor. I’m—well, my Dad—is paying her.
Even worse, what happens when she finds out I’m a complete idiot?
This girl has to be smart; no way would she be interested in me.
Also, the fact that I’ve never asked anyone out before...
No. It’s not gonna happen, and even if it could happen, it’s not gonna happen.
“Anyway, I’m Emerald,” she grins. She holds out her hand to me, and carefully, I take it in mine. I pretend that every muscle in my arm doesn’t tense like I’ve been shocked at the contact of her warm hand. “Call me Emerald.”
“Okay, Emerald,” I reply, my lips twitching.
Breaking eye contact, I look at the chaos in front of her.
“Oop,” she says, catching my look and realizing how far and wide her books and papers have spread.
“Have a seat, Hayden, sorry—lemme just,” she quickly starts grabbing papers haphazardly, and somehow places them strategically in an accordion folder, muttering the entire time. “Shakespeare... Shakespeare... Macbeth goes in the red... Hamlet in the blue—wait, where is my pen?”
She glances around the table, lifting up papers, looking under books, and shaking them to see if her pen is stuck in there. It’s quite amusing, which is why I don’t say anything about it being in her hair.
Without thought, I reach toward it—toward her.
This is a problem, too, because now I’m so close I can smell her, and she smells wonderful—s weet, like candy.
She freezes at my touch, and I get the briefest feel of her soft, dark locks on my fingertips as I take the pen—sparkly red—and hand it to her. She glances back and forth between it and my face, and snorts.
“Oh, duh,” she smiles brightly while taking the pen from me. Our fingers brush and linger just a second too long. She looks unaffected. I feel like I just stuck my finger in a socket.
“Thanks, Hayden. You know you’re very helpful. I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached to my neck, which is ironic because I want to be Editor. Catching those little errors and mistakes authors make. Maybe that’s why I’m good at it though—like a necessary sacrifice.”
I stare at her blankly after being inundated with more information than I thought I could get in ten seconds.
“Uh... you’re welcome?” I murmur. Taking the free seat at the table, I place my bookbag on the floor next to me.
“So,” she sighs, clasping her hands together on top of an open English textbook. “You need an English tutor.”
“Er—yeah...”
She tilts her head as she studies me, “Anything specific that you’re struggling with?”
“Uh. Professor Jenks said that I’m struggling with... well, all of it. I’m failing.”
“I know, I talked to Professor Jenks,” Emerald waves a hand, before meeting my eyes and speaking clearly. “But, what do you feel like you struggle with, Hayden?”
Shame burns hot in my belly, and I have to drop my eyes to the table. The tension rolls down the muscles in my back as I finally speak, my voice low.
“Reading,” I admit. “Understanding.”
Emerald doesn’t say anything.
When I raise my eyes, I realize she was waiting for me to look at her before she nods decisively.
“Okay, then we’ll start there.”
◆◆◆
“Have you ever been tested?”
Emerald’s voice cuts off my pathetic reading of The Crucible. I guess there’s only so many times someone can hear a man stumble over the word abomination before they’ve had enough.
Her question confuses me.
“Tested?” I repeat.
She nods, her face open and curious.
I have no idea why she’s asking me that—is it a tutor’s job to know whether I’m juicing or— oh —is she asking about...
You kind of need to have sex to get a sexually transmitted disease, and I’ve never...
”Like for... drugs or... like an STD—” I stumble until Emerald suddenly laughs and shakes her head.
The sight of joy on her face made my own lips curve into a grin. Unfortunately, her next words wipe it off my face.
“No, Hayden, I meant tested for a learning difference.”
“Oh...” I say, glancing down at the book, the words swirling together. “No. None of my teachers ever...”
What I don’t say is that back in high school, my Dad would just throw enough money at my teachers to give me a passing grade. I never really worried much about the effort I put into my classes. I had assumed I wouldn’t go to college, that the NHL was waiting for me.
It made things easier then, but now it feels like a debt I haven’t paid.
“You’re comprehending the material easily when I explain it to you,” Emerald says, her voice firm and complimentary.
I’m a little stunned at that. I don’t think anyone has ever complimented me like that before. It’s always related to hockey—how hard I can hit the puck, how hard I can punch, how fast I can skate.
“But, you’re struggling to read it out loud. You also mixed up my name...”
I feel raw and exposed, but also... seen. It’s the weirdest feeling. I used to call myself slow or dumb in front of my friends and teammates, and they would rib me good-naturedly. I brushed it all off with jokes and assurances that my Dad could handle it if I failed.
“Are you hungry?” Emerald asks abruptly, sweeping her hand across the table to gather the papers. As she’s putting them away into the binder, into her bag, she keeps talking. “I’m hungry. I’m in the mood for a burger. The diner around the corner serves the best ones. Want one?”
My brain can barely keep up with the speed of her voice, but my mouth answers anyway.
“Uh... sure?”
“Let’s go then!”
She’s already walking toward the exit. Quickly, I gather my things, swing my bag over my shoulder, and easily step in pace next to her.
Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting across from each other in the booth of a diner called Margaret’s.
The hostess greets Emerald by name and asks about her Mom, which only confirms that she’s a local. I’m originally from Chicago, though I wouldn’t consider it my home since I spent most of my time at a private school in Connecticut or at one of our vacation homes in the summer.
My father travels for work a lot, and my mother splits her time between our houses in Aspen, Jackson Hole, and the Hamptons. I’m the opposite of all my friends who used to count down the days until summer, looking forward to going home.
I don’t really think I’ve had one of those.
When the waitress comes around, Emerald orders for us and correctly guesses my favorite milkshake flavor.
“Strawberry?”
I chuckle, bewildered. “How did you—”
“It’s a gift,” she shrugs, smirking.
The two greasy burgers placed in front of us are accompanied by some of the best-looking fries I’ve ever seen, and two shakes. Without missing a beat, she continues her lesson on The Crucible, explaining it patiently so I can understand.
And the gratitude in my chest knows no bounds.
“It was pure misogyny.”