2. Savannah
SAVANNAH
I 'm halfway through my second cup of coffee when I see him walk into the lecture hall, and my heart does this ridiculous fluttery thing that makes me want to crawl under my desk and hide.
Colin Grant.
The same Colin Grant who scored forty-seven goals his senior year of high school.
The same Colin Grant whose picture was in the local sports section so many times that my dad started joking about getting him his own subscription.
The same Colin Grant who might remember me as Coach Mac's quiet daughter from when they were kids, but probably doesn't.
He's scanning the room for a seat, looking slightly overwhelmed, and I have about three seconds to decide if I'm going to make eye contact or pretend to be deeply fascinated by my Biology notes.
I choose notes. Obviously.
But then he's walking up the aisle toward the back where I'm sitting, and there's an empty seat right next to me, and oh God, he's going to ask to sit down and I'm going to have to talk to him and what if he recognizes me and realizes I'm that weird girl who used to do homework in the stands during practice?
"Excuse me," he says, and his voice is exactly the same as it was when we were kids. A little deeper now, but still with that hint of uncertainty.
"Sure," I manage, gathering my notebooks so he can squeeze past. Our eyes meet for exactly half a second, and I wonder if there's any recognition there at all.
There might be. He pauses for just a moment, looking at me like he's trying to place something, but then he just settles into his seat.
Which is fine. Expected, even. I was Coach Mac's invisible daughter, the quiet girl who did homework in the stands during practice because Dad couldn't leave me home alone. Colin was the star player, the kid everyone knew was going places.
Different worlds, even when we were occupying the same space.
I sneak a glance at him as he settles into his seat and pulls out his laptop. He looks tired, and there's tension in his shoulders that wasn't there when we were kids. Back then, hockey came easy to him. Everything came easy to him.
The professor starts talking about cellular respiration, and I try to focus on taking notes, but I'm hyperaware of Colin sitting next to me. He keeps shifting in his seat, like he can't get comfortable, and at one point I notice him rolling his shoulder in a way that suggests it's bothering him.
My phone buzzes with a text, and I glance down.
Dad:
How's your first week going, sweetheart?
Me:
Good. Classes are interesting.
Dad:
Making friends?
I look around the lecture hall. I've been here for a week and the only people I've talked to are my professors and my lab partner, who seems more interested in his phone than anything happening in class.
Me:
Working on it.
Dad:
You know what your problem is? You're too much like your mother. Too afraid to put yourself out there.
Thanks, Dad. Really helpful.
Me:
I'm fine. How's the rink?
Dad:
Busy. Fall season's starting up. Got some good kids this year.
Dad always has good kids. In his world, every eight-year-old who can stay upright on skates has potential to be the next Connor McDavid. It's endearing and exhausting in equal measure.
Dad:
Speaking of which, you remember Colin Grant? He's at your school now.
I glance sideways at Colin, who's currently staring at his laptop screen like it personally offended him.
Me:
I remember him.
Dad:
Heard he had a rough first practice. College hockey's a different animal.
My stomach does a little flip. A rough first practice? Colin Grant, having a rough practice? The same kid who used to dominate every drill Dad threw at him when they were younger?
Dad:
Always liked that boy. Good head on his shoulders. You should say hi if you see him.
Right. Say hi. To the guy who might vaguely remember me as that quiet kid from the rink years ago. The guy who's sitting literally right next to me and might not even realize who I am.
Me:
Maybe.
Dad:
Don't maybe me, Savannah Rose. You spent enough time at that rink when I coached him. Might as well use it to make a friend.
I put my phone away before Dad can launch into his usual lecture about how I need to be more social.
It's not that I don't want friends—it's that making friends has never been easy for me.
I'm the girl who reads during lunch and knows more about sports medicine than pop culture. Not exactly social butterfly material.
The professor is going on about ATP and cellular energy when Colin's phone buzzes. He glances at it, and I can't help but notice the frown that crosses his face. He types something back, and then his phone buzzes again almost immediately.
This time, his frown deepens.
I try not to be nosy, but it's hard when someone's clearly having a text conversation that's bothering them. Colin types another response, then puts his phone away before glaring at his laptop screen, clearly not absorbing anything from the lesson.
Family drama, if I had to guess. I've been around enough hockey families to recognize the signs.
The professor wraps up the lecture, and I start packing my things. This is the moment where I could say something. Anything. Hey, Colin, remember me? We used to be at the same rink when we were kids? How's college hockey treating you?
Instead, I do what I always do: I chicken out.
Sort of.
"Good luck with hockey," I say quietly as I stand up.
It's not much, but it's something. An acknowledgment that I know who he is, that I'm aware he plays. A tiny crack in the wall I've built around myself.
Colin looks up, surprised. "How did you?—"
But I'm already gathering my things and heading for the door because I am apparently a coward who can't have a normal conversation with another human being.
I make it halfway across campus before I start mentally kicking myself. What was that? "Good luck with hockey"? That's the best I could do? I had the perfect opening to actually talk to him, to maybe reconnect with someone from my past, and instead I threw out a generic pleasantry and ran away.
My phone buzzes.
Roommate Jess:
Where are you? We're supposed to meet for lunch.
Right. Lunch with Jess, my randomly assigned roommate who somehow decided we were going to be best friends despite having absolutely nothing in common. She's a business major from Tampa who thinks my pre-PT track is "super cool" and keeps trying to set me up with guys from her finance classes.
Me:
On my way to the dining hall.
Jess:
Good. I have news.
Jess always has news. Usually involving some boy she met or some party she heard about or some club she thinks I should join to "expand my social circle."
I find her at our usual table by the windows, practically vibrating with excitement.
"Okay," she says before I even sit down, "don't freak out, but I signed us up for something."
I set my tray down carefully. "What kind of something?"
"The hockey team is looking for student trainers and equipment managers. Unpaid, but it looks good on a resume, and hello, hockey boys."
My stomach drops. "Jess, no."
"Jess, yes! It's perfect for you. You're pre-PT, you know about sports medicine, and let's be honest, you need to interact with humans who aren't professors or me."
"I interact with humans."
"Lab partners don't count."
I pick at my salad. "I don't think it's a good idea."
"Why not? It's literally perfect for your major. And the application process is super easy. Just fill out a form and they'll interview the top candidates."
The thought of being around the hockey team, around Colin, makes my chest feel tight.
It's one thing to sit next to him in Biology and make awkward small talk.
It's another thing entirely to be around him regularly, to have him potentially figure out who I am and remember all the ways I was invisible back then.
But then I think about Dad's text. About how Colin had a rough first practice. About the way he was rolling his shoulder in class today.
Maybe I could actually help. Maybe my knowledge could be useful for more than just getting good grades.
"I'll think about it," I lie.
"You better do more than think about it. Applications are due Friday."
"That's in three days."
"Hence the urgency."
I change the subject to her finance class, and Jess happily launches into a story about some guy named Brad who apparently has "serious boyfriend potential.
" I nod and make appropriate responses, but my mind keeps drifting back to Colin sitting next to me in Biology, the way he rolled his shoulder, the frown when he was reading his texts.
Dad said he had a rough first practice. Maybe he's struggling more than anyone realizes.
After lunch, I head to the library to study, but I can't concentrate. Instead, I find myself googling "Mid-Florida University hockey" and scrolling through the team roster until I find Colin's name and photo.
The picture is clearly from high school—he looks younger, more confident. The bio lists his height (5'10"), weight (175), position (right wing), and hometown (Orlando, FL). It mentions his high school stats and says he was recruited as a "dynamic scoring threat with excellent hockey IQ."
There's no mention of any injuries or struggles. But then again, there wouldn't be.
I close my laptop and try to focus on my Biology reading, but the words blur together.
I keep thinking about the eight-year-old Colin who used to light up when he scored a goal in practice.
The ten-year-old who asked Dad a million questions about strategy and positioning.
The twelve-year-old who always said thank you after every practice, even when Dad ran them into the ground.
He was a good kid. Talented, sure, but also polite and hardworking and genuinely passionate about hockey.
I wonder if he still is.
My phone buzzes with a text from Dad.
Dad:
How was your day?
Me:
Fine. Had Biology.
Dad:
Learning anything interesting?
Me: