5. Colin
COLIN
I 'm twenty minutes early to the coffee shop, which is ridiculous, but I couldn't sit in my dorm room anymore. Tyler was trying to help me with calculus homework, and I kept getting distracted thinking about our game tomorrow night.
Our first real game. Where actual people will be watching. Where I might get more than five minutes of ice time if I don't completely fuck it up.
I order a large coffee and find our usual table, then immediately regret getting caffeine because my leg is already bouncing under the table like I'm having a seizure.
Savannah walks in exactly on time because of course she does, looking calm and put-together while I probably look like I've been mainlining energy drinks.
"Hey," she says, sliding into the seat across from me. "You're here early."
"Yeah, I, uh... couldn't focus on homework."
"Nervous about tomorrow?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"You're literally vibrating right now."
I look down and realize my leg is still bouncing. "Shit. Sorry."
"It's fine. First game jitters are normal."
"Are they? Because I feel like I'm going to throw up."
"That's also normal."
"Great. Very reassuring."
She laughs, and some of the tension in my chest loosens. "Want to talk about it?"
"About throwing up?"
"About what's making you nervous."
I take a sip of my coffee, which was definitely a mistake because now I'm even more wired.
"I don't know. Everything, I guess. Like, what if I mess up? What if Coach doesn't play me? What if I do get to play and I'm terrible?"
"Those are a lot of what-ifs."
"I know. I can't shut my brain off."
"What's the worst that could happen?"
"I could embarrass myself in front of everyone. Including my parents, who are driving up for the game."
"Your parents are coming?"
"Yeah, and that's another thing. Like, they're expecting me to play well, but I've barely been getting any ice time in practice, and?—"
"Colin."
"What?"
"Breathe."
I realize I've been talking really fast and probably not making much sense. "Sorry. I'm kind of freaking out."
"I can tell. But you know what?"
"What?"
"You're going to be fine."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're good at hockey. And because being nervous means you care."
"What if caring isn't enough?"
"Then you'll figure it out. But Colin, you can't play a game that hasn't happened yet."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're sitting here stressing about all these scenarios that might not even happen. What if you play well? What if you score? What if your parents are proud of you no matter what?"
"Those seem less likely."
"Why?"
"Because... I don't know. Because everything feels harder here. Like, in high school, hockey was fun. Here it's just... stressful."
"Why do you think that is?"
"Probably because everyone's better than me."
"That's not true."
"It kind of is, though. Like, these guys have been playing competitive hockey since they were five. I didn't even start travel hockey until I was ten."
"So?"
"So I'm behind."
"You're eighteen. You have time to catch up."
"Do I, though? Because it feels like if I don't prove myself right away, I'll never get the chance."
Savannah is quiet for a moment, and I wonder if I'm being too honest. Like, maybe she doesn't want to hear about all my insecurities.
"Can I tell you something?" she says finally.
"Sure."
"You're putting way too much pressure on yourself."
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because it's true. You're acting like tomorrow's game is going to determine your entire future."
"What if it does?"
"It won't. It's one game, Colin. One game in a season of games."
"But what if?—"
"No more what-ifs. Seriously. You're driving yourself crazy."
She's right, but I can't seem to stop. My brain keeps jumping from one worry to another.
"How do you do it?" I ask.
"Do what?"
"Stay so calm about everything. Like, don't you get nervous about trainer stuff?"
"Are you kidding? I was terrified during that injury situation last week."
"You were? You looked totally in control."
"That's because I had to be. But inside, I was panicking."
"Really?"
"Really. I kept thinking, what if I mess up? What if I make it worse? What if everyone realizes I don't know what I'm doing?"
"But you do know what you're doing."
"Most of the time. But sometimes I'm just winging it and hoping for the best."
That makes me feel a little better. Like, if Savannah—who's basically good at everything—sometimes feels like she's winging it, maybe it's okay that I feel lost half the time.
My phone buzzes, and I glance at it automatically.
Dad:
Ready for tomorrow? Remember what we talked about.
My stomach clenches. What we talked about was Dad's lecture about making the most of every opportunity and not letting the team down.
"Family pressure?" Savannah asks, reading my expression.
"My dad. He's just... he has a lot of opinions about how I should be playing."
"What kind of opinions?"
"The kind where I need to be perfect or I'm wasting everyone's time."
"That's a lot of pressure."
"Tell me about it."
I put my phone face-down on the table, but I can still feel the weight of Dad's expectations.
"You know what might help?" Savannah says.
"What?"
"Focusing on something other than hockey for a while."
"Like what?"
"Like Biology. You have that exam next week."
"Ugh, don't remind me."
"I'm serious. Sometimes when I'm stressed about one thing, working on something else helps me reset."
"I don't think molecular biology is going to calm me down."
"It might. Come on, let's go through the enzyme stuff. I brought my notes."
"You brought your Bio notes to our coffee date?"
"This isn't a—" She stops and blushes. "I mean, I always bring notes. Just in case."
"Just in case what?"
"Just in case you need help with something."
"So you came prepared to tutor me?"
"I came prepared for whatever you needed."
There's something in the way she says it that makes my chest feel tight. Like she actually cares about helping me, not just because she's nice, but because... I don't know. Because she wants to.
"That's really nice of you," I say.
"It's what friends do."
"Friends?"
"I mean, we are friends, right? I know we haven't really talked about... what this is."
She gestures between us, and I realize we haven't talked about what this is. We just keep hanging out and texting and looking forward to seeing each other.
"Yeah," I say. "We're friends."
"Good. I wasn't sure."
"Why wouldn't you be sure?"
"Because you're you and I'm me, and we don't exactly run in the same circles."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're a hockey player and I'm a trainer. You're popular and I'm... not."
"You think I'm popular?"
"Aren't you?"
"I have like three friends here, and one of them is my roommate who's stuck with me."
"But you're on the hockey team."
"So? That doesn't automatically make me popular."
"It doesn't?"
"Savannah, half the guys on the team barely know I exist. I'm the freshman who's not good enough to play meaningful minutes."
"That's not true."
"It kind of is. But whatever, that's not the point."
"What is the point?"
"The point is that I like hanging out with you. You're smart and funny and you actually listen when I talk instead of just waiting for your turn to speak."
"Most people wait for their turn to speak?"
"Most people I know do."
"That's depressing."
"Yeah, well, welcome to college hockey."
We're both quiet for a moment, and I realize the coffee shop has gotten busier. There are students everywhere, studying and talking and looking way more relaxed than I feel.
"Colin?"
"Yeah?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Why did you choose college over juniors?"
"Honestly? Because I was scared."
"Scared of what?"
"Scared of betting everything on hockey and having it not work out. At least with college, I have options."
"That's smart."
"My dad doesn't think so."
"Your dad's not living your life."
"Try telling him that."
"Maybe I will."
"You'd do that?"
"If he's putting too much pressure on you, yeah."
"Savannah, you don't have to?—"
"I know I don't have to. But I want to."
"Why?"
"Because you're my friend. And friends look out for each other."
The way she says 'friend' makes me wonder if she means something more than that. But I'm probably reading too much into it.
"Thanks," I say.
"For what?"
"For listening. For helping me freak out less about tomorrow."
"Are you freaking out less?"
"A little. Maybe. Actually, no, I'm still pretty much freaking out."
"That's honest."
"I'm trying to be more honest about stuff."
"That's good. Honesty's important."
"Even when it makes me sound pathetic?"
"You don't sound pathetic. You sound human."
"Same thing sometimes."
"Not even close to the same thing."
We end up studying Biology for an hour, and Savannah's right—focusing on something else does help. By the time we're packing up, I feel less like I'm going to spontaneously combust.
"Feeling better?" she asks as we're walking out.
"Yeah, actually. Thanks for the distraction."
"Anytime."
"Savannah?"
"Yeah?"
"Will you be at the game tomorrow?"
"I'll be working the game tomorrow."
"Right. But will you be... I don't know, watching?"
"I'll be watching."
"Good. That'll help."
"Help with what?"
"Help me remember that hockey's supposed to be fun."
"Is that what I do?"
"Among other things."
"What other things?"
"I don't know. You just... you make things feel less scary."
"That's a nice thing to say."
"I mean it."
"I know you do."
We've reached her dorm, and I realize I don't want this to end. But I also don't know how to ask her to keep hanging out without sounding desperate.
"I should probably get some sleep," she says.
"Yeah, me too. Big day tomorrow."
"You're going to do great."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're Colin Grant. And because you're finally starting to believe in yourself again."
"Am I?"
"You are. I can tell."
"Thanks, Savannah. For everything."
"Thank you for trusting me with your freak-out."
"Thanks for not running away when I started spiraling."
"I don't run away."
"Good to know."
As I'm walking back to my dorm, I realize she's right. I do feel like I'm starting to believe in myself again. Not completely, but more than I have in weeks.
And a lot of that has to do with the girl who somehow makes everything feel more manageable just by listening.