Chapter Three Colin
Chapter Three
Colin
On Wednesday we draw the last game of the day, which means we have time to kill between practice and getting dressed.
Most of the guys are either in the stands, watching the current game, or down by the locker rooms, hanging out.
I’m part of the latter group. I’m taping my stick and thinking about the Boston team we play today.
They won the Frozen Four last year but lost a few key guys.
They’ll be a good matchup, maybe our toughest of the week.
Movement catches my eye, and I glance over in time to see the Valley U women’s team walking out of the locker room. My heart rate picks up speed when a distinct and familiar blond ponytail steps into view.
Hattie is the last one out, seeing to her team before following them out of the locker room. She’s a natural leader, on and off the ice. Talented. Hardworking. And stunning.
My pulse is racing as I watch her. She shifts her weight from side to side as she hovers at the back. They’re waiting for the okay to head up to the ice.
I find myself walking over before I’ve made the conscious decision.
She glances up when I’ve crossed half the distance between us. The look of surprise on her face is quickly masked, and she looks at me with a steely, confident smile.
She thinks I hate her? What a laugh. I’ve been in love with Hattie Cannon since the day I met her freshman year.
We were at a party thrown by some of my teammates.
She walked in wearing a light-purple dress and matching Converse.
Her hair was shorter then, but the blond locks were down and almost bounced with each of her steps.
I don’t remember who she was with or really anything else from that night. I walked over to the group she was hanging out with and introduced myself.
“I’m Colin Jettson,” I said and stuck out my hand. I reconsidered immediately, but before I could take it back, she placed her fingers into mine and smiled at me. Warmth spread through me, and I found myself mirroring her grin—something my friends said I didn’t do often.
“Hattie Cannon.”
The noise in the house got louder, and I stepped closer to ask her if she was a freshman.
She nodded, then tipped her head back. “Wow. You’re tall. Do you play basketball?”
“Hockey.”
Her green eyes sparked with excitement. “Me too.”
We spent the next few minutes telling each other what position we played, talking about our high school teams and a dozen more topics. Everything else faded. I could have talked to her all night long. I never had a reaction to anyone like I did with her.
Unfortunately, that year’s seniors chose that moment to get in a little underclassmen hazing. They sent me and the other freshmen to pick up mixers and pizza for the party.
By the time I got back, Hattie was talking to someone else.
Denny. They were pretty much inseparable after that.
I missed my shot. And I’ve spent the past two years trying to convince myself it was for the best and hating myself a little for crushing on my teammate’s girlfriend.
Denny is cool. I like and respect him. He’s someone I look up to on the ice.
“Colin?” Hattie’s voice cuts through my memories.
I blink, realizing I’m standing a foot away and staring at her like some sort of creeper. Oops.
I clear my throat. “Good luck.”
She hesitates, almost as if she’s waiting for me to take it back.
“Thanks.”
“Does Coach have you on left wing again?”
“Yeah,” she says as a flash of nerves crosses her face.
“That’s a mistake.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You’re the best player on your team. He could put you in the net, and that’d probably still be true.”
She huffs a small laugh. “No way. I’m not tall enough. Too much space to cover.”
“My point is, it isn’t a mistake because you can’t handle it. It’s just not the best spot for you. You’re too important. Your line is more productive when you’re at center because you’re the best playmaker and you cover the ice well.”
Her lips form a small O, and her brows tug together. It’s possible I’ve said too much, but I’ve been watching her play for two seasons. I know her style as well as I know my own teammates’.
“I thought you hated me.”
“I already told you I don’t,” I say, suddenly not quite able to meet her gaze. This isn’t the time or place to explain why I’ve avoided her for two years.
The rest of her team is finally moving forward to head out to the ice. I step back. “Have a good game.”
The girls win. So do we.
“Nice job, everyone. Two great games. Ladies, way to get it done. Gentlemen, nice recovery.” Coach Boyson stands at the front of the bus on the way back to the hotel.
We had a shaky start but pulled it together for a comeback in the third period. I’m relieved but frustrated with some errors I made in the first five minutes.
“Call time tomorrow morning is two hours later.”
There’s instant applause, but Coach holds up a hand to quiet us down.
“Rest up. We still have two more hard days ahead of us,” he says.
The bus rolls forward, and Coach sits back down. Despite his instruction, there’s already an excited buzz of conversation about how to spend the evening.
Hattie is beside me, but for once she isn’t trying to talk to me. She rolls her shoulders back and tips her head side to side.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She stops and looks up, meeting my gaze. “Yeah. Fine.”
Her posture relaxes, but not more than a minute later she’s rubbing at a spot on her upper back. It’s obvious she’s feeling the aches and pains of the week. I wonder if she took some sort of hit today. We weren’t able to watch any of their game, so all I know are the basic stats.
When we’re back at the hotel, I head inside and wait by the elevator.
As my team files in, I remind them we have curfew at midnight and reiterate what time they need to be downstairs tomorrow.
My closest friends grin back and give me a salute.
The underclassmen go wide eyed and avoid meeting my gaze—a dead giveaway they plan to enjoy the extra hours of freedom.
Only after I’ve seen everyone do I get on the elevator myself.
“Hold up!” Hattie calls.
I throw my arm out to keep the doors from closing as she jogs through with her duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
She’s breathless when she comes to a stop beside me. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
The heavy bag drops to the floor, and she’s rubbing that spot on her back again. I’ve gotten so used to her constant chatter that now when she doesn’t try to speak to me, I find myself filling the quiet.
“Did you take a hit or something?” I ask.
She stops massaging her back. “I got tripped up and went down on my left shoulder.”
I nod my understanding.
“I’m fine. Just sore.”
The elevator comes to a stop at our floor.
“I have a hot tub in my room.” As soon as I say the words, I realize how they might sound. “For your muscles.”
“You do?”
“They must have run out of standard king rooms.”
“I’m surprised the entire team isn’t using your room for party central.”
“I haven’t told them.” For that exact reason.
“I don’t blame you.”
The doors open, and I hold my hand out to indicate she should go first. She struggles to pick up her bag, so I take it for her.
“That isn’t necessary.”
“Consider it my apology for letting you think I hated you for the past two years.”
She relents and steps out. I follow with both our bags.
I can tell she’s wrestling with something she wants to say, so I stay quiet as I match her slow pace.
“If you don’t hate me, then why have you been avoiding me?” she finally asks.
“It’s complicated.”
She lifts one brow, silently calling my bullshit.
“You were with Denny.”
“So?”
“It was easier for me and better for you that I kept my distance.”
We reach our rooms. When it’s clear I’m not going to say more, she narrows her gaze at me and takes her bag. “You aren’t making any sense.”
“No, I guess I’m not.” I offer her a small smile. “Are you going out to dinner with the girls?”
“No. It sounds like everyone is DoorDashing. What about you?”
“My tacos are already on their way.”
One side of her mouth pulls into a half smile. “Well, enjoy, then.”
She flashes her card, and the lock lights up and beeps to let her in. Her steps are slow as she walks into her room. She glances back, still giving me a small tentative smile.
“Yeah, you too. And, uh . . . the hot tub offer stands.”