Overtime: St. Cloud Hockey Series, page 12
I snort and flip the smaller arepa first. “How come you’re vegetarian?”
“Ugh. Meat is the most disgusting thing that’s ever been on my tongue.” Gagging sounds.
“Strawberry.” My voice carries a warning. “You keep saying things that are very easy to tease you about.”
“Oh. Um. Maybe you’re the one with the problem.”
Definitely me. But I need help. What do we do?
“Anyway.” She clears her throat once. Twice. “Maybe let’s start the reverse tutoring.”
I turn over my shoulder, cocking an eyebrow. Her face was already flushed to the roots of her hair, and it only grows warmer.
“On hockey! Oh my gosh. Do we need to wash your brain with bleach?”
“Maybe.” I shrug and go back to flipping arepas. As they hiss against the heat and the oil, I slide back to the fridge and pull out a container. “I hope it’s just the taste you don’t like, because it’s about to smell real meaty once I pop this into the microwave.”
“Your house, your rules.”
I file that one away for future reference and instead say, “So, why hockey?”
“Everyone’s going nuts about it right now.” I must’ve pressed the right button because she goes on. “My debut book is a young adult—that’s fiction for teens—and it sold pretty well, but the way things work in trad—that’s traditional publishing—is that they chop up the payments into checks smaller than those vegetables you diced. So I need to keep paying my bills until my next check, you know? And soon I’ll have to start paying my student loans, which means I have to write what’s popular even though I don’t know squat about it.”
She sucks in air and finishes off with, “And on the day I decided to write a hockey romance, I met you. It was fate!”
My eyes are as wide as saucers. I imagine if the sun could smile, it would look like this, with gunky brown hair framing it, a pink glow to its cheeks, and sparkly eyes.
“Fate, huh?”
Strawberry nods rapidly. “Yes! Everyone says write what you know, but I didn’t know, and now I will, thanks to you.”
She… could compete with my sisters when it comes to who speaks faster.
My head spins with her words and I try to train it on not burning the food. I pop the container with pulled beef from last night into the microwave and set the timer.
This confirms my suspicion. She was taking notes about me not because she was an analog stalker, but for book research.
“What’s TDH, then?” I ask.
Only silence greets me. I let her be until the microwave pings. Even as I take out plates and set them on the counter. I glance at her and almost laugh at how tightly she’s biting her lips.
“If you want me to answer hockey questions, you’ll give me that one.”
Her brow crashes. She looks freaking adorable. “This is bribery.”
“I call it building trust.”
With a clean knife, I slice the three arepas, and before much of the heat escapes, I stuff each one with a mountain of cheese. To hers, I only add pico de gallo and put it on her plate. Then I load mine with the rest of the veggies and the meat.
“Thank you. It looks amazing.” She’s a clever one, watching how I wrap a napkin around my first arepa, then doing the same. She picks it up and takes a big bite.
The moan that comes from deep in her throat almost fells me like a tree.
I swallow hard one, two times. A third. Eyes on my food. Food in my mouth. Make it busy with that. Not with saying what I want to say. Keep it in my brain. That way it’s only awkward there.
“Oh my word. This is so delicious. You’ll have to teach me how to make them!”
“But first,” I say with difficulty. “What’s TDH?”
Strawberry groans. “You’ll never let me forget it, will you?”
“Nope.”
“Fine.” She sets the food down and lets out a great sigh. “I will confess. But you must promise me—”
“I’m not going to promise shit. Just say it and deal with the consequences.”
“Talldarkandhandsome.” She says this so fast the words jumble into one and all I hear is gibberish.
“The what?”
Gasping for air, she says it again, this time more slowly. “Tall. Dark. And handsome.”
My arepa is suspended in the air. I need to set it down for this.
I burst out laughing.
“This is what I didn’t want!” Strawberry screeches and throws her balled-up napkin at me. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” The question comes out squeaky between guffaws that refuse to stop.
“Like I’m one of your groupies and you caught me red-handed!”
“I know you’re not a puck bunny—that’s the term. Write it down.” I’m still chuckling as I add, “You don’t even know what icing is.”
“And you haven’t explained it.”
I put a dirty knife on the counter, then put the salt dispenser on one side and her cup of water on the opposite side. “This is the middle line and the two goals. If you’re a player here, on your goalie’s side,” I say, pointing at her empty cup, “and you shoot the puck all the way here.” I poke the spot behind the saltshaker. “That’s icing, in a nutshell.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh. Hold on. I need to write all this down.”
I keep eating as she rushes over to her bag at the door. She returns with the same yellow journal and the strawberry pen from day one, where she jotted down that I was TDH.
The tall part, check. I’m at least a foot taller than her. Dark? Double check. My brown skin is several shades darker. I also wouldn’t describe myself as a ray of sunshine. The handsome part? Well, I’m not in the business of lying. I guess I’m a TDH, huh?
“So, were you going to base your character on me?”
She does not meet my eyes. “Obviously not on the real you. That would be supremely creepy.”
A corner of my lips goes up. The guys will be disappointed when they find out.
“And what exactly do characters do in a hockey romance?”
“They play hockey all the time.” She looks up, blinking innocently in an exaggerated way.
“With their tongues?”
She gasps.
So I add, “Surely not with their sticks.”
“Aran!”
“Any other hockey questions?” I take another bite of my food to shut myself up.
“Um, I mean. Lots. What made you choose hockey? Or did it, like, choose you?” An awkward laugh. “What’s it like when you’re playing? Have you been hit by pucks before? Why did you decide to be a goalie? Is your training different? I mean, I guess it must be—you’re not shooting pucks, but catching them. And—”
“First of all, breathe. Second, it’s probably better if you experience it.”
“I plan to watch your next game.”
That makes me oddly excited, but not as much as when I say, “I mean some firsthand experience.”
Strawberry blinks fast as her brain processes. “There is no way in heck I could possibly play hockey. I don’t even know how to skate.”
“Excuse—” I do a double take. Triple. “Were you born and raised on the beach or what?”
“No, here. But not everyone is good at sports, you know.”
I shake my head. “Fine, I’ll give you a reverse-tutoring plan too. First step, I’m going to teach you how to skate.”
“But—”
“No further hockey questions will be answered until then.”
“What about non-hockey questions?” A slow grin spreads across her lips when she paraphrases our earlier conversation.
And like then, all she gets from me is a grunt before I take the last bite of my first arepa. My stomach is rumbly, but this time it’s not because of the food.
CHAPTER 16
MADDIE
“Are you sure this isn’t a date?”
Ryan sits on my bed, watching me braid my hair so it doesn’t get in the way later for what I’ve told her a million times is not a date. I press my lips tight and give her A Look through the mirror. The same one I’ve sent her way the past two times she asked.
She puts her hands up. “I’m just saying it looks an awful lot like one. A guy and a girl going ice skating together on Valentine’s Day? I mean, c’mon. I can’t be faulted for thinking it might be a date. Your denial makes it all the more sus.”
“Aran and I clarified that this is just for book research.” I wrap a pink hair tie at the end of my braid. It matches the knit cable sweater that took me all last year to make.
“If so, why is it just the two of you?” She smirks.
“Because—” I interrupt myself with a long-suffering sigh. “I’ve told you I don’t want anyone else to witness my awkwardness.”
She dips her chin and gives me an incredulous look. “But it’s okay if Aran does?”
“Yes, because that’s all he’s done—watch me make a fool of myself over and over,” I say, turning around with a great huff. “I mean, I even talked about my period with him. If that’s not enough reason to put him off me, then there’s everything else.”
Tilting her head, she asks, “What’s everything else?”
I gesture all around me, as if it’s self-explanatory. But confusion takes over Ryan’s expression, so I add, “I’m just not his type.”
“Based on what? Did he say so?”
“No, but I know. I’ve seen one or two of his girlfriends on campus. And like, he dated you, and you’re absolutely freaking stunning, fit, fun, and kind, and… I’m just not like that. I’m short, fat, flabby, and a walking embarrassment.” I cringe.
Ryan coughs and splutters to the point where she has to thump her chest before she’s able to talk. “Okay, first of all, that’s bullshit.”
“No way. You really are all that!”
She smiles from ear to ear. “Okay, maybe not that part. I am pretty cool. But the whole thing about you not being his type is the bullshit.”
I shake my head. I saw Aran with one girl near the cafeteria once, like a year ago. They were tangled in a very public display of affection where I saw a whole game of tonsil hockey. I remember being stunned at first that they didn’t care who may be watching. But then I figured two super-hot people probably wanted to pounce on each other all the time. Because the girl was leggy, with a tiny waist and a huge behind—which one of his hands had been dangerously close to. The other one was lost in the confines of her black hair. And she had the whole air of a girl who had her pick of guys.
I couldn’t even get a kiss like that from the one guy who showed some interest in me in the past. And he was a normal-looking guy in the creative writing program too, not some Roman statue come to life.
Oblivious to my thoughts, Ryan continues, “In fact, my concern is quite the opposite.”
“Huh?”
She observes me in silence for a moment, so I finish up fastening my fanny pack around my waist and grab my scarf. This one’s white, like my Doc Martens. I’m wearing faded blue jeans from Torrid that don’t stab into my gut, and I’ll wrap myself and the look up with a thick down coat in a cream color and a white knit beanie with bunny ears. Nothing about this outfit screams date.
“I’ve never seen that stubborn ass open up to a girl the way he’s done with you.”
I wind the scarf around my neck as I say, “That’s because I give him no choice but to talk. Because he’s obviously not going to use his mouth for anything else with a girl who is not his type.”
“Puh-lease.” She unfolds her legs from under her and gets up, passing me my coat before I can reach it from the chair. “You have the smile of an angel. I’ve already seen it getting him to do things he’s never done for anyone else.”
“Ryan, we are friends. That’s all.”
“No, you’re friends with Archie and the others, but it’s different with Aran. He’s not like this with anyone else.”
I’m fully dressed to brave the February cold, and it’s warm in the apartment, but I stand in my room observing my roommate. Aside from the few jokes in the conversation, she’s been pretty serious throughout. And even though Aran is waiting in his car, I need to ask.
“Um, don’t get me wrong, but… why are you so worried about this?” I bite my lip and play with the zipper of my coat. “Do you still have feelings for him or something?”
“Ha!” Ryan shakes her head. “Okay, I’ll answer the second question first. Do you wanna know why Aran and I didn’t work out?”
“If you want to share, sure.”
I am low-key dying to know. But I’m trying to act chill and not freak her out.
“Because we weren’t interested in each other that way. Him, because he’s been incapable of forming a deep connection with a single one of the many girls he’s dated. And me because I realized while being with him that I’m ace and aro.”
My eyes go wide. “Oh.”
“So I’m asking because I’m worried he will break your heart like he’s done with almost every girl, and then I’ll have to murder him.”
My chest fills up with something warm that rushes up my face and to my eyes. I rush forward and give her a big hug. “Thank you for being my friend, Ryan.”
She pats my back. “We can still make this a party of three, you know.”
“I know.” I pull away, wrinkling my nose as I mull over that scenario. “But if I change the plan at the last minute, he’ll suspect something’s up. The last thing I want is for him to think I may have feelings for him.”
“Do you?”
“No, it was hypothetical. Besides,” I add with a shrug. “This is so not a date that we’re not going to the big outdoor ice rink, but to his former elementary school. We’ll be surrounded by little kids and families, and not by smoochy couples. It’s the least romantic skating date ever.”
“So you admit it’s a date, huh?” She elbows me.
I huff. “It’s not!”
“I’m just teasing.” With shocking strength, she turns me around by my shoulders and pushes me to the front door of the apartment. “Go enjoy your private humiliation with your friend who you definitely have no feelings for.”
“Ryan…”
“And also, protect your head if you fall. Unless you want him to stay awake the whole night with you like last weekend. Which I’m sure he did out of the goodness of his heart.”
I open the front door and turn over my shoulder with a grumpy expression. “Stop teasing me.”
“That’s what friends are for.”
With a final wave, she closes the door. I stand there for a moment, biting my lip. It’s like Ryan could read my mind and make me voice every thought. Yes, this does feel an awful lot like it’s going to be a date. I couldn’t even sleep well last night because of how much I was anticipating it.
But also yes, Aran is not into me in that way. He acted normal even during the study session and movie marathon we had Saturday while we were making sure I didn’t have a concussion. Sure, his mind was in the gutter a few times, but not about me. It was because I kept putting my foot in my mouth. We sat a foot apart on the couch, and he didn’t look at me in a salacious way, because there’s just nothing salacious about me.
I’m the kind of girl he can comfortably be around with no pressure. Like Ryan. Or maybe even like his sisters. I don’t know.
Standing by the exterior balcony, I immediately locate his black SUV. The headlights are on, the beams dancing in the falling snow. As I head down the stairs, I’m glad I spilled the beans to Ryan. It was a good last-minute reminder that I’m not the kind of girl Aran Rodriguez goes for and that there will be nothing attractive about me learning how to skate.
The cabin is dark inside his car, but I make out his silhouette easily. I don’t know if he watches me as I round his car, but when I open the door, his eyes are fixed on his phone as he texts with someone.
“Hey.”
One of his caveman sounds is the response I get.
Yep, definitely no romance in the air.
I heft myself up into the seat by the door handle and buckle up. “Okay, ready when you’re ready.”
He nods, though I don’t know if the gesture is to me or the phone. After a quick moment, he drops it in the cupholder and turns up the music a bit. His eyes stop on me for a second, but then he sets the car in motion, and off we go.
In full silence.
Aran is the picture of relaxation as he drives. Left elbow on the door, hand loosely on the steering wheel. His right hand is the one doing the steering, which I find interesting.
“How come you drive with your right? I thought you were left-handed.”
“I’m ambidextrous, actually.” The rumble of his voice fills the cabin.
“So you can write with your right?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow, I wish I had that superpower.”
Dark eyes flash to me for a second and then focus back on the road.
I regret having zipped up my coat all the way. My phone’s in my fanny pack, and I really wish I had something to do with my hands so they’d stop fiddling with my hair or the seat belt.
“Nervous?”
I jump a little at his question, which gives him the answer. Laughing an unhinged little laugh, I say, “Yes, actually. Mildly terrified.”
“Skating’s not that hard.”
The knives on my feet aren’t what I’m nervous about.
Still, determined to not let Ryan become a murderer, I say, “Easy for the hockey player to say.”
“Just trust me. I wasn’t born wearing skates.”
And I do trust him. Maybe that’s the problem.
Once upon a time, about two and a half years ago, I had a crush on a guy in my department. He was smart, funny, and a year older, which, back then made him seem so mature. And he was such a nice guy to everyone, including me. Of course, I took that to mean more than it did. And because back then, I had a lot more illusions—or delusions—about guys than I do now, I developed a huge crush on him.
One time at a party, I got a lil bit tipsy and confessed my feelings to him. He admitted that, even though he saw me as a friend, we could go on a date and see how things went. I was over-the-moon excited. I even got Rebs to do some fancy makeup for me that later made my face break out. Anyway, the date went well because we talked about writing and books and our plans for the future.
