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JESSE
I’m out in front of my cabin awkwardly holding a hockey stick in my left hand. I can’t even try to use my right hand to help swing without risk of setting my injury back, so I’m just half-heartedly slapping a street puck into a net in the driveway. Usually, hockey clears my head, but lately it just pisses me off. It reminds me that I’m out for the whole season. It makes me feel like some part of me has been chopped off. Probably worst of all, it makes me feel like I have to figure myself out.
With hockey, I’ve always been able to shut my brain off and focus on the game. I can tell myself I’m working on what’s most important to me and neglect the rest. Ever since my injury, I’ve had nothing to hide behind, and all the cracks in the life I’ve built seem plain as day.
The guys are gone for practice and I know they won’t be back for at least another hour, and that’s assuming they don’t stop for lunch afterwards. Another guilty pang goes off inside me at that. I should be watching practices. I could at least give pointers or advice. I could be doing skating drills. Maybe that’s why I’m out here in the driveway right now. Guilt.
Part of me wonders if Andi is even going to come back to the cabin when she’s done helping Caroline for the day.
I know I was a bit of a dick to her, so it wouldn’t shock me if she decided to simply keep her distance. I guess that was kind of the idea, even if I hadn’t consciously formed the plan in my head. Push Andi away to protect her and to protect myself. It’s that simple, even if I don’t like it.
I’m aimlessly whacking the puck when I see Caroline’s car pull up. Andi gets out, says something to Caroline, then comes practically bounding down the driveway. “Oh!” she says. “Can I watch?”
I can’t help grinning a little. I have to admit it’s endearing to see she has clearly moved on from the little attitude I gave her a couple hours ago. Sarah liked to hold grudges for days when I pissed her off, and she only ever forgave me when I performed some sort of self-flagellation for an apology. Apparently, Andi’s ability to hold a grudge is about as developed as a golden retriever’s.
Caroline backs out of the driveway, giving me a wave. I can’t see her that well through the windshield, but I feel like I don’t love the look on her face. It seems mischievous.
“There’s not much to watch,” I say. “I can’t use my right arm for this.”
“Then teach me,” she says.
She extends her arm toward me as if she’s waiting for my stick. Her cheeks and the tip of her upturned nose are pink from the cold. She’s breathless, and even her lips have gone a brighter shade of red. She’s both wholesome and adorable in her big, oversized sweater. If I hadn’t had quite the glimpse of what she was hiding beneath the big, conservative clothing, it probably wouldn’t seem so sexy to me.
“Alright,” I say, handing her the stick. Jake can’t possibly be mad at me for this if he happens to come back from practice early. And nobody could take this the wrong way. I’ll keep my distance and just coach her up some. It’s harmless.
“Show me what we’re working with,” I say. I lean against the cabin, arms folded while I watch her set up.
It’s immediately clear that she grew up with an NHL player for her brother and has almost never hit a hockey puck in her life. She’s holding the stick way too low with her hands practically on top of each other. She winds up comically far, swings, and hits the driveway with a resounding click. She glances nervously toward me, smiling. “One sec. Just gotta warm up.”
“Maybe don’t try to send this one through the stratosphere. Just take it easy and put it in the net.”
She nods, focusing on the puck as she winds up again. She swings a little more slowly and the puck rolls on its little bearings. It’s way wide of the net and rolls into the grass.
I go get it for her. “Okay,” I say, considering where to start. “So I guess Jake never gave you lessons?”
She folds her arms over the stick, smiling. “Is it that obvious?”
“You’ve got some natural talent. Probably,” I add. I try not to laugh as I say what seems to be a complete lie.
She meets my words with immediate laughter and I can’t help joining her.
“Okay. Maybe there doesn’t appear to be talent,” I admit. “But I know you can do this.”
She’s watching me with such bright intensity that I can’t help feeling my heart start to beat faster. I glance down, focusing on her hands.
“Try moving these apart,” I say, pointing.
“Like this?” she asks, scooting them barely an inch apart.
“A little more.”
“Like this?” she spreads them so far out that I’m sure she has to be messing with me.
“Here,” I say, taking both hands and gently pushing them back together until they’re in the proper place on the stick. “Feel that? Now you can use your whole body in the swing. It should feel like the stick is part of you.”
She closes her eyes. “Nope. Feels like I’m holding your stick. The stick,” she corrects, which makes it way worse than if she’d just left her words alone.
I clear my throat. “Well, try swinging slowly. Like this.” I do the gesture as well as I can without moving my shoulder in the way I know will irritate my injury.
