Her lips are soft and sweet, warming me up from the cold instantly.
After a few minutes or more—I’m not really sure—we break away.
Our foreheads are still connected, both hearts beating fast.
“Hi. Ella. My amazing BBUGirl. I can’t believe both of my crushes were you.”
She whacks me on the arm again. “You couldn’t possibly have a crush on snack bar girl.”
“Wait. Why?” I blink. “Snack bar girl had some killer moves on the ice. Plus, she is kind, humble, and brave.”
“Brave,” she laughs, but it’s completely hollow. Her eyes are dark and elsewhere.
“I wish I were brave,” she says just above a whisper.
“You seem pretty brave to me.” My eyes stay locked on hers.
“Let me tell you, Dallas. I am not a catch at all. Feel free to walk away after I tell you the truth about me. The truth is, I am no longer a student at the school, and I’m homeless. I sleep on my sixty-year-old former co-worker’s couch. I also have no job. No prospects.”
“What about hockey? You are incredible on the ice.” I state. “And I know what I’m talking about,” I say with a cocky smile.
She lets out a small laugh, which was my intention.
Then she lets out a long, wistful sigh. “I wish.”
I lift a brow for more information, but she doesn’t continue.
“I know the coach of the women’s team. I can put in a good word.”
“Thank you, but no,” she huffs. “I’ve already been rejected. Don’t really want to go down that road again.”
My mouth drops open as I scratch my temple. “Rejected by Coach T?”
“I think? Yeah. I just don’t have what it takes.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal.
I would have been traumatized if I hadn’t made the team at Bristol Bay. “What about a lower division, then transfer back?”
“Well, I currently have no money for school, and no job…” Her words trail off. “Also, I was rejected everywhere for hockey.”
I can’t help it. I laugh.
“What?” she asks with an awkward laugh.
“There is no fucking way that is true.”
“Well, I would show you my letters, but…”
When it’s clear she’s not going to finish that thought, I probe. “But…?”
“But, then I would have to go back to my stepmother’s house to retrieve it, and I’m pretty sure she probably threw out all my stuff by now.”
“Stepmom?” I question. “What about your mom?”
“Dead,” she moves a shoulder up and down. “My mom died in childbirth, and my dad died in a car accident when I was around ten. My dad remarried two years prior, so I stayed in my childhood home with her and her daughters.”
“Wow,” I say, taking in her story. I can’t imagine losing both my parents so young. I thought I had it rough that my dad is always on my back about hockey and my choices. Those things seem so minor now in comparison.
Something is nagging me, though, and I can’t quite place it. I scratch my head and mull over her previous words.
