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“Fuck, I …”
I cut him off. “I figured I wouldn’t be lucky enough to avoid you asking me over and over again until you got your answer. Since we’ll probably be seeing each other around the rink, I decided to just get it over with.”
I put on a fake smile, like I’m totally over it, like I’m ready to joke and laugh about it, like remembering what was taken from me doesn’t fucking crush me every single day, from the moment I wake up until I finally fall asleep.
“I’m sorry,” is all he’s able to say again after a couple beats of silence.
A tongue-tied Hunter Landry is just … unusual. Not right.
Honestly, I’d rather he make a totally tasteless, insensitive joke, like telling me I deserved it for the time I wrote wrong answers when I knew he was cheating off me during the quiz in Mrs. Duvall’s ninth grade Environment Science class, before changing mine at the last minute too late for him to do the same.
Something like that. Something that feels more natural from him than actual concern.
“Well, I’d better go. I have some homework and studying to do,” I say, ready to be out from under his sympathetic gaze.
“Yeah. See you later, Phoebe,” he says, an unfamiliar solemnity still in his voice.
Not later enough—the same words I left him with after our encounter at the coffee shop the other day play in my mind; but, for some reason, right now I don’t really feel like saying them.
8
HUNTER
These kids are freaking animals compared to Phoebe’s class.
“Hey, cut that out,” Shane says, hustling over to snatch away the junior-sized hockey sticks two kids are using to have a pretend sword fight.
I rake my palm down my face. Some kid’s gonna put another kid’s eye out in our very first session. Great.
The din from all the kids laughing, shouting, and talking sounds like an elementary school lunchroom the day before Christmas break. I can’t even hear myself think, much less can anyone else hear me when I try to tell the kids to sit down quietly as Shane and I show them how to put on shoulder pads.
Note to self: buy a whistle.
The kids from Phoebe’s class yesterday were angels compared to the lot we’ve been saddled with.
I wonder if that’s because regular ice skating lessons draw a different crowd than actual hockey lessons, or if it’s just because the kids I was working with yesterday already had a couple sessions with Phoebe, and her teacher’s-pet attitude rubbed off on them.
We’re not even on the ice yet. Our first lesson is just a basic introduction to all the equipment you need to know and understand before you start playing. The next session is when we finally get on the ice.
My stomach sinks like a rock when I consider what a clusterfuckthat’sprobably going to be.
About forty minutes later, and the first session is mercifully over and parents start to filter in to pick up their kids.
Sometimes, on the rare occasions I’d let myself think about what I might do if, for whatever reason, hockey was no longer a possibility, I always had the idea of being a history teacher in the back of my mind.
After this experience, I realize that I’ve been grossly underestimating how fucking hard it is to be a teacher my whole life.
Shit, I want to write some of my own teachers apology cards remembering how I acted, seeing how stressful it is on the other side.
When the last kid leaves, Shane collapses onto the bench beside the rink. “We’ve got a whole fucking semester of this,” he moans, looking up at the ceiling.
I take a deep breath. “This was just the first day. We’ve gotta expect it’s gonna be the hardest, right? It can only get better from here.”
His eyebrows rise as he blows out a long, loud breath. “Thanks for your optimism, but I need a drink. You up to stop by Jake’s Pub on the way home?”
“Sure. Just let me hit the bathroom.”
A beer after this nerve-frying day is starting to sound better and better as I walk back out of the bathroom, ready to leave with Shane—but when I spot him near the door, my chest clenches.
