Page 6

I pull my phone out and sigh when I see my dad’s name. He always comes to the rescue. This has to be the sign I need to tell myself it’s time to pick up my kitbag and head down to my car.

“Hey, paps.” I answer the call before it goes to voicemail.

“Auggie,” he says, soft and warm in that Québécois accent that always gets under my ribs .

It’s that feeling that stops me in my tracks as I pick up my kitbag and throw it over my shoulder.

It’s that hollowed out sensation that takes me back to the conversation Courtney and I had on the drive home yesterday about her family, Coach.

The sadness that sunk her eyes that keeps me frozen in place.

Still watching her door as Dad tells me, “Meant to call yesterday to check in. I got caught up at work and then figured you’d crash early. How did it go?”

“Ummm…” I glance down at the floor. “Great.”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“It didn’t end the way I wanted.”

“The day or training?” Concern pitches his voice, making his accent more pronounced.

“Both,” I reply. Then my time with Courtney comes to mind and I find myself correcting my statement. “Training.”

“What happened?”

“I hit the new team photographer with a puck.”

He goes quiet. Then: “Bad?”

“I knocked her clean out, Dad. She needed seven stitches.”

“Shit,” he breathes. “Was it an accident?”

“Of course.” I rake a hand over my face before I start knotting and pulling at my hair.

“So what’s the problem? It’s what happens in hockey.”

“Courtney’s Coach Nilsson’s daughter.”

That earns a low whistle. “Ahhh…”

“Exactly.”

The line goes quiet. I find myself wishing he was as loud and obnoxious as the guys that spent their evening ribbing me.

“You alright, kid?” Dad asks, gentler now. “You sound off.”

I hesitate. “I don’t know. Just feels heavy this year.”

“You homesick already?”

Homesick. The word lands harder than I expect—I’ve only been back in LA three weeks after spending a whole month in Rimouski.

“A little,” I admit.

“Well, your mom and I will be spending a few day in LA for our anniversary, before we fly to Barbados next month. Spend a couple days with you, get a pre-tan glow so I don’t burn.”

“That’s never going to happen,” I chuckle.

“The tanning or the not burning?”

“Neither. You don’t tan and you always burn. ”

“Count yourself lucky that you got Mom’s genes, then.” I can hear the grin in his voice, and it makes me actually smile.

“If you stay in the shade you’ll be fine.”

“Already promised granny I’d paint the porch. She had Mom’s cousin paint the farmhouse all white, and then decided the fencing needed color…”

I grin at that. “Sounds like granny.”

“She misses you.”

“I miss her too.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “You’ll be okay, Auggie. Don’t let what happened yesterday get to you. These accidents happen in hockey. Do you remember that time one of the kids at the rink had his finger sliced off? It’s not a big deal, son. Coach’ daughter or no?—”

Before he finishes the sentence, the door ahead of me swings open.

Courtney steps out in a rush, phone to her ear. “No, Delilah, I’m not— Jesus! ”

She runs straight into me. Big blue eyes bugging when she takes a step back to take me in like she can’t believe I’m actually standing here, waiting for her.

The same thought that occurred to me yesterday when she was on Doc’s bench, occurs to me right now.

Snow White.

She’s even wearing a princess top with the puffy shoulders and fitted long sleeves. Her hair is loose, sans bandage, just a peak of the monstrous bruise I left from under the voluminous curls she’s purposefully tossed to the side.

Man, everything about her is perfect. More than I recall. With the exception of the purple bump.

Fuck, what did I fucking do?

“Jesus,” she mutters again, hand flying to her heart. “You scared me.”

Her phone is pressed to her chest on loudspeaker as another female voice hollers, “Is it him? Tell me it’s the puckinator!”

Puckinator? I think at the same time as Courtney cringes aloud, “Ohmagod, stop!”

Before her friend says anything more, she hangs up and I tell Dad, “I got to go. Call you later, okay?”

I end the call.

We stare at each other.

“You ready?” I ask, cutting through the awkward silence .

Courtney blinks, head tilting to the side. “For what?”

“Work. Camp. Pictures. I’m your chauffeur.”

She narrows her eyes. “I didn’t ask you to drive me.”

“Didn’t say you did.”

“I can call an Uber.”

“You could.” I shift slightly, hitching my kitbag higher up my shoulder. “But since I drove you home yesterday, and your car isn’t here, it’s not exactly an overstep to get you back to the facility in one piece today.”

Courtney stares at me.

I stare back.

“You came back here this morning to drive me to work.” The skepticism in her voice is unmissable.

“Yes, I’m standing outside your door—” I sort of correct her so it doesn’t feel like I’m lying about returning this morning. “—so I can drive you to work.”

“Feeling guilty, huh?” Good God, her grin is killer.

“A tad, but in my defense, as you admitted yesterday, you were in a not so desirable place.”

Bright eyes narrow to slits.

Finally, she sighs. “Fine. But only if we stop for coffee. And I get to pick the music.”

My mouth tugs just slightly at the corner. “Driving a hard bargain given I’m doing you a favor.”

“Suit yourself, I’ll just call that Uber after all,” she sings back, already tapping her phone.

Fuck.

“Alright, alright,” I mutter. “Pick your damn playlist. I’ll buy the coffee.”

A wickedly defined brow hitches as she spins and sashays to the elevator. At least she doesn’t argue about me paying for coffee. I think that’s something.

Isn’t it?