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7

Lennon

Mason: wanna come over tonight?

Me: I have tutoring til 9

Mason: cool

Mason: just text when you’re on the way

Me: That wasn’t an agreement that I’m coming over?

Mason: playing hard to get?

I want to tell him to fuck off. I really do. But it has been a while, and I could benefit from blowing off some steam. When I’m with Mason, I can shut my brain off for an hour and pretend like I can live my life as carefree as him. It’s a new week, same busy routine, but now we’re only four days out from our first game. My palms sweat just thinking about it. Nervous excitement runs its way through the team as we get the next drill set.

I’m on it today. My head is clear, and the anticipation of this weekend’s game is sharpening my focus.

“Which one of you wants to start?” Coach Packley asks me and Grace as she sets up a line of cones on the ice.

We glance at each other. “Killer can be in first, if that’s alright,” Grace says, acquiescing the first run of the drill to me. “Makes more sense to do it that way.”

Coach Packley nods and skates off to talk with the first line, leaving me and Grace on the sidelines. Well, and Coach Holloway, who when I look at him, looks like he’s fighting back a retort.

Feeling bold, I ask, “Something funny to you?”

Grace gives me a what the fuck look, but I ignore her.

He cocks his head to the side. “Killer?”

“That’s me.”

“You sure about that?”

I arch a brow at him and tuck my helmet under my elbow. “Never heard of a nickname before?”

His jaw clicks, but something sparks behind his eyes. It looks like he hasn’t shaved in a few days, and I wish I could say that the shadow on his jaw looks sloppy, but instead it looks…good.

“Did you have one when you played?” Grace asks, trying to cut through the tension.

Surprisingly, he engages in the conversation. “Yeah. It was Skywalker.” He says the name with wistful reverence that surprises me. “Even had lightsabers on my helmet and everything.”

“You’re a Star Wars fan?” I ask.

He huffs. “Never watched them.”

“What? How have you never seen them?” I feel like not only every person I know has seen at least one, but you’d think if he’s nicknamed after one of the main characters, he’d have liked them.

“I didn’t watch a lot of movies or TV growing up.” He runs a hand through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead, and the lighting of the rink illuminates the brown strands. “And then once I got the nickname, it was more the contrarian in me that decided I didn’t want to watch them.”

Of course. Why am I not surprised?

“Why didn’t you pick a different one?” Grace asks.

He shakes his head. “You don’t pick your nicknames. Like what’s yours?”

“Red,” Grace murmurs, her face turning the same color as her hair and nickname.

“Creative,” Coach snorts sarcastically. “And I’m assuming you didn’t pick Killer?” He turns his attention to me, and suddenly the air in the rink rises a few degrees. “Or maybe you did.”

“I didn’t pick it.” I raise my chin. “I’ve had it since peewee.”

He hums.

“What?”

“It’s an ironic nickname, that’s all.”

I lean against the boards. “What’s ironic about it?”

“I don’t think you have that killer instinct.”

“You’ve been paying attention enough to pass that judgment?”

He shrugs, then leans forward, dark eyes pinning me in place. “Are you always this testy with your coaches? I have a hard time believing that Alice would let that fly.”

Embarrassment heats my cheeks, and I break his gaze, unable to hold it as regret creeps over me. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize if you don’t mean it.” His tone is harsh, but his face is carefully blank.

“I do,” I say sincerely. “I just—” He just frustrates me. He’s reached the highest possible level any goalie can achieve, and I want to learn from him. I want him to teach me. I want him to make me better.

And yet, he’s done nothing but show how utterly beneath this all is to him.

“It won’t happen again.” With that, I take off toward the net, but I hear so faintly, I’m not sure if I imagine it. But I could swear I hear him say, “I hope it does.”