Page 4 of Home for the Hockey-Days (Cedar Rapids Raccoons)

CHAPTER 4

August

W hen the boys first said they’d found me a tutor, for some reason I expected an eighty four year old grandmother with a lifetime of math under her belt.

Not... this... this... stunner.

I also expected to wait until next semester to get stuck in. But considering my failings from the tests we just sat are on my permanent record, I need to get the jump on making sure those scores aren’t repeated in the new year. That means meeting her to have a chat about where I’m at, where I’m going, and let her see just how bad it is.

I’m not sure I’ll be able to do much more than drool at her, because she really is striking to look at.

I didn’t pay much attention to her the day we first met, I was too busy trying to pull her from the brink of passing out in the middle of Casey’s gas station’s parking lot. But Rowan is all of five feet and a splash, with shiny auburn waves that course down the front of her chest, resting on her ample cleavage. She’s more than curvy, her body nips in just a little at her waist, and my mind-of-its-own dick already wants to bury itself between her lush booty cheeks.

If she wanted to crush my skull with her thick thighs, I wouldn’t be mad about it. In fact, I can’t think of a better way to die.

I’m a big dude, and more often than not when it comes to women, I’m afraid I’m going to break them. But this... Rowan... Wow. Despite being a short ass, she’s a formidable fucking woman, and it’s taking everything I have not to sweep our laptops onto the floor of the cafe and fuck her right here on the table for all to see.

Woah. Down boy.

It helps to remind myself that I’m still pissed at her. It hasn’t even been a couple days. And it wasn’t completely her fault that she hit a patch of ice and bowled into the back of me, but she still ruined my ride.

Something about this pint-sized vixen has me smothering a growl. If she didn’t think I was a meathead when she first sat down, she probably does now.

We’re in Bitches Brew, there’s a hot pink Christmas tree at least eight feet tall decked out with simple white lights. I have to give it to her, Taryn, the owner of the cafe, sure does like the color pink.

The weight of Rowan’s hazel eyes on my face demands I make eye contact. “August?” She shifts her weight like she’s not sure.

I nod. “I guess I look different when you’re not crashing into me.” I didn’t mean that to come out as clipped and barbed as it did, and she flinches.

She puts up her hand. “I really am sorry about that.” She approaches the table I’m sitting at and gestures to the chair facing me.

I nod again, and she sits. She reaches out to the mini pink Christmas tree in the middle of the table. “These are so cute.” She points at the decor. “Someone really likes Christmas. And pink.”

There are pink tinsel garlands hung on the fireplace, twinkly lights strung all over the coffee shop, and the pink couch photo-op-spot has two smaller Christmas trees book-ending it... it’s a lot.

“Do you want something to drink?”

I tip my head to the side like an overexcited dog waiting for an ear scratch. All that’s missing is a comedic Scooby Doo noise. I blink, once, twice, but I still can’t get my ears to work. What did she say?

She giggles, and the warm, melodic sound hits like a shot of caffeine straight to my system. It’s now my life’s mission to make this woman laugh every time I see her. “I asked if you wanted anything.” She waves her wallet at me.

Normally, I can’t afford anything on the menu. Between school and hockey, I don’t really have time for a part time job, so I make do with what I have from my scholarship, and I try to only splurge on fancy, overpriced coffees once a week, at most, even if Taryn puts something addictive in them, and they taste fucking delicious.

I do have that super generous gift card from Artemis money-bags de la Pe?a, but I still don’t know that I want to spend it. Just call me Scrooge McDuck. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Are you sure? I feel like I at least owe you a coffee after...” She waves her hand. “You know...”

“You crashed into me and destroyed my vehicle.”

We both recoil.

“Sorry.” I shake my head. “Too soon.”

She pauses like she wants to say something else before shaking her head and going to the counter. Her jeans hug her ass like they were spray painted on her, and all I can think about is leaving teeth marks on her rounded cheeks. That’s not where my brain should go. I should be focused on math, on boring, complicated, keeps-my-spot-on-the-team math. But with the auburn beauty striding to the counter I think logic and sense have left the building.

I tug at my collar, even though it’s not restrictive, or hot. It’s Iowa in December for fuck’s sake. The snow that got dumped on us from the storm last week, was joined by even more snow yesterday.

I feel like a fucking caveman. I’m not an ape, I know that women aren’t pieces of meat, or trophies to look pretty and bring joy to men folk. But, holy shit, I’ve never seen a woman like this before. I just need my body to catch up with my brain, then I can focus on learning to count and spell like a good little dumb shit.

When she returns to the table, she has a hot pink paper cup in each hand. “Left or right?”

I stare at her like this is some kind of trick. I told her I didn’t want anything.

“C’mon, August. I didn’t want to drink alone, and I didn’t know which drink I wanted. So I got two, and whichever one you don’t pick is the one I was destined to have.”

I don’t believe in fate, or whatever kismet shit she’s talking about, but I do love the fancy coffees here, and I love surprises. So picking a cup sends a little buzz of excitement through my veins.

As a leftie, I gravitate that direction in all things, so I pick the hand to my left. When she hands over the cup in her right hand, she takes a sip from the one in her left before smacking her lips. “Ahhh.” Her eyes roll back in her head. “The coffee here is so fucking good.”

Something we both agree on. I love a girl who can shamelessly cuss like society doesn’t expect women to be “good.” When I left my old neighborhood and came to college, I was amazed at the number of girls who raised eyebrows at my shameless use of profanity .

I mean, find me a better word in the dictionary than fuck. I’ll wait.

I know words have power, but the number of people who are held hostage to language astounds me. The fact that Rowan isn’t afraid to throw down a well placed F-bomb makes me inordinately happy.

Maybe this tutor-student partnership will work after all.

She takes her seat, then curls both palms around the warm paper cup, and draws in another mouthful of her drink. I’m bewitched, I can’t look away. From the freckles dotted across the bridge of her nose and cheeks, to the gray flecks in her eyes, I’m enthralled. If this woman decided to read the phonebook to me right now, I’d listen to every damn name and number from start to finish.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I rub my head, maybe the accident knocked something out of place in my brain like one of those crappy romance movies. Someone has a car crash, wakes up, and falls for the first person they see.

I pick up my cup, pausing when she holds hers out to ‘clink’ against mine. Scrunching up my face, I purse my lips.

“To acing your next round of exams and kicking math in the balls.”

I’ll drink to that. Math can suck my balls. I can’t help the smile tugging on my lips when I answer, “Cheers,” and take my first sip. “Salted caramel mocha?”

She nods with a grin. “It’s not on the menu, but Taryn says it’s going on the board for Valentine’s Day.”

We still have a way to go before we get to Valentine’s day, but with Christmas only a couple of days away, commercialism has already moved on to the next thing.

I can see why this mocha is going on a specialty menu, however, it’s the best thing I’ve had in my mouth. At least for a while .

We sit for a long, but not uncomfortable moment, quietly sipping our drinks. A few people have started to trickle in off the street, but so far, no one who knows me. As captain of the local college hockey team, I’m a recognizable figure around campus. Add to that my six feet seven inch stature, and I’m hard to miss.

“You’re a senior this year, right?” Her gaze lingers on my face as she waits for an answer.

It almost sounds like she’s asking how I made it this far without a tutor, but I’m determined to give her the benefit of the doubt. That’s probably not what she means. Maybe she’s simply making polite small talk. Wouldn’t be the first time my insecurities heard the wrong thing and ran with it.

“Yeah.”

Graduation is about six months away, and as I stare down the last few months of my degree, fear grabs me in an unrelenting chokehold. I’ve scraped through college so far. Clinging to passing grades by the skin of my teeth. My professors have largely been understanding of the fact I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, and I’ve been given a little grace on assignment deadlines here and there, well, because, hockey I guess.

Or they’ve taken pity on the kid who’s clambering to stay on the straight and narrow. Maybe a little bit of both.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me this year, the work feels harder, heavier, and my hockey schedule isn’t any more relentless than it has been. I just can’t get my shit together.

“Are you a senior too?”

She nods, with a soft smile.

“Do you have plans for after college?” It feels like I should be polite and ask her about herself since she bought me this delicious coffee.

Another nod. “I’d love to be an investment banking analyst. ”

I understand what those words all mean individually, but I have no idea what someone with that job title does every day. Except math. That sounds like lots and lots of fucking math.

“What is an investment banking analyst?” I admit to having a vague curiosity, but I’m mostly delaying the inevitable. Getting to the math.

“It’s someone who helps someone reach their investment goals, assess client needs, and project the outcome of potential investments.”

That all goes straight over my head, but I nod along like I know exactly what a financial portfolio is and how someone would analyze it.

We fall quiet again, and after a long moment of silence, she takes another sip. “I really am sorry about your car. I spoke to Apollo, they’re going to pay me to tutor you.”

Interesting that she has an ‘in’ with the de la Pe?a’s. It was Artemis who gave me her number, not Apollo. “How do you know Apollo?”

“Their older sister and I are friends.”

Athena isn’t a senior yet, so that just makes things even more interesting. “How did you two become friends?”

She smiles like she knows I’m stalling for more time. “We can talk about that some other time. Her brother says you can have as many sessions a week as you want, or we can fit in. It’s up to you.” She shrugs. “Is there a way you feel you learn better? Reading? Writing out notes over and over until it sticks? Listening to lectures? Watching tutorials?”

I stare at her pale face. Her question, her tone, her everything feels genuine, like she’s truly interested in finding what works for me to try to help. But where I come from, nothing comes for free. Everything has a price tag, even kindness. She owes me for destroying my car, but the reminder that I’m too poor to pay, that the de la Pe?a’s need to bail me and my thick skull out, makes me feel queasy .

I don’t even know that I have an answer to her question. She’s the first person to ever ask me how I learn best. Most days it feels like I can’t learn at all, so how am I supposed to have an answer to that?

Something uncomfortable settles under my skin. It’s not her, it’s me. I know it’s my shortcomings, but that doesn’t take the sting out of it. I fucking hate feeling like a dumbass. You’d think it’s something I’d be used to by now. Guess not.

“It’s okay if you don’t know, we can work on finding out how you process and retain information. I don’t need to know right this second. We have time.” Her smile is warm, and I feel it down to my bones. I’m drawn to her in ways I don’t understand, and for once in my life I’m not completely intimidated by someone else’s intelligence. She doesn’t make me feel like a dumb jock. She talks to me like I’m on her level, even though I’m very obviously not.

By the time my hour with her is up, my head hurts, there’s a dull throb behind my eyeballs, and I feel like I’ve played back to back hockey games, on the same fucking day. My bones are weary.

“We’ll get you to where you need to be, August.” Rowan’s assurance sounds so concrete, so secured in a firm belief that I can’t fail, that she won’t let me fail, that it’s hard not to believe her.

So despite the blinding pain in my brain, despite the fact I’m getting tutoring I can’t afford, from a woman who totaled my only mode of transportation, for just a beat, I let myself believe. Believe that I can be more, believe that I won’t fail, and believe that I’ll graduate, play in the NHL, and live out all my hopes and dreams.

And that the redhead in front of me will help me get there.