Page 25 of The Play Maker

My brain doesn’t know how to leave things alone. It picks at every word, replays every look, and spins a hundred possible outcomes.

Overthinking is my default. I have entire conversations in my head before I even manage to get a word out.

It’s exhausting.

I push open the rink doors, and immediately feel that familiar chill settle in my bones. But what hits me as soon as I walk in, is the unmistakable sound of hockey skates cutting through ice. The guys should’ve been off the rink ten minutes ago. But, of course, they’re still out there, taking their sweet ass time like they own the place.

Unbelievable.

I roll my eyes. This is why I can’t stand hockey players. They’re entitled, strutting around with that smug look, like they run the entire school. And now, thanks to them, the ice is a mess, turned to snow, which means we’ll have to wait for the Zamboni to come out and refresh it.

“Are you kidding me?” Coach Nikki appears beside us, her arms folded, gaze fixed on the rink. “They’re cutting into our practice time.”

A few of the girls standing nearby groan in response.

“They do this every time,” one says, rolling her eyes.

“Ugh, I know,” another adds with a small laugh. “But honestly, they’re so hot to look at, I almost don’t care.”

Coach raises an eyebrow, then shakes her head. “Go on in and get changed. I’ll see if I can get this sped up.”

The girls head toward the locker room in a group, talking to each other. I follow a few steps behind, my duffel bag bouncing lightly against my hip.

Everyone starts getting changed, pulling off their coats and sweaters, chatting without much thought. I see a few girls shimmy out of their jeans with no hesitation as they strip down to bras and thongs.

Me? I head straight to the showers, ducking into a stall with my bag like it’s second nature. I’ve done this every practice since I was twelve. I never undress in front of the other girls. Not because I’m ashamed of my body exactly, but because I’m aware of it. Of how different it looks from theirs.

I step into a stall and lock the door behind me before I start tugging my clothes off.

I pull on my black leggings, then the soft pink zip-up jacket I always wear, over a white t-shirt. I adjust the hem and pull on my pale pink ankle warmers, and twist my hair up into a bun.

When I step back out, the girls are still changing, chatting about some guy on the football team. I sit down at the end of the bench and focus on pulling my ankle warmers into place.

Then I reach for my phone, my eyes lighting up and my chest pounding when I see a new text from Six.

“Hey.”

I blink, a little startled as I glance up. Savannah is standing in front of me, her blonde curls tucked into a headband and earbuds slung around her neck. It takes me a second to realize she’s talking to me.

My voice catches in my throat before I manage a low, “Hey.”

She gestures vaguely downward. “You’re sitting on my jacket.”

Right. Of course I am.

“Oh,” I scramble to my feet so fast my water bottle tips over and clatters to the floor with a hollow thunk. “Sorry. I didn’t realize.”

She doesn’t say anything else. Just bends down, grabs her jacket, and walks off.

I sink back onto the bench, my face burning as I pick up my water bottle and glance back at my phone, the screen still open to Six’s message.

I exhale slowly, my thumbs hovering over the screen as I read his message.

Six:

Confession: I once faked a phone call to get out of a class. I think I said my dog had food poisoning. I don’t even have a dog.

A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it. I shift back against the locker and type out a reply.