The Puck Drop by Jaqueline Snowe

CHAPTER SIX

Naomi

The bus pulled into Central’s campus around midnight, and regret weighed me down. Why the hell did I walk to the stadium? That meant I had a fifteen-minute trek back at midnight. Sure, our campus was safe, but it wasn’t the best choice I’d made in a while. Honestly, I wasn’t positive when the last time I made a great decision was.

Two years ago? When I chose to sit by Mona in the dining hall? Yeah—that was my best choice without a doubt. Those girls were my ride or dies, my friends for life.

“I want pancakes.”

I grinned before I could stop myself. “At midnight?”

“Yes.” Michael wiggled his eyebrows at me, the faint streetlights causing shadows to dance across his face. The sight of him in his Central Wolves sweatshirt made me want to curl up next to him and listen to his deep voice. He reminded me of chilly fall nights and warm cider. Somehow, the guy got past all my walls after a few hours together and now I was thinking about cuddling him.

“Um, I think there’s a twenty-four hour place a few blocks from here.” I yawned, and my shoulders sagged once the bus stopped in the lot. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Michael, which made zero sense. We barely knew each other, and I’d see him again at the next game.

“Reiner,” my dad said, interrupting my attempt to figure out if Michael was inviting me to get food with him or if it was just a statement.

“Yes, sir.”

“Tomorrow morning, eight a.m. My office. I want your analysis. Naomi, when will you have a report for us?”

“When would you need it?”

“Would 9 a.m. be too soon?”

Seeing how it was midnight and already the next day? I kept my mouth shut and nodded. “Nope. I can have it to you by then.”

“Email it to Michael when you can.”

Send my report to Michael? Not to my dad who was the reason I wanted this internship in the first place? I said none of those things as his flippant response made my eyes sting. Just another example on an already long list of ways my dad tossed me to the side.

My dad stood and gave a quick motivational speech to the players—which I ignored— and put Cal on bus clean-up duty. The guys cheered after the assignment, and I didn’t stare at Michael as he got our bags out from the overhead compartment.

I yawned again and put my backpack on, looking up at the midnight sky. It was so dark with a sprinkling of stars, and it was pretty. Calm. Michael stood off to the side, talking to Erikson about something as they both laughed. It would’ve been weird to go ask him about the pancakes, so I took a deep breath and started heading toward my place.

“Naomi, hey,” my dad said, my muscles tightening at the sound of his voice. Is he going to change his mind about the report? “Did you walk here?”

“Yes, but it’s fine. I can walk back.”

“No, no. Of course you’re not.” He frowned and nodded at a player who walked by. “I’ll drive you.”

The offer was appreciated, but it was a gamble on when he could actually leave. Memories of waiting hours for him flashed in my mind—the hurt, the frustration, the glaring fact that hockey always came first. The missed chess games, spelling bees, band concerts because of hockey, yet he never forgot about one of Cami’s dance recitals or half-time shows. I gripped my bag tighter and met his gaze before taking a step back. “No, it’s okay. I won’t keep you from coaching stuff.”

“It’ll only be a few minutes. Just gotta drop the equipment off and send a write up to the media. Ten minutes, max.”

“Don’t worry. Take your time. I’m uh, getting some food with Michael anyway.”

“Oh, are you? Good. You won’t be alone then. Can’t have my daughter heading back by herself.” He smiled, but it looked off and forced. Someone called his name, and I could see his attention shifting beyond me, where we both were more comfortable.

My stomach somersaulted with nerves because the reality was that after this year, I wasn’t sure if there was any chance of a relationship. He’d still be here, but I’d be a senior and then I’d leave. We’d do the call on birthdays or a holiday, and that was about it. I had about two seconds before I’d completely lose his attention.

“You’re a good coach,” I said, my face burning and my weight shifting back and forth on my feet like an awkward dance. “It was cool seeing you in action today.”

His face lit up like I told him he hung the moon. He beamed at me, a look I hadn’t seen before. “Thank you, Naomi.”

He stared at me for a few seconds more, indecision on his wrinkled face, but then he put his hands in his pockets. “I’ll see you next game, right?”

“Yup.”

“Be safe.”

I nodded, and the weight on my chest returned. He turned his attention to Hank, and I was forgotten. I didn’t compliment him with the expectation he’d say something nice back, but he didn’t ask how it went for me or what I thought. If I got the data I needed.

I was background noise in his world of hockey. The ball in the back of my throat grew, and I adjusted the straps on my bag to begin the route back home. The girls and I had a system if we ever had to walk alone, and I sent them my location. I didn’t get more than ten feet before Michael’s voice stopped me.

“Uh, hello? Are we getting pancakes or not? I’m starving, and you never offered to share your snacks once. I saw them in your bag, Fletcher, and honestly, I’m kind of offended.”

I snorted, and butterflies inhabited my stomach. Michael stood there in his hoodie with the sparkling eyes and the easy smile. Teasing me. The weird Fletcher-Simpson twin. “Are we at the food sharing stage of our friendship?”

“I sure fucking hope so. If not, tell me what to do to get there,” he said.

He grinned real wide and jutted his chin toward the sidewalk to campus. “Lead the way to the diner, please, and see if you can manage without falling over.”

“I’m not that—” I said, losing my balance on a lone rock set out to get me. I righted myself as Michael looked smug as hell. Damn it. I laughed, amused at the situation too. “Shut up. Not a word.”

“1-0.”

“What?”

“Your current tripping score is 1-0. This is golf though. You don’t want points.”

“Is everything a competition to you?”

“No, but I do like winning. Let it be a stat competition, who trips less, or a quick game of putt-putt. The high of winning can last a few days.”

Winning wasn’t something I did often, but whenever I solved an advanced formula or a string of code I was stuck on, that oomph of figuring it out sure hung around. It had to be just like that. “So, are you always a midnight snack eater, or is today special?”

“Since I stopped playing I’ve been giving myself more room to indulge. I still work out and monitor my food intake, but there’s no guilt of a late-night pancake run anymore.” He patted his stomach, and my fingers twitched.

I wanted to touch him so badly to see how strong he was, how tight those muscles were. I made a fist at my side to prevent myself and started walking toward the diner. Movement was good. Michael caught up in a few steps and hummed to himself. This attraction to him was going to be a problem for a plethora of reasons, mainly because he wasn’t my type and I wasn’t his.

Then there was the interning together thing.

Oh, and he was trying to be a hockey coach like my dad.

Okay, so three reasons why my attraction to him was bad. An if then statement formed in my mind. If I’m attracted to him, then I needed to find reasons not to be. That would solve my problem.

My biggest turn-off list. My roommates and I got drunk on rum last year and giggled the entire time we came up with the grand list of biggest turn-offs in our partner—no matter how they identified. The top scoring ones were:

Messy eater (at the table, not in bed)

Rude to waitstaff

Talked to hear their own voice

Selfish in bed (must provide Os)

Serial daters (heartbreaker is their middle name)

Maybe Michael would chew with his mouth open and be a dick to the waiter. One could certainly hope.

“Do you need help processing any of the stats to have that report ready tomorrow? That’s a quick turnaround,” he asked as we headed onto Green Street where the diner sat a block away.

“Offering to help to get insider information for our bet?”

“The bet we still don’t know the stakes for,” he said, a hint of flirtation in his voice. He whistled a fight song and gave no indication that he’d solved what he wanted for the end of the bet.

We got to the diner, and the smell of grease and fries hit me before we even opened the door. Michael rushed forward to hold it and gestured for me to go inside.

Shit. Good manners so far.

“Table or booth?” the hostess said, her eyes widening once she saw Michael. I couldn’t blame her. He grinned at her, making her blush, and answered for us.

“Booth, please. Thank you so much.”

She led us to a seat for two in the back corner, and Michael’s eyes were saucers as he eyed the posters of ice cream sundaes on the wall. He leaned back into the booth, stretching his long arms over the red vinyl, and sighed. “I’m getting it all.”

“I’m not splitting the bill with you then.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to, Fletcher,” he said, his intense gaze staying on my face. I’d dated before and even had a serious boyfriend my sophomore year before he moved abroad, but none of my past guys possessed the level of fierceness that Michael had. Like everyone else in the place disappeared and it was just us.

I pulled on the collar of my shirt to get some airflow going. I was sweating. “How are you doing?”

“Me?” He frowned. “I’m excited AF. Look at the photos.” He pointed to the wall behind me which had massive framed photos of desserts. Brownies, ice cream, sundaes.

“Damn.”

“Is it weird the desserts seem sexy to me?” he asked, making me cackle.

“Actually, no.” My face burned, but I carried on. “What I meant was about the game. It sounds like this was your first one that close to the rink without playing.”

He closed his eyes, and every muscle in my unathletic body tensed, ready to fight his demons for him. A heavy sadness radiated from him, but it was brief. Just a moment. He wiped his hand over his face, and any trace of sadness disappeared. It baffled me how he could just do that. I’d cut off an arm to have the ability.

“Nah, it was alright.”

“How do you do that?” I fired back at him, leaning closer across the table.

“Do what, exactly?” An adorable line appeared between his brows.

“Just brush off what you really wanted to say. I saw your face.” I pointed at him, much like a toddler jabbing at a plane in the sky. “You seemed sad.”

He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to the side as he eyed me. I was entranced by him and what he was going to say, but our waiter showed up.

“Hey y’all I’m Billy. What can I get started for y’all?”

“Pancake breakfast, bacon, and one of those ice cream things on the photo, please,” Michael said, collecting my menu along with his and handing it back to the waiter. “Fletcher?”

“Oh, uh, a small chocolate shake. Thanks.”

The waiter left, and the air felt heavier, enclosing us in our lone booth surrounded by sounds of middle-of-the-night laughter. Michael sighed before letting out a stiff laugh. “I have low moments. They can last hours or seconds. It’s not depression—I’ve seen a therapist, and if I feel like I’m having more down days than normal I’ll call her, but moving here from back east? To get away from my life? Sometimes I don’t know if it was worth it.”

“You miss home.”

“Hockey wouldn’t be waiting for me there, and I don’t have a house to go back to.” He sat straighter and picked up a straw wrapper. He ripped it into a million pieces, creating a pile of confetti. He was someone I would call an emotional powerhouse. I could almost feel the anger and regret coming off him in waves, and I was about to reach across the table to squeeze his hand.  Because I too knew how that felt. To not have a legit house to go back to. My childhood home belonged to someone else now, and empty apartments and take-out were how I thought about my teenaged years.

My hand stretched in the hair, inches away from touching his when he said, “Hey, isn’t that your sister?”

He might as well have thrown an entire bucket of ice on me. My spine snapped into a steel rod, and my stomach dropped. Of course Cami would be here. I turned to the right, and she laughed loudly, looking perfect in her cut-off sweatshirt and ripped jeans that hugged her toned body.

But it wasn’t her style that got me. It was Gage on her arm. Their arms were looped together in a we’re dating sort of way, and my teeth ground together. If I was a cartoon, smoke would’ve blasted out of my ears.

Cami wondered why we grew apart and why I never wanted to hang out with her. It was more than my envy of her and my dad’s relationship. It was this. The fact she had stolen three guys who I’d been dating.

Three.

“Wait, hold up, is that...the dude from the bar?” Michael was smart. He blinked twice and arched one brow. “So, your sister is dating someone you were seeing?”

“Yup.”

“I feel like… that’s not cool?”

“Nope.” I was a pot of water boiling over. My face was too hot, and my eyes stung like I got sunscreen in them. I had the urge to run, cry, and punch something. Each emotion fought for dominance, but none won, and I was an emotional mess, spiraling on the inside.

“Shit, they’re coming over. Need a pretend boyfriend again?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Hey, I got your back, Fletcher.” Michael reached over and squeezed my hand for one second. The heat of his palm resting on top of mine, the roughness of his skin...it was easy to feel protected. I met his gaze, and his entire face softened. “I’m on your team.”