I scrunch my nose at him, and then it’s my turn on the give-and-go drill. I work through it effortlessly, passing to Dorian at the goal line as I sprint for the hash marks. I get the return pass from Dorian and change directions seamlessly, curving toward the low slot with my eyes fixed on Colie’s through his mask. I fake one way, then put the puck over his other shoulder with a wrist shot so quick it has the whole team whooping. I take my spot in the feeder line at the back of the net and wait for Cauler to make it back over to me.
My heart is hammering against my rib cage.
Cauler’s shot rings off the pipe on his turn, but he doesn’t seem concerned when he rejoins me.
“You’re reaching,” I say. “Even Gretzky camped.”
“You would compare yourself to Gretzky.” That touch of disdain is back in his voice and my heart sinks with it. He’s been less obvious with his hatred since Saturday, but it still comes through every once in a while. “But it doesn’t help your case. He played box lacrosse, too.”
“You saying you never pick up a lacrosse stick in the summer?”
“’Course I do.” He shrugs dismissively. “Lot of hockey players do.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Loyalty, Your Grace.”
I take my turn receiving the pass and giving it back before heading to the blue line. My pulse is still buzzing under my skin by the time Cauler is beside me again.
“So,” he says. “You like my dimples, huh?”
I almost choke on my own saliva. “What the—” I splutter, sliding back from him a step. Talk about an abrupt and ridiculous topic change.
Cauler laughs, just this single ha! at my reaction. His smile puts those dimples in his cheeks, and I have to look away. “That game is made to embarrass people into getting over themselves. All that blushing proves you’ve got a soul at least.”
“Do I?” I keep my voice level, scrambling to reassemble whatever’s left of my dignity.
“It’s very small and tarnished beyond repair, but yeah, it’s there.”
He slings his stick across his shoulders and drapes his arms over it. I put mine butt-down on the ice, hands clutching the blade, and rest my chin on my gloves. We stare at each other. Cauler chews on his mouth guard, half of it wrapped around his cheek like a fishhook. He’s one of the few Royals who choose to wear one. Probably ’cause of that bad concussion that almost ended his playing career a few years ago.
Even with all those insults I threw at him the other day, the caution he plays with now is really his only flaw as a hockey player. He’s still got grit and can take a check as well as anybody, but he doesn’t like to risk a check from behind and go for loose pucks along the boards unless an opponent gets there first. Especially by the benches.
Not that I really blame him. When you take a hit from behind so bad the sound of your head ringing off the stanchion can be heard throughout the arena, fracturing a vertebra and putting you out for months, it’d be more concerning if you didn’t have some lingering fear.
Cauler takes in a long breath, shoulders rising with it, and opens his mouth to speak.
“Will you two dusters stop making heart eyes at each other and shoot some goddamn puck?” someone calls from the goal line.
The others join in the chirping until Coach can get them back under control. I use the distraction to put some distance between me and Cauler. I swear the air between us was starting to feel dangerously electric for a second there, but I know it’s all in my head. A few forced compliments aren’t going to make him suddenly fall in love with me. There’s still barely restrained malice behind every look and word he has for me.
But I catch him looking at me again a few minutes later.
SIX
OCTOBER
The first week of October officially brings the coaches into our daily lives. Our strength and conditioning coach takes stock of our progress in the weight room in the morning. We start having all our meals in the players’ lounge with the assistant coaches to make sure we’re sticking to the nutrition plan and not gorging on bacon and home fries. Colie’s goalie coach, Coach Hein, sticks her head into our classes throughout the day to see if we actually go to them.
The temperature outside has been creeping steadily downward all week, to the point where it’s not a relief to step into the cold arena anymore. Still, October is my favorite month of the year, not only because it’s the start of the hockey season. The woods are turning red and orange, and the air smells like Halloween.
I have a meeting with Coach a few days before our opening exhibition to go over progress and lay out expectations, and he tells me I need to put in more effort in the weight room. I have to restrain myself from rolling my eyes. Not like Dad’s been telling me the same thing every single phone call or anything.
I just don’t see any room to improve there. I’m plenty strong for someone my size. Then Cauler skates up to me at practice one day and says, “Y’know, I can bench a hundred pounds more than you.”
I narrow my eyes at him. Has he been talking to Coach or something? Conspiring against me?
“NHL Network,” Cauler explains when I say nothing. “Their latest comparison.”
I squeeze my fingers around my stick and make a point of looking up at him, then down at myself, like, hello? He’s twice my size, of course he can lift more. “I mean … duh?”
Cauler laughs, all dimples and crinkly eyes, and I just about melt into the ice. It’s nice, making him laugh. He can make any emotion look good, but this is my favorite.
As much as I brush it off to his face, though, it still gets under my skin. Dad and Coach pointing it out is one thing. Once the NHL Network and the hottest guy I’ve ever seen latch on to it, it’s enough to get me out of bed on Sunday morning, the only day I have to recover, to go to the gym.
I add more weight to the barbell and lie down on the bench, curling my fingers around the bar. The gym is quiet. Even those people who basically live off protein shakes and post daily locker room mirror pics don’t wanna be here this early on a Sunday. The student worker is falling asleep behind her desk.
I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths, and when I open them again, just as I’m about to lift, Cauler steps into view above me. He looks down at me and frowns. I relax my grip on the bar, but the rest of me stays tense.
“I know you’re not about to lift without a spotter,” he says. He moves to help me lift the bar from the rack, like he actually cares about my safety or something. I’d let myself be crushed under the barbell before admitting it, but he’s right. Lifting alone was a bad idea. Especially with the added weight.
I keep my eyes on the ceiling past Cauler’s head and try to keep the strain off my face as I go through the set.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
“Why not?” I say on a heavy exhale.
“I’m here most Sundays this time. You never put in these extra hours.”
I finish my reps and let him help me replace the bar on the rack. My arms are jelly. I rest my hands on my chest to let them recover. My heart pounds in my fingertips, and I stay focused on the ceiling as I catch my breath. Cauler keeps his hands on the bar, leaning over my face, looking down at me, waiting.
He’s probably expecting me to ignore him. Which is probably why I don’t.
“You know why.”
Cauler’s eyes on me are heavy. I’m distinctly aware of the rise and fall of my own chest, the sweat on my skin showing through the cut-off sides of my shirt, the goose bumps rising on my arms when one of the oscillating fans blows over me. I feel more present in my body than I have in weeks, with him looking down at me.
His eyebrows are thick. Jaw and cheekbones sharp. The hoops in his nose and lip are just as eye-catching as the holes in his earlobes. His face is schooled and calm now, but I’ve seen how intensely expressive he can be in glances at practice and across campus. I get a whiff of that cinnamon gum he’s always chewing, and I swear he could drop the weights right on my throat and I wouldn’t even notice.
When I finally look at his eyes, he is not looking at my face. There’s this split second where I swear he’s actually full-on checking me out, taking advantage of me being laid out like this, but then his eyes are locked on mine, and he’s looking at me so blankly, I must have imagined it.
Wishful thinking and all that.
“Why do you hate it so much?” he asks. I don’t need to ask what he’s talking about.