Page 11 of Home for the Hockey-Days

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 Peña’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, hereverythingfeels 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 Peña’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 obviouslynot.

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.

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