Page 15 of Blocked Score

I might be looking forward to my pro career, but that doesn’t mean I’m looking past success for my college team.

I love my team, my coach, my teammates. I want us to win together. This isn’t just a detour to me. It’s not just a training camp for the pros. I’m dedicated to this team, and I want us to bring home the championship. For myself, and for the players on the team who aren’t going any further in hockey after college.

I hear a doorbell ring on Rhys’s end.

“Ah, that’ll be Maddie. She’s picking me up to check out this new restaurant for lunch.”

There’s something about the way Rhys’s eyes glimmer when he says my little sister’s name, something about the way the edges of his lips tug into a smile, something about the genuine enthusiasm that coats his voice when he talks about their plans …

A tinge of suspicion lances through me. Could it really be that …

I dismiss the thought before it even coalesces in my head. No way.

My sister pops on the screen. I say hi, and we spend about two minutes catching up before I have to end the call to leave for today’s training session.

It’s still early in the camp, and we’re working on fundamentals. It’s a lot of repetitive movements designed to refine basic techniques.

The kids and the staff are starting to die of boredom, but it’s a necessary evil. These kids might be the best of the best amonghigh school players, but the gap between a good high school player and a good college player is huge; between a good college player and a good pro player, enormous.

This camp is for players dreaming of going pro. Getting there means that every single aspect of their game has to be polished. From the way they hold their stick, to how they stand on their skates, even to how they bend their elbows and knees when taking a shot.

That thought sends me back to last week, when Scarlett coached me on how to shoot pool.

A fluttery feeling fills my stomach, and my skin burns where I remember her soft hands pressing to guide me into the right position.

My groin starts to tighten, so I chase the memory away, because this isn’t the right time.

We’ve been texting every day since.

About everything and nothing. Sending random pictures of interesting, or funny, or crazy things we see while wandering around exploring Chicago. Sharing music we like.

Flirting—and when we do, I always wish I could see the pale rose color that I know is filling her cheeks.

I ask her how her day went every evening. She asks me about my camp sessions.

We’ve seen each other a couple times since.

We haven’t done anything yet. Not even a kiss.

My body burns to make things physical every time I see her. I’m so fucking obsessed with her lips and how they’d feel slanting against my own that I see their shape and color when I close my eyes in bed at night.

I sure as fuck see them when I fist my cock in the shower.

It’s a matter of time, though.

I see how her eyes crawl over my body. How she tenses when we get close. How flush crawls up her neck when we skirt the line of decency with an innuendo.

But until it actually happens, I’m not impatient.

I’m happy to spend time with her however I can. There’s something about her, a spark of excitement that kindles in my chest when we’re together that I’ve never felt with any other girl before, even those I’ve slept with and dated.

We’re only here for the summer. Both of us have our own lives to go back to in a couple short weeks.

The thought is like a sprinkle of cold water down my back. I find myself wishing she went to Brumehill with me, that we met there, where we’d have all the time in the world to see just how far things between us might play out.

A yearning feeling twists behind my chest at the thought.

Life doesn’t always line up the balls for a perfect pool shot, though. That’s for sure.

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