Page 3 of Hockey 101

He raises both palms. I’m a hockey player, but not an enforcer or anything.

A hockey player. Of course. At Monarch College, hockey is the number one sport, and the team members strut around campus with maximum entitlement. This explains everything: he’s a party boy player with zero morals. Any attraction I felt earlier is completely cooled by finding out he’s a jock.

Since I haven’t responded with the requisite fawning, the conversation comes to a halt. When I look up, he’s assumed the sweet puppy-dog expression that men believe women like. Unfortunately for him, I’m a cat person.

Also, he won’t stop staring. While I’m attractive under normal circumstances, right now I’m wearing cotton pajamas, a threadbare velour robe, and smudged glasses. My messy bun is reaching new heights of messiness and there might be dried drool on my cheek. So why is he watching me so intently? Maybe he disapproves of the fact that I wake up like this, instead of like some fake beauty influencer.

Who cares? I’m not worried about this jerk’s opinion.

He continues to stare as he stands up. So, we never really got a chance to introduce ourselves. I’m Jack Sinclair. When he rises to his full height, he towers over me. He’s well over six feet tall, and I automatically take a step back.

Oh, sorry. He backs into the bed. Wait, you’re not afraid of me, are you?

Despite his size and lack of normal clothing, he has an aura of innocence.

I shrug. No. But most women don’t appreciate a naked guy barging into their room in the middle of the night. Who I am kidding? Most women would appreciate this particular Adonis appearing in their bedroom at any time of the day or night.

Jack offers a shy smile. In my defence, I thought you were a guy.

At my skeptical look, he offers, The name thing on your door? It says Andy Robson, A-N-D-Y. Girls usually spell it A-N-D-I.

Thank you so much for the gendered grammar lesson. This continues to be one of the weirdest conversations I’ve ever had. Why does he want to have a friendly chat at 2:30 AM? My bed is calling, and it’s time to be direct. Could you leave now?

Okay, sorry. Andy, I really appreciate the rescue tonight. I know it’s way beyond your job description.

Finally, someone appreciates everything I’ve done tonight. Maybe he’s not a total jerk after all. I give him a half-smile.

He beams back, then makes serious eye contact. You know, I just broke up with someone too. Someone I’d been going out with for a long time.

For a long moment, I can’t even process his words. My breakup with Bryce is something I’ve only discussed with my best friends. I don’t share the worst moments of my life with complete strangers. And to have Jack mention it so unexpectedly—even in his empathetic way—feels like a punch to the gut. I wrap my hands around my stomach.

He places a large hand on my back. Andy, are you okay?

But—how does he even know?

My eyes fall on the slim black notebook lying crookedly on my bedside table. It takes a long moment to process his crime.

I gasp. Oh my god! You read my journal?

He looks between me and the notebook and winces. Is that what it was? Well, yeah, I did. Sorry… but it was so interesting. And also, um, hot. You’re a really good writer.

He offers a weak smile, like I’m supposed to be thankful for the compliment.

A hot flush of anger spreads over my entire body. I try to shove him away, but he’s so solid that he hardly budges.

I cannot believe you, I hiss. First you root through my entire wardrobe and then you choose to read my personal thoughts. In a room full of books! What is wrong with you?

His eyes widen and he raises his hands in apology. Nothing! I’m really sorry, Andy. The book was right beside the bed, and it didn’t say ‘Private’ or anything, so I didn’t think… He trails off and looks at me worriedly, but his fake sincerity only makes me angrier.

Get out. I’m counting to three. If you’re not gone by then, I’m going to let Jenny’s boyfriend know you’re here.

He reaches out to touch my shoulder, but I recoil and he drops his hand. Out, I repeat.

He sighs. Okay. I’m going, I’m going.

With a final backwards look like a kicked puppy, he leaves.

The second he’s through the doorway I shut the door behind him. Unfortunately, the dorm’s metal doors are impossible to slam, but I push mine firmly shut. I wish I had multiple locks to bolt, noisily and dramatically, so he could hear how much separation I want between us. Instead, I watch through the peephole to make sure he actually leaves.

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