Page 87 of Hockey 101

Thanks so much, I say as I hustle inside. Then I turn to see who it is.

It’s Jack, of course. The person I’ve carefully avoided for the past six days. My heart thumps so hard, it must be visible through my down jacket.

Andy. All he says is my name, and something inside me collapses. Possibly my entire skeletal structure.

How are you? My politeness brain takes over, and I curse myself for sounding so cold.

I haven’t been great, he admits, because he’s all about the truth.

He’s almost more handsome in his unhappiness, with dark smudges under his eyes and a yearning expression. He looks like a Byronic hero with a tragic past, the romantic ideal of every English major ever.

I gulp. I’m so sorry. I’ve been meaning to call you. Ugh, I sound exactly like one of those jerks who ghosts women. But it’s the truth. I pick up my phone at least a dozen times a day, either wanting to message Jack or hoping for a communication from him.

Yet, I’m still not ready for this conversation. I’ve made an appointment with a counsellor, but even after last night’s intervention, something is still holding me back.

A week feels like enough time to think about things, Jack states flatly. He’s taken to heart all my advice about standing up for himself, and that’s to his credit. Now I need to take my own advice and stop wavering.

You’re right. It’s not like decisions will magically become clear if I keep putting them off. When I finally meet his gaze, all I see is sympathy.

Should we meet up tonight? I ask. A deadline will force me to do something, anything.

He shakes his head. I can’t. We’re leaving for a tournament.

Sorry. I should have known that. I’d really like to stop apologizing, but I feel so terrible about causing him all this pain. I’ve been wrapped in my own misery when Jack is even more sensitive than me.

Um, I’ve got a meeting now. Call me when you get back and we’ll get together.

Jack’s eyes haven’t left my face this whole time. I’m not sure what he sees now, but he reaches out and strokes my cheek. His hand is warm against my chilled skin. I close my eyes and lean into his touch, not thinking of anything except how good this feels.

I miss you so much.

The words are so faint, I’m not sure if he said them, or if I hope he did. When I open my eyes, his gaze is dark and intense. He drops his hand. We shake off whatever spell our physical connection created.

And I walk away from him. It’s wrenching, but maybe it’s better not to have all this emotional upset before a meeting with a prof.

I’m the first person in the small meeting room Professor Pullman booked. I sit down at the table and take some deep breaths to calm down. The next person to arrive is Jaz Nelson, the Messenger’s deputy editor-in-chief. I respect her, but I’m not really sure how she feels about me. She’s even more by-the-book than I am, and complained about the autonomy of the sports section. She wanted the hockey stories to be proofread before publication. Once I explained that sports stories had to be posted ASAP for the readers and that no proofreaders were volunteering to work late Friday and Saturday nights, she backed off.

Hey, Jaz. Do you know what this meeting is about? I ask.

I have a good idea. But I’m not sure what Professor Pullman’s agenda is. Then Bryce walks in, and she stops talking. He has that effect on people.

Bryce is surprised to see me, but he quickly recovers and pastes on his usual smirk. Andy. We’ve got to stop meeting like this.

Nothing I’d like more. I would happily yeet him off the planet.

He sits across from me, unfortunately, since I have to look at him.

Did I hear that you’ve cut your personal ties to the hockey team? It’s too bad you didn’t do that sooner. He’s fishing, since nobody still at the newspaper knows any details of my personal life.

Not your business. I refuse to give Bryce anything, so I assume the expression of a woman satisfied by her hot boyfriend last night. Take that, you pompous idiot.

Professor Pullman walks in. Ah, excellent. We’re all here. He puts down a large file folder and assumes his place at the head of the table. He’s a middle-aged man who teaches ancient European history. He rarely visits the Messenger office, so I suspect it’s an assignment he took on with the hope he wouldn’t have to do anything. Unfortunately, between Travis’s dismissal and then mine, he’s had his hands full this term.

All right, let’s get started. We’re here to settle a possible breach of newspaper policy. He rummages through the file folder and extracts a stapled sheaf of papers.

It has been brought to my attention that the Messenger has received a substantial number of complaints regarding the recent dismissal of the sports editor.

He turns to me. Have you seen these, Ms. Robson?

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