Page 7 of Pucked Up Plans
Lennon.
Since she was born, my priority has been Lennon. I’m fortunate to have a flexible schedule with her, which allows me to pursue a college degree and play the sport I love. Because hockey would be the first to go when and if the schedule gets to be too much. It wouldn’t be college, though I could take a year off, get a job and go back.
The first year of college was an adjustment, especially with a toddler. Megan and I were struggling to come up with a schedule that worked for both of us to spend time with Lennon without compromising our goals. Before Lennon, Aspenridge wasn’t my first choice of school. With Lennon, it’s been a godsend. I get to play hockey, attend class, live at home, and work my schedule around my daughter.
Are there things I sacrifice and have to miss? No doubt. I’m not as tight with some of the other players on the team because I’m only on campus for classes and hockey. I don’t live withthem, either in the dorms or the hockey house. I’m not going out every night—hell, even weekend nights—seeking a good time. Even when Lennon’s with her mother, if I’m not at practice or a game, I’m working a shift at the Nordic rink.
Or catching up on missed work from the week.
Or my dad has me doing something around the house.
Or I’m sleeping.
Ezra holds open the door to the Student Center, and it’s chaos. For as many people are outside, there are equal numbers inside.
“The cafeteria or Bites & Bytes?” Ezra wonders.
I check the time on my phone. I have an hour before I have to pick up Lennon from school. My eyes drift to the full line at the door to the cafeteria. “Bites & Bytes.”
With the rotating practice schedule, my time on campus each week isn’t consistent. I don’t eat many meals here. A quick bite for breakfast some days, lunch here and there, is about the extent of my usage of Aspenridge’s food services.
Ezra follows my lead to the snack shop. It’s a small café serving sandwiches, snacks and grab-and-go items with a self-serve coffee station. Across campus, there’s a fully-staffed coffee shop serving fancy drinks. I tend to be a regular Joe guy, so this suits me well. Economical to the wallet and schedule.
“Did you catch the Boston game last night?”
“The beginning. Crashed hard after practice and studying for an exam in medical ethics.”
“You missed a good one,” Ezra jests with a hanging of his head. “Goalie let in two right in a row. Pulled him in the beginning of the first. It was like he’d never played before.”
I chuckle. Even the pros have bad days. It bodes well to remember when I’m playing like crap. I have no lofty notions of playing for the NHL. Some of my teammates do, and I’d give my left nut that one or two will make it there. For me, it’s about thelove of the game. The thrill of chasing the puck from one side of the rink to the other. The rush as it hits the net. The camaraderie of being part of a team.
Would it be great to play hockey for a living? Beyond question, but it’s not in the cards for me. Maybe one day it was. Before Lennon. As much as I want to give her the world, experiencing it with her and finding the things she loves outweighs the effort and skill required to make it as a professional hockey player. The salary would be awesome, but the travel and time away from her would devastate the relationship between us. Something I’m not prepared to do.
A few of the other members of our team join us. We push together two square tables, making the space our own. Baskets of fries, onion rings, and mozzarella sticks are placed in the middle of the table. Give it five minutes before they’re wolfed.
“Keeley, the blonde was back last night at the house. Asking about you,” Clayton Hibbert prattles with a wink of his eye.
“Which blonde?” He makes a motion with his hands indicating large breasts. Very large breasts. Which is the least bit helpful to narrow it down.
I don’t sleep around, especially not with bunnies. A handful of one-night stands tips the scales for the college experience. I’d rather spend my time doing more productive things—hockey, studying, spending time with my kid—than sleeping my way through a gaggle of college co-eds or worse, sleeping with the same girl a teammate has or will bed. Gross. No thanks.
“Bianca. No, Erika. Shantel.” He lifts a shoulder. “Not sure.”
None of those names sound familiar, but gun to my head, coming up with the names of the girls I messed around with would be impossible. “Where and when was she asking for me?”
“Hockey house. Wanted to know when you’d be back,” Gabe Kolligan supplies, wiping mayo off his mouth with his sleeve. Sometimes these guys are worse than Lennon.
“Want me to get her number next time she stops by so you can tap it again?”
“If Keeley doesn’t want it, save it for me,” Moe Strickland insists.
“Pass.” I savor a bite of the Cuban sandwich. Of all the food on campus, it’s my favorite. The way they cook the pork does it for me. Mom’s tried to replicate it, but though she’s a fabulous cook, this one hits differently.
“What time did yourfriendleave this morning?” Tristan Ford wonders, talking to Clayton.
Clayton checks his wrist at the nonexistent watch. “Uh, probably still there. Told her to make herself comfortable for round three.”
Six sets of eyes whip his way before the chorus of voices rings out.
