by Sara Hubbard
“Players?” I feign ignorance, but I’m not a very good actress. He probably sees right through me. I’m as see-through as my pants.
“I’m on the hockey team,” he says.
“Oh. That’s a...fun sport.”
He licks his lips and sucks them, as if fighting a laugh. I’m glad I amuse him. He fishes through some drawers and pulls out a small bottle of liquid. “Hop on the table.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
He shrugs, and a crooked smile graces his full lips. “I guess we’ll find out.” His tone is teasing. The hint of a smile on his lips is so captivating, like watching a sunset over a beach horizon. I can’t look away. This must be the reason why girls trip over their words when they’re around him.
I do as he asks, lifting my leg so it rests on the thin black foam mattress. When he comes back to stand in front of me, he says, “This might sting a bit.” He pours the liquid over my cut. It stings, sure, but I have a high tolerance to pain so I don’t flinch. He looks at me, expectantly, and makes a face when I don’t behave like he thought I would. He pats it dry and covers it with a square piece of gauze and tape. “There. All better.”
“You’re pretty good at that.”
“My mother was a nurse. And I was always hurting myself. Eventually, she thought I should learn to do this myself.” Nurse. I commit that to memory so I can write that in my notes later.
“You said ‘was.’”
He clears his throats, and his eyes flicker to mine for the briefest of moments.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.” Actually, I do. But I didn’t expect for him to hint that his mother is dead, so now I feel like a giant asshole. It was easier to agree to this story when I assumed he was probably like every other jock I dealt with in high school.
“I did say ‘was,’ didn’t I?”
I hitch a shoulder.
He says nothing more, and it’s clear he’s not going to by the silence that follows.
“Does medicine interest you? I mean…are you in med school? Or some other health profession?”
The tension in the room eases, and I’m happy to find the corner of his eyes crease as he offers me the smallest of smiles. “No. God, no. I mean, I do okay at school, but I could never train the hours I do and become a doctor.”
“So, what are you taking?”
“History.” He props his hands on his hips as he studies me. His gaze is hot on my face, and though it’s soft and curious, I have to look away. There’s that sunset on the horizon again. He has this tiny dimple in his left cheek that sits there without even smiling. His lips are soft and full and kissable. What would it be like to kiss them and feel heat in my cheeks? I know I’m blushing when he starts to smirk at me. But what I like most about his face is the small patch of freckles that dot his cheekbones. The matching dimple on his other cheek shows up now. I give my head a shake, determined not to fall under this guy’s spell.
“What about you?” he asks. “I’m sorry, but I don’t even know your name.”
I hold out my hand, and he takes it in his. He’s warm and his grip is firm. He doesn’t let go. It’s like we’re holding hands. I want to hide behind my hair, worried he’ll see me for the girl I used to be. My cheeks heat, and I bite my lip before forcing myself to speak. “Charlotte. But everyone calls me Charlie. Oh, and I take—” I bite my lip again. This is the moment I tell him I’m taking journalism and I’m going to do a story on him. I imagine the words I want to say right now. I thought about them all night, but now that I can feel the intensity of his charm, I lose my nerve. No one like him has ever taken an interest in me before. Part of me—and I know it’s vanity and I hate myself for it—won’t let me tell him the truth. I’m not ready for him to brush me off just yet. I want to know him better. If I tell him, I risk never knowing his story and I have a burning need to know what it is. “I’m taking an arts degree.” Sort of true. “I’m first year. No major. Not sure what I’ll pick. There are so many options, and it’s such a big decision. I just don’t want to make the wrong choice, you know?” My words come out fast without me taking a single breath. It’s doubtful he caught a word I said.
I’m such a bad liar.
“I’m Ozzie,” he says.
“That’s a great name,” I say. That’s a great name? Good one, Charlie.
“Is this your first time at the gym?”
I shrug and shake my head, but quietly say, “Is it obvious?”
He chuckles at me. “If you want someone to show you around, I might be able to help.”
“That’s really nice of you. But it’s not my thing. It might be safer for me and everyone around me if I stick to what I know.”
He laughs out loud, crinkles lining the edges of his eyes. It softens his face, makes him seem more human than the super hero jock that the school depends on to win championships. “And what do you know?”
I pause for a beat before hitching a shoulder. “School.”
“Hmm. You know, it’s not too late to learn some other things.” He flashes me a wink that has heat traveling down my neck to spread over my chest. He’s flirting. I’m sure that’s what he’s doing. Though my mind goes to dirty, sweaty thoughts, I can’t be certain that’s what he means.
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. Let me show you a few things.”
“Uh…sure? You mean at the gym, right?” I gulp. I still don’t know what we’re talking about.
He laughs. “Sure, I did. I’ll help you on one condition.”
Wary, I hesitate. “What’s the condition?”
He scratches the scruff on his chin. “There’s a charity game tonight between the professors and the graduating class. Stop by.”
“Are you playing?”
“I am,” he says, his voice soft and an octave lower. He reaches out, his hand near the side of my face. I still, unsure of what he’s doing. There is an unspoken moment between us where he asks for permission to touch me. I tense but don’t pull away. He gently picks something out of my eyebrow. “It’s just a piece of fluff from my sweater. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you nervous.” He’s close. The sweet mix of his baby powder and aftershave have me drooling. Then he takes a step back, and I find the will to release the breath I was holding.
“So what do you say? Will you come?” He tips his head to the side as he waits for me to respond.
This guy has me in a trance, his eyes like a swinging pendulum pulling me into his spell. I couldn’t say no to him even if I wanted to. This guy is good. Smooth. Like Emily said, he’s every girl’s—and probably every guy’s—dream, and if I’m not careful, he might just become mine.
Chapter Four
I'm not sure what happened to Emily. I can't find her in the gym after Ozzie walks me back to the weight room. And I really, really want to find her. She's the only one I want to share my news with—right after I yell at her for insisting I wear these see-through pants. When I get back to the dorm, she isn't here either. And she's not answering her cell phone.
I'm halfway through French class when she barges in. The door slams shut behind her, and all heads in the class turn. She half-smiles and tiptoes over to where I sit in the auditorium. Emily likes to sit in the back because she's usually late and it's easier to crawl in unnoticed, but I like the front. It's easier to pay attention and ask questions. This is the reason why Emily and I don’t sit together for the only class that we have in common.
Today, she's not sitting in the back, though.
Emily marches up to the front. Unfortunately, there's no seat beside me. There is one, however, four seats down. She leans over me and whispers to the people to my left, “Can you just move down one?” She points to the empty seat, and one by one they get up and move down a seat. The teacher stands still at the white board, marker in hand, staring at Emily like she wishes teachers could still smack their students with rulers. When Emily is situated and has her notebook and pen out, Professor Turner fin
ally continues.
“As I was saying,” Turner begins, “let us turn our focus to present perfect. J’ai été, tu as été, il a été, nous avons été, vous avez été...” I pay attention. Or I try. It’s hard with Emily staring at me. She sat here to chat, which is why I should be asking her to go outside in the hall with me. But part of me hopes she’ll just let me get through this class and we can talk after. We only have a few weeks until final exams, and as much as I want to talk about Ozzie with her, now is not the time. I want As. I expect As, and anything less, I consider a personal failure. My dad never seems prouder of me than when I tell him his daughter got straight As again at the end of each year.
Emily leans in so our shoulders are touching, though her eyes are forward now. “Tell me everything.”
“Where were you?” I whisper.
“Emergency.”
“What emergency?” My heart rate picks up speed. “Is everything ok?”
“Brad was horny.” She waggles her eyebrows.
I snap my head in her direction. “You ditched me for sex?”
“You were in good hands. But the question now is, how good were they?” She grins and I elbow her.
“Shhhhh,” says the girl to Emily's left.
“This is important,” Emily says to the girl with a bit of sass in her voice.
“Then take it outside,” the girl beside her whisper-yells.
Emily sighs and rips a piece of paper from her scribbler. She writes, “What happened with Clay?”
I write underneath her chicken scrawl. “He bandaged my leg. Asked me if I was going to a charity hockey game tonight and then offered to show me around the gym.”
Her jaw drops and her eyes go wide. “What? That's amazing!”
“Shhhh,” the girl says again. The teacher, once again, stares. I mouth “I'm sorry” to her, and I pack up my things. Quietly. Then I grab Emily’s arm and pull her out of her seat. The room is quiet, and I can’t ignore the hundred-plus students who train their eyes on us as we hurry up the aisle and out the heavy wooden doors.
“We could have talked about this after class,” I say after a heavy sigh.
“Fuck French. Tell me everything.”
I glance at my watch. It’s almost eleven, and I have a class at twelve-thirty. “Let's just get lunch now. We can talk about it in the cafeteria.”
“Or on the way.”
As annoyed as I am for missing the class that I do the worst in, I have to chuckle at her. She thinks I'm stubborn and persistent? She needs to take a look in the mirror sometime.
Emily loads up her plate with fries and chicken nuggets, I stick with my usual salad and soup. The selection is poor today, and all the lettuce is edged in brown. I suck it up anyway. Since graduating high school, changing my diet is the only thing that’s got me healthy.
We sit at our usual table, away from the meal line and next to the windows. Emily bombards me with questions before my butt hits the seat. I open my milk carton and slide in a straw. I swirl it in the milk while I recall my interaction with Ozzie.
“I want to know everything. What you said, what he said, what he did…” She waggles her eyebrows.
“First, we need to talk about those pants.”
She smiles wide. “You’re welcome.”
I slap her leg and whisper-yell at her, “What? Did you know they were see-through?”
“No, of course not. Friends don’t let friends show their vaginas.”
A girl at the table next to us turns and makes a face at me. When I glare at her, she returns to her food.
“This isn’t a bad thing, Charlie. I mean, come on? Mr. Yummy came to your rescue and swooped you away. Soooo, once again, you’re welcome.” She pops a fry in her mouth and then mutters, “I guess he liked what he saw.”
I roll my eyes at her. “You’re infuriating.”
“You’ll be thanking me when he’s spilling his guts and your name is on the front page of the school newspaper.”
Sigh. She has a point, but what am I willing to risk in order to follow my dream? My dignity? I don't think so.
“I couldn’t tell him,” I say after I give her a play-by-play of my time with Ozzie. I swirl my straw in my milk and take a small sip. “I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”
“That’s surprising. You were so adamant about telling him, and you don’t usually change your mind about anything.”
“I know. But…being alone with him…him taking care of me like he did… It was…nice. This beautiful, charming, popular guy was completely focused on me. Me!” I point to my chest, still flabbergasted.
She dips some fries in some ketchup. “You’re amazing, Charlie. And he’s obviously a smart guy if he noticed how amazing you are from the start. Maybe you might have more in common than you think.” She pops a fry in her mouth.
“What do I do now? When I tell him why I was in the gym this morning, he’ll likely never talk to me again—let alone give me my story.”
“Do you like this guy? Is he someone you could see yourself with? Is that why you changed your mind?”
I chuckle. “No, I only just met him. Like I said before, it was just nice to have a guy like that focused on me. And then he asked me to go to his game tonight and I…”
“Like, on a date?”
“No, not like that.” I move stuff around on my plate, replaying the morning in my mind. “He just said that he’s playing some charity game tonight and I should stop by.”
“The profs versus the grads game?”
“Oh, you already know about it?”
She laughs, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. “Of course. How did you not hear about it? Everyone is going, including half of our floor. I swear you live under a rock.”
I shrug as I fork a cucumber and pop it into my mouth. After chewing, I add, “So can I tag along?”
“Of course.” She’s bouncing again. “I’ve been trying to get you to come out with me all year. And who knows, maybe you’ll actually enjoy yourself.”
Enjoy myself? At a hockey game? All answers point to no, but I’ll try. At the very least, it will give me an opportunity to get some pictures of him. I’m not a fantastic photographer or anything, but it would be nice to have some visuals to go with my story, and since he was benched from the team, there would be no opportunity to get any new pictures of him in action. Speaking of which…why is he allowed to play in this game and not for the actual hockey team? Another question I’ll have to shelf for later. I pull out my day-timer.
Why is he allowed to play tonight?
Emily wasn’t kidding around when she said half of my dorm floor was going to the game. About an hour before it starts, I hear a half-dozen blow-dryers going and people running around in the halls, makeup on, and half-dressed. Me? I have the same outfit on that I wore all afternoon: dark fitted jeans and a gray tunic. My hair is still in the same messy bun I tied at lunch. Strands fall out now, but I don’t care. My hair could use a brush, but it’s out of my eyes and off my neck, and that’s all I care about. Just before we leave, Sam, Anna, and Piper come to our room and knock on our door. We’re walking over to the rink together.
Sam…ugh. While I don’t love her, I have to admit I’m glad she’s coming. I hope to get her to open up about Ozzie. I doubt she’ll get too personal with me—we just don’t have that kind of relationship—so I’ll have to be discreet.
The rink is crowded when we get there. The temperature is slightly warmer than it is outside, but still cool enough for me to leave on my mittens and hat. As we walk the perimeter of the stands, we all search for an empty space for the eight of us to fit into, but there isn’t one, so we split up. I’m not sorry about that. Sam, thankfully, sticks with us, as well as her best friend, Piper. They both play soccer with Emily so it’s not a stretch that they stay with us. But with them, I kind of feel like the odd man out when they talk about how grueling soccer practice was earlier.
“Look, down there, behind the penalty box.” Piper points to a
spot wide enough for the four of us to fit.
Sam’s button nose crinkles as she frowns, but Piper nudges her. “It’s the closest we’re going to get.”
She shrugs. “Whatever.”
We weave through the crowded aisle until we reach our seats. The speakers blare Thunderstruck and when the Eye of the Tiger comes on, the crowd sings along. The footboards shake lightly from people stomping their feet and moving around. Emily is on my left, and there is a big guy wearing a hockey jersey on my right drinking beer from a Dixie cup. He’s making noises, hooting and hollering, and he keeps elbowing me as he pumps his arms, as if it’ll make his voice carry more.
When I glance at Emily, it’s as if she can read my mind. She smiles and pulls my arm closer to link with hers. “This is fun. You’re going to enjoy it. I swear.”
That is so debatable. Did I mention I hate crowds? And I kind of hate people. The loud music and the yelling has my heart racing—and not in a good way. If I didn’t have to write this story, I would be far, far away from here right now.
“Beer?” Emily asks.
I shake my head.
Sam leans forward so she faces me. “Come on, Pollyanna, one isn’t going to kill you.”
“Just get her one, and I’ll take one, too,” Emily says.
Sam tiptoes through the aisle again, Piper in tow.
The players come out on the ice, one by one, each of them announced by an enthusiastic emcee over speakers spread out across the back walls. I try and focus on the men skating around the oval, waiting for the emcee to announce the guy I came here to see. He’s the last one to come out. The crowd goes wild over him and for another player whose name I’ve already forgotten. Clearly, they favor the two of them. Once they’re on the ice, the professors come out, one by one, all of them wearing black jerseys with gold writing. It’s not hard to tell which team is which. All of the professors have to be in their fifties or more. It surprises me and excites me to find a woman on the professor’s team. In fact, I think it’s my French teacher! That makes me smile. I’ll cheer for her.
Just before they’re done, Sam and Piper return and hand us our beers. I nurse mine and take only a small sip after saying, “thank you” to Sam. After “O Canada” the game starts, but it’s not a typical game, and within the first five minutes, the professors turn their net around on the ice and the crowd laughs.
