This time I do brush past her. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

 

“And he didn’t make a single move?” Sasha demands on Sunday morning after I’m done filling her in about Friday night’s exploits.

Unlike me, Sasha still lives in the Kappa Chi house, so she came to meet me for breakfast at Della’s Diner in town. Usually she’s too lazy to come to Hastings and coerces me into meeting at one of Briar’s dining halls, but I guess my vague text to her yesterday—“I’ll tell you when I see you”—was insufficient in satisfying my best friend’s curiosity. At least now I know what it takes to drag her lazy ass off campus: dirty details.

Or lack thereof.

“Nope,” I confirm. “No moves whatsoever.” I’m not worried about Sasha blabbing to any of the Kappas. I trust her implicitly, and there was no way I was going to allow my closest friend to think I’d hooked up with a notorious jock playboy. She’s the only one who even knows I’m a virgin.

“He didn’t try to kiss you?”

“Nope.” I slowly chew a bite of whole-wheat toast. I always order the same sad breakfast items at Della’s: brown toast, egg-white omelet, and a small fruit bowl. If “calorie counting” was a career option, I’d be richer than Jeff Bezos.

“I find this shocking,” she announces. “I mean, his reputation precedes him.”

“Well, he did flirt a bit,” I admit, reaching for my water glass. “And he pretended he liked my body.”

She rolls her eyes. “Taylor, I guarantee he wasn’t pretending. I know you think men only get hard-ons from stick women, but trust me, you’re wrong. Curves drive them wild.”

“Yeah, curves. Not rolls.”

“You don’t have rolls.”

Thankfully, not at the moment. I’ve been diligent about eating healthy since the New Year, after overindulging during the holidays and putting on nearly ten pounds. In three months I’d shed about nine of those ten, which I’m happy with, but I’d love to lose more.

My ideal body goal is somewhere between Kate Upton and Ashley Graham; I tend to fluctuate between the two, but if I could get down to Kate size I’d be thrilled. I truly believe that all body types are beautiful. It’s only when I look in the mirror that I forget. My weight has been a source of stress and insecurity my entire life, so maintaining it is a priority for me.

I swallow the last bite of my omelet, while pretending not to notice how fucking delicious Sasha’s breakfast looks. A mouthwatering stack of chocolate-chip pancakes bathed in a sea of sugary syrup.

She’s one of those fortunate girls who can eat anything and not gain a single pound. Meanwhile, I take one bite of a cheeseburger and gain ten pounds overnight. That’s just the way my body is and I’ve accepted it. Cheeseburgers and pancakes taste great in the moment, but they’re not worth it for me in the long run.

“Anyway,” I continue, “he really was a gentleman.”

“Still can’t believe that,” she says through a mouthful of pancakes. She chews quickly. “And he told you to call him?”

I nod. “But obviously he didn’t mean it.”

“Why is that obvious?”

“Because he’s Conor Edwards and I’m Taylor Marsh?” I roll my eyes. “Also? He didn’t give me his number.”

She frowns. Ha, that shut her up fast.

“Yup, so whatever fantasy romance you were concocting in your pretty head, you can forget about it. Conor did me a favor the other night.” I offer a shrug. “Nothing more to it than that.”

 

 

5

 

 

Conor

 

 

If any of us harbored notions that Coach Jensen might take it easy on us after securing our berth into the NCAA Division One championship semi-finals, that delusion is quickly put to rest when we take the ice for Monday morning skate. From the first whistle, Coach has been on a rampage like he just found out Jake Connelly knocked up his daughter or something. We spend the first hour on speed training, skating until our toenails bleed. Then he calls a series of shooting drills and I take so many shots on net it feels like my arms might melt out of their sockets.

Whistle, skate. Whistle, shot. Whistle, kill me.

By the time Coach orders us to the media room to study game footage, I’m all but crawling off the ice. Even Hunter, who’s tried his damnedest to maintain a positive attitude as team captain, is starting to look like he wants to call his mommy to come pick him up. In the tunnel we share a pitiful look. Same, dude.

After a bottle of Gatorade and one of those jelly nutrition tubes, I’m feeling half-alive at least. The media room offers three semi-circular rows of plush chairs, and I’m in the first row with Hunter and Bucky. Everyone is slouched over from exhaustion.

Coach walks over to stand in front of the projector screen with the static image of our game against Minnesota bleeding onto his face. Even the sound of him clearing his throat gives me the jitters.

“Some of you seem to think the hard part’s over. That you’re just going to coast to a championship and it’s all champagne and afterparties from here on out. Well, I got news for you.” He slams his hand twice against the wall and I swear the whole building shakes. We all snap upright in our seats, wide the fuck awake. “Now’s when the work begins. You were running on training wheels until today. Now Daddy’s dragging you to the top of the hill and giving your asses a good shove.”

The footage rolls in slow motion on the screen. The D-line gets caught out of position on a breakaway and gives up a shot on net that pings off the post. That’s me there on the left, and watching my dumb ass scramble to chase down the shooter puts a pit in stomach.

“Right here,” Coach says. “We checked out mentally. Got caught puck watching. It only takes a second to lose focus and then bam, we’re playing catch-up.”

He fast-forwards the tape. This time it’s Hunter, Foster and Jesse who can’t string their passes together.

“Come on, ladies. This is basic stuff you’ve been doing since you were five. Soft hands. Visualize where your teammates are. Get open. Follow through.”

Around the room, we’re all taking hits to our overinflated egos. That’s the thing about Coach; he doesn’t suffer divas. For a few weeks now we’ve felt damn near invincible on our rise to the top. Now that we’ve got our fiercest opponents ahead of us, it’s time to get our feet back on the ground. That means taking our licks in practice.

“Wherever that puck is, I want three guys ready to take it,” Coach continues. “I don’t ever want to see someone standing around looking for an open man. If we want to square up to Brown or Minnesota, we need to play our game. Quick passes. High pressure. I want to see confidence behind the stick.”

My coach back in LA was a real son of a bitch. The kind of guy who burst into a room screaming and shouting, slamming doors and throwing chairs. At least twice a season he’d get ejected from a game, then come to the next practice and take it all out on us. Sometimes we deserved it. Other times, it was like he needed to exorcise forty years of shame and inadequacy on a bunch of dumb kids. No wonder the hockey program was shit.