An incoming call interrupts me before she replies, and my father’s name comes up on the call display. While it’s nearly ten o’clock here, it’s not yet seven where he is in LA. I watch the screen flash for a moment before I push to stand. Dallas throws me a questioning look, and I point to the door with my phone. It’s hard to get privacy on the road, especially this close to curfew.
I lean against the wall outside our room and swipe to accept, keeping my voice low. “Hey, Dad.”
“Nice work out there this evening,” he says warmly.
“Thanks.” A shutout always feels good, but it feels even better knowing he watched the game and saw it for himself.
“Big news.” Excitement laces his voice. “I just got off the phone with Gary, and New York said they’ve been impressed with your performance over the last couple games. If you remain consistent, they’re thinking of taking you on to train with the team this summer. Personally, I think it’s a lock.”
Surprise overtakes me and I pause, temporarily lost for a response. I should be thrilled at this development—it’s what I’ve been working my ass off for day in and day out—but I have some mixed feelings.
“That’s great.” My voice is flatter than I intend it to be. I should sound excited. I should be excited.
“I’ve spoken to Mark about this already, and your puck tracking has come a long way lately. We think it’s time to shift your training plan. More focus on your rebounds and lateral movement…” He continues while I try to fake enthusiasm, still processing my abrupt change in summer plans. Just one aspect of many I have no control over when it comes to my life.
We chat for a few more minutes before he tells me I should get some sleep, even though we both know I’ll be up with the guys for at least another hour. I promise to call him when I get home tomorrow so we can go over things in greater depth.
Lingering in the hallway, I mull over his news as I try to untangle my thoughts. Being invited to train with the team is a huge opportunity, and it’s one that most prospects never get. Investing in an athlete this way shows the organization is serious about fostering a successful long-term relationship, which is a great sign for my future.
I should be grateful, and I am. But hockey consumes my entire life during the academic year and extending it to the summer will eliminate the only break I get. Without some downtime, I’m worried I’ll lose my edge.
It’s no different than what my life will look like once I turn pro, though.
I need to suck it up. Get used to it. Cope better.
A familiar sense of anxiety creeps in. My gaze drops to my hands, then slides up to my arms. I’ve just about run out of blank real estate on both of them. Getting tattoos is inexplicably calming; almost like my own version of therapy. When everything else feels like it’s out of my control—from my diet plan to my workouts to my future—it’s one thing I have total autonomy over.
At any rate, collecting ink is a hell of a lot healthier than some of the other things I used to do to cope.
Scanning my keycard, I wait for the green light to flash and tug the hotel room door open. As I step back inside, my phone vibrates.
Tinker Bell: Hot. Can I see the rest of your tattoos sometime?
Hades: Any time you want.
Tinker Bell: Here’s my most recent picture…
Tinker Bell: image.jpg
When it loads, I nearly drop the phone again.
It’s a selfie of her lying on her side in bed, a curtain of silky pink hair partially concealing half of her face. Espresso eyes woven with flecks of honey and gold stare back at me, her full lips slightly parted. There’s the slightest hint of cleavage at the bottom of the screen, but it’s not the focus of the photo.
The least explicit picture I’ve ever received, but by far the hottest. It’s the perfect tease.
“Have fun talking to your girlfriend?” Dallas smirks, pulling off his T-shirt overhead. Mental note to strangle him with it in his sleep.
Chase strolls out of the bathroom and stops cold, his green toothbrush hanging halfway out of his mouth. “Say what now?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
Dallas juts his chin at me. “Lies. He’s been texting with some chick all night.”
“It’s not like that, Ward.”
But even I’m not sure that’s the case.
CHAPTER 10
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
SERAPHINA
I’ve almost survived my first day of classes.
This includes successfully navigating a new campus even though my courses are not-so-conveniently located around the outer boundaries of Boyd. Staying on-schedule without getting lost may not sound like an impressive feat to most people, but thanks to the ADHD symptom lottery, I’m both directionally challenged and prone to time-blindness so I’m calling it a win.
Fueled by an infatuation high, I practically skip across campus to my last lecture of the day, my first session of Introduction to Creative Writing. Tyler and I have worked up to question fourteen and our conversation shows no sign of stopping anytime soon. Despite the name of the game, I’m pretty sure we’ll keep going past twenty-one.
I make a last-minute stop at the campus Starbucks en route, and while I’m not late, I’m not as early as I’d like when I arrive. The seats are already partially filled up, students scattered around the room. Obviously, I don’t know a single soul, so I scan the lecture hall in search of someone who looks friendly. I settle on a brunette in the middle row who’s rocking a cute oversized plaid jacket. Can’t explain why, I just get a good vibe from her.
She flashes me a small smile as I take the seat on her left. Setting my decaf mocha off to the side, I quickly unpack my things from the black hole otherwise known as my bag. Judging by her array of colored pens and pencils and sticky notes, my seatmate is significantly more organized than I am.
Our instructor introduces herself as Professor Durand but insists we call her Maxine. I listen, rapt with attention as she tells us about her publishing career in fiction and non-fiction as well as the various publications she’s written for, ranging from Vogue to The New Yorker. In addition to magazines, she’s been featured in numerous anthologies and has several traditionally published books of poetry. I make a note to check those out later.
It’s legitimately fascinating, and for the first time in my life, I don’t catch myself zoning out during class even once. This feeling is what I’d hoped college would be like all along. That thirst for knowledge, the excitement to learn more. I’d all but given up on finding anything that genuinely interested me.
Maxine dismisses us a few minutes early and instructs us to introduce ourselves to our classmates with the extra time, explaining that we’ll be doing some partner work for peer editing in the near future. The prospect of showing someone else my writing—let alone having them critique it—sounds more than a little terrifying, but I guess it’s what I signed up for.
Turning to me, the dark-haired girl offers me a shy smile. “I’m Chloe.”
“Seraphina. Sera’s fine, too.” Or Tink, if you’re Tyler. Shut up, brain. Now isn’t the time.
“How are you liking class so far? Isn’t she amazing?” Chloe nods to the front of the room, where Maxine is sliding her lecture notes into a Louis Vuitton tote. “My friend took this class last year and raved about her.”