The fire in her eyes lights me up. “You really love it, don’t you?”
“It’s my purpose,” she answers quickly, effortlessly. “One day, I want to open a fitness studio. We’d offer yoga, Pilates, dance classes, even physio and massage therapy. There’s this woman in the States who opened a body-positive studio. It’s in New York.” Her eyes sparkle. “They have Beyoncé dance classes. It’s so cool to see her videos of them all dancing. All ages, all genders, all body types.” She shrugs. “I want to create that here.”
Something taut plucks in my chest. I should feel that way about hockey, and yet I don’t.
Our eyes meet, and her expression stills. “I don’t know why I told you that.”
I hate that her walls are back up. “I’m glad you did.”
I want to stay here forever with her, listening to her talk about the things she loves.
“I assume rooming with Connor went okay,” she says.
What he said about waiting for me to fuck up so he can swoop in replays in my head. “It was fine.”
If I tell her, it’ll just upset her.
“He tried to piss me off, but I gave as good as I got.” I wink at her.
“If anyone can get to him, it’s you. You’re cut from the same cloth.”
My brow furrows. She’s joking, but she’s not joking. “What do you mean?”
“You know.” She shrugs. “You guys are the same.”
My frown deepens. “No, we’re not.”
She gives me a derisive look, like who are you fooling? and the ugly feeling settles inside me.
“Hartley.” My voice is low. “We’re not the same.”
“You’re a hockey player.” There’s a slice of something honest and angry in her gaze. “You have everything. You don’t need to care about other people. Women fall all over you and no one’s ever said the word no to you.”
“I care about other people.” The words come out more terse than I mean for them to, and I try to force a teasing smile, but I can’t. I hate that she thinks we’re the same. “I’m not McKinnon, and I don’t like being compared to him. I’ve never cheated. I’m not like that.”
“Maybe you haven’t cheated, but I know you.” She’s wearing this sad expression that breaks my fucking heart, like she’s waiting for me to realize what she knows.
I hate that look. My mom wore that look when she left my dad.
“Women are just there for entertainment for you.” Her throat works. “We’re disposable.”
“No.” I stop skating, paying zero attention to the people whizzing past us. “What gave you that fucking idea, Hazel?”
She drops my hand. “Ashley,” she says, like I should know what she’s talking about.
“Ashley who?” Frustration tightens in my body, and I hate that she has this picture of me in her head.
“Ashley Peterson from high school.” Off my baffled look, she says, “You took her out and made her feel special and she had this huge crush on you.”
I’m shaking my head because I don’t even remember this girl. High school was a blur of five a.m. practices, trying to keep up in my classes so I could at least graduate, and endless gym sessions with personal trainers who pushed me to my absolute limit. Getting drafted was all that mattered, and I was never allowed to forget it. Tutoring sessions with Hartley were the one bright spot.
“Blond?” I ask as the vague memory of this Ashley girl filters into my head.
Hartley looks at me with disbelief. “Yes.”
I scrub a hand down my face as it starts coming back to me. This Ashley girl and I made out, I think? “Hartley, this was like a decade ago. I don’t remember what happened.”
She blinks, looking both furious and sad. “I’ll remind you. You dumped her the day before the dance.”
I dated in high school, but it was always casual. I couldn’t handle having a girlfriend. I could barely keep my head above water with school and hockey.
And no one seemed as good as Hartley.
I don’t remember asking this Ashley girl to the dance. I give Hazel a what gives look. “Okay?”
She exhales a frustrated breath. “I convinced her to go to the dance anyway. We walked in, and you had your tongue down another girl’s throat.”
The memories hit me. She’s right. I did that, and I didn’t really care about this Ashley girl’s feelings. A kernel of self-loathing hardens in my chest. I’m an asshole, just like Rick Miller.