Shut Out (Bayard Hockey #1)(37)

I look at him through my eyelashes, my head tilted.

“I was pissed,” he says quietly.

“I insulted you. I know hockey is serious.”

“It bugged me that you think I’m just fooling around playing a game.”

I eye him. “Does it matter what I think of you?”

He’s silent.

“I mean, I’m only your fake girlfriend.”

He nods, still quiet. “Right.”

“Well. Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

“Skylar?”

“Yeah?”

“It matters.”

Warmth fills my chest.

We walk across the Quad to the dining hall. It’s busy there but we find an empty table and dump our stuff. Then we take turns going through the buffet line. I get a chicken breast, which is thankfully much better than the ones I made the other night, some veggies, and a salad. Jacob comes back with a plate loaded with spaghetti and meatballs, a salad, a bun, and three desserts.

“Tell me more about hockey.”

He stabs a meatball with his fork. “Like what?”

“Tell me how you got started. Tell me why you love it.”

“Well, I started skating when I was two.”

“Holy crap.”

“And playing hockey when I was four. It was fun. I was obsessed with it. I used to play hockey in the dining room, much to my mom’s dismay.”

“Somehow I’m picturing her not able to stay angry at you.”

He laughs. “Yeah, maybe so. I was a cute kid.”

I shake my head, smiling.

“They moved all the furniture out and turned it into a rink for me.”

My mouth drops open. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. The walls and baseboards got pretty beat up over the years.”

“So your parents obviously supported you playing hockey.”

“Sure. But they actually encouraged me to play a lot of sports. Baseball and soccer in the summer. And golf.”

“What was your favorite hockey team?”

“Well, when I was little it was the Kamloops Blazers.” He grins. “I thought those guys were amazing. They seemed like big men to me when I was six. But they’re just teenagers.”

“Did you play for that team when you got older?”

“No, I ended up getting drafted by Saskatoon. When I was older, the Vancouver Canucks were my favorite team.”

I listen and I can see the passion on his face and I’m struck by how down to earth his story is.

“And obviously you want to be a professional hockey player.”

“Yeah.” He drops his gaze to the plate in front of him. “I do.”

“Is playing here the way to get that? How does that happen?” I shake my head. “I probably sound like an idiot. I don’t know anything about professional sports.”

“All the NHL teams have scouts. They travel around watching junior hockey in Canada, NCAA hockey here. They travel to Europe to scout players there. They report back to their teams about players who look good. Then I enter the draft. That’s held every year in June.”

“Do you have to enter the draft? Or they pick you?”

“You enter. Players who are eighteen by September fifteenth and not older than twenty by December thirty-first are eligible.” I remember him telling me he’s going to be twenty soon. Shadows darken his eyes and he looks away briefly. “But you have to be scouted, obviously, to get chosen in the draft.”

“Wow. That sounds stressful.”

“Yeah. It’s exciting, but it would be a nightmare to sit there hoping to get drafted and not hearing your name, round after round.”

“Realistically…” I hesitate to ask. “You’ll get drafted?”

He meets my eyes. I wait for some kind of cocky comeback, but instead I see vulnerability. His shoulders hunch, then relax. “Realistically, yeah. I should get drafted.”

I feel like he’s not telling me something, but for some reason I don’t want to push. I get the sense this is something so important to him that he’s terrified he won’t achieve it. And yet again, I don’t know why, because he’s obviously a talented player. Not that I’m as good a judge as an NHL scout, since I just went to my first ever hockey game last week.

He picks up his phone and glances at it. “I better go. I have a class.”

“You’re taking a night class?”

“Yeah. Wednesday nights. Fitting all my courses into the day is tough, since we practice four days a week and sometimes travel on Fridays.”

I walk out with him. “When’s your first away game?”

“Not for a few weeks. Our season starts out mostly at home.”

“Cool.”

We pause on the sidewalk. It’s dark now, and the air has chilled, the crisp autumn nip scented with turning foliage. I shift from one foot to the other and peer at the sidewalk. I feel like we should kiss, but that might be weird. I’m his fake girlfriend, but we just sat and talked non-stop for over an hour. And the other day we engaged in a little mutual masturbation.

Our eyes meet. My skin heats and tingles everywhere.

“Thanks for listening to me blabber on about hockey.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I wanted to know more about it.” About you.