Collide: A Hockey Romance

THE DORM IS dark and quiet when I walk in after my run. I’ve only taken one step before I see a small box on the counter. The golden bow shines despite the dimness. I gingerly approach the mystery item, and my heart inflates in my chest when I see it.

It’s the tea my dad used to buy me, and there’s a note attached to the bottom.

For all those headaches I give you – A.

There’s a riot in my stomach. I haven’t seen or texted Aiden back since he left for Chicago. I spent my time figuring out another element to add to my project because he missed the test. It’s an exhausting feeling when it seems like my work isn’t important enough. But the way Aiden looked at me made my chest feel heavy. The way the one apology and his earnest look had me wanting to say it was okay. I never feel like this when someone lets me down, I just learn my lesson.

It’s because his eyes were the first thing I noticed about him.

As a kid I was obsessed with my dad’s eyes. Gray with tiny flecks of gold, sometimes blue in different lights. I’d constantly ask my mom why I got the boring brown, and my sisters had his eyes. I cried about it for days, and weirdly enough it still hits me. The realization that it was another thing my dad couldn’t give me. Another part of him I couldn’t have. Another part that belonged to my sisters and not me. It was pathetic. Pure genetic probability, yet ironically it perfectly explained our relationship.

But Aiden has the same mesmerizing eyes. Eyes that make you forget your words until you make a conscious effort to remember them again. Eyes that tell you with just one look how pure the soul behind them is. He has them, and I hate that he does. Even more, I hate that I notice.

When my phone glows, Dalton app notifications litter my screen. I don’t need to open it to know that the guys probably won. It’s hard enough avoiding the game when everyone and their mother is posting about it. Amara and Cassie are there too. They invited me, thinking I could stomach the sport now, but that hope’s been incinerated by a tardy hockey player. I’d rather sit in my dorm and study while occasionally freaking out at creaks in the hallway.

A knock sounds on the door, and I jump. Hesitantly, I move to answer it, trying to calm my erratic pulse. When I ease the door open and peek through the crack, my heart stutters.

Aiden stands in my doorway in his hockey gear, minus the skates and helmet. Somehow his hair is still flowing perfectly. Helmet hair doesn’t exist in his universe.

I open the door wider. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for our session.”

“We didn’t schedule one.” I look at the time on my phone. “Your game ended twenty minutes ago, Aiden.” How he even managed to make it here in twenty minutes is beyond me.

When my mom used to take me to my dad’s games as a kid, most of the night was spent waiting outside the arena after a game. I’d wake up the next morning only to realize I had fallen asleep before I could even see him.

“I know.”

“You’re still in your gear.”

“I can change.” That’s when I notice the gym bag on his arm. “Do you mind?”

I point to my bathroom, and he stalks inside. “I can bring you a towel if you want to shower.”

Shower? Why the hell did I suggest that? He looks surprised by my invitation. Honestly, it surprises me too, but the least I could do is offer.

“You sure?”

I shrug. “Or if you want to be gross and sweaty for the rest of the night, it’s your call.” My lame attempt to cut the tension doesn’t work when he simply nods and heads to the bathroom.

Towel in hand, I knock and hear shuffling before he says, “Come in.”

I hesitate. When I open the door, he’s removed his shoulder pads and his body is on full display. My bathroom has terrible lighting, but he still glistens under the fluorescents.

He takes the towel. “Thanks.”

The tension between us is thick in my tiny bathroom. The whirring fan and the buzzing lights are loud as ever. “I can turn on the shower for you. It’s kind of difficult to get right.”

He presses his lips together and nods. The sound of clothes being removed resumes, and I swallow. I turn the faucet with my sweaty hands, and when I face him, he’s so close I startle.

If he smells, my brain isn’t registering it because all I can think about is how we’re alone, he’s half naked, and my pjs aren’t leaving much to the imagination.

“It takes a second to get hot,” I say, though that statement could apply to me. It doesn’t feel like I offered him a shower, it feels like he’s waiting to tear off my clothes and take me against the shower wall.

He nods, reminding me that my overactive imagination is playing tricks on me.

“You won,” I say. In my defense, the shower does take a minute to heat. I’m being a good host if we really look at it.

“Barely.” He looks like he wants to say more. We haven’t talked in a week, but I have every right to be pissed. Though the memories of my anger are slowly but surely fizzling away.

When the shower steams, I step away. “I’ll be outside.”

The sound of running water fills my bedroom. To rid myself of my sinful thoughts, I sit on the furthest side of the living room.

Aiden steps out a few minutes later as I’m editing my statistics paper. He’s wearing a tight white T-shirt and black sweats. It’s distracting, until I notice the trickling red on his cheek.

I jump in alarm. “What happened to your face?”

He settles on the couch. “You should see the other guy.”

“You got into a fight? Can’t you get disqualified?” The NCAA has strict rules, and risking the penalty isn’t worth the punch most of the time.

“Some Princeton jackass had it out for me. He got the major.”

My worry unravels, knowing the infraction wasn’t on him. Still, when I get a good look at his cut, it unsettles me.

“I’m fine. Really.”

I shake my head. “You should’ve went to the team’s medic.”

“I did, and I’m fine.” He shrugs. “I didn’t want to be late.”

“Late for what?”

“For you,” he says. “I feel like shit for missing last week because I know what this research means to you.”

Hot coals press harder into my chest cavity. Without another word, I take his hand and pull him off the couch. My tugging doesn’t do anything until he lets it.

“Sit,” I say when we’re in the steamy bathroom.

He gives a tired sigh. “Summer, you don’t have to do this.”

“Tell me what I can do again,” I warn.

He gives me an exasperated look before taking a seat on the toilet lid. I pull out the first aid kit from under the sink, and he parts his legs for me to step between them. Aiden doesn’t flinch when I tilt his head and dab alcohol on the cut. His gaze focuses on my face, and my breath splinters. Aiden rests his arms on his leg, and I feel the light brush of his fingers on the back of my thigh. The touch is hot and prickly, and it makes me itchy all over.

“You know, Hank, our PT, is also our team medic. You could totally replace him.”

“You really have it out for Hank, don’t you?” I chuckle, trying not to look at his lips. “Besides, I’m only OFA certified.”

“You fix up a lot of athletes?”

I shake my head.

“Just me then?”

“Just you.” Why am I whispering? I clear my throat as I dig into the first-aid box to distract myself.

His eyes turn solemn, and the air thickens. “I’m sorry, Summer.”

My breath catches in my throat, and I can’t meet his eyes. The energy sparking between us gives me whiplash.

“I did the test this morning.”

My hands freeze mid-dab. “What?”

“I got in touch with Dr. Toor with Kilner’s help, and he referred me to his friend who works at a sports clinic in Hartford. You should get the results of the ACSI-28 test in a few days.”

My sunken heart floats to the surface. “You did?”

He nods. “I should have been there in the first place, Summer. Your work is important.”

I can only stare at the Band-Aids in my hand. He’d completed one of the most important parts of my research without me having to reschedule or plan anything. My lungs have ceased to work, and I have to consciously recall how humans breathe to get oxygen to my blood again. I drag a clammy hand through my hair, but when he touches the back of my thigh I jerk back to the present.

I hold up two cartoon bandages. “Barbie or Bratz?”

He looks dumbfounded. If he didn’t know before how bad I am at accepting it when someone does nice things for me, he knows now. Though he did initially fuck up, so is it really a nice thing? God, who even cares?

His expression smooths into one of understanding. “Does it matter?”

I sign in relief when he doesn’t push about the test. “Immensely.”

With a curve of a smile on his lips, and his fingers unconsciously brushing my leg, he appears deep in thought. “Bratz, obviously.”

I suppress my smile as I put the purple Yazmin Band-Aid on his cheek. The box has neutral bandages I could have used, but I keep that information to myself.