Page 29 of Strange Love

“Hey, Coach,” I say, panting from the intense workout. “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to check in on how you’re feeling these days,” he asks, giving me a small smile.

I take a deep breath and offer him a confident nod, “Feeling great, Coach. Ready for whatever comes next.”

“I’ve had my eye on you since you started working out here,” he begins, making my heart race. “You came to us with plenty of natural talent, that’s for sure.”

My body tenses as I wait for the “but” to come, unsure of what he’s getting at.

“But what really impresses me is your hard work and determination,” he continues. “You’ve been improving and becoming a natural leader on the ice. And not just physically but mentally too. Kid, you have unlimited potential.”

As his words sink in, I can feel a rush of emotions wash over me. This could be it— my dreams coming true or a crushing disappointment.

My grip tightens on my hockey stick, and I can feel my hand beginning to go numb inside my glove as my heart beats like a jackhammer in my chest.

“I want you to join the Mavericks, Corey. You’ll be playing for me in the junior hockey league.”

My legs wobble beneath me, but whether it’s from adrenaline or exhaustion, I can’t tell. I stare at him in disbelief, trying to process his words.

“Coach, are you serious?” My voice cracks, and I can feel tears forming in my eyes. “You mean it?”

He beams at me, a proud grin stretching across his weathered face. He pulls me into a strong embrace, patting my back with one hand while holding onto my shoulder with the other.

“You’ve earned this, Delzy,” he says, voice choked with emotion. “You’ll receive a letter from the association soon, but tell your teammates the good news for now.”

I skate away from him, feeling dazed and overwhelmed. I can’t stop grinning as I approach my teammates, even as my eyes continue to mist. All those years of hard work and dedication have finally paid off. I’m going to be playing for the Merrimack Mavericks.

Chapter 17

“Ain’t Nobody”

Ivy - Age 18, 1988

The next day at school, I can’t shake off the surreal feeling of my conversation with Corey in detention yesterday. Did I imagine it, or did we agree to act like a couple? No, there’s no way. He probably wasn’t even serious.

Walking through the crowded halls, I spot Corey and his hockey buddies by the entrance to my first-period class. My heart sinks as I try to avoid eye contact and walk past them, but then his voice cuts through the noise, calling out my name. I stop in my tracks, unsure of what to do next.

“Ivy,” he repeats. “Wait up.” I try to turn and book it in the direction I came from, but get bumped back and forth like a ball in a pinball machine against other students. It doesn’t matter anyway, he’s too fast for me. His long legs effortlessly catch up to mine in one stride, and he steps beside me. “Hey,” he says with a smile. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” I reply curtly, trying to speed up, but he matches my pace easily.

“Slow down,” he chuckles. “No one’s going to believe we’re going out if you run from me every time you see me.”

I stop abruptly and turn to face him, his beautiful face framed by unruly brown hair falling into his eyes.

“No one will ever believe it anyway,” I say with a hint of bitterness.

He cocks his head to the side, offering a small smile. “Why not?” he asks genuinely. “Just relax and go with it.” With that, he takes my books from my hand.

“What are you doing?” I ask, taken aback.

“Carrying your books,” he replies as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Come on, I’ll walk you to class.”

In stunned silence, I walk next to him through the crowded halls. People stop and stare, but Corey seems unfazed by the attention. My guess is he’s used to it.

As we approach my classroom, he stops and turns to face me, a soft smile on his lips. He hands me my textbooks, which I grab, flustered under his gaze. But then, as I turn away, he reaches out and gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his eyes flicking down to linger on my lips for a moment before returning to meet mine. My heart races and I offer him a grateful smile before darting into the classroom, feeling overwhelmed by the lingering touch of his fingers on my skin.

“What the hell was that?“ Sascha asks me as I slide into my seat. Today’s t-shirt is black, screen printed with Robert Smith’s face stretching across her chest and ‘The Cure’ printed above his inky, wild black hair. Even though the photo is black and white, you can make out his dark lipstick and eyeliner.