Page 8 of Taking Sides

The smile falls from his face so abruptly that I have to rethink my words. I did just compliment him, right?

“Your skating,” I say for clarification. “The drill. I’ve never seen anything like that and I’ve watched a lot of hockey.”

He just stares at me like I’m speaking a language he doesn’t understand. August, on his other side, nudges him with an elbow.

“Thank.” The word is quiet, and Conrad clears his throat. Like earlier, he looks sort of past me, but not at me directly. “Thank you.”

Grady blows the whistle again and the older boys skate back to the line, winded and looking miserable. Which is exactly how I feel. What is this guy’s problem with me?

I’m vaguely aware of Grady speaking again. “Next group, you’re up.”

But the real kicker is when he blows the whistle, the guy next to me looks away and skates forward, joining in with the boys.

He would rather run shuttle sprints than talk to me. That is a new low.

THREE

I glance around the small rink, taking it all in one last time. It’s the last day of camp, and I had more fun than expected. And I expected it to be a pretty good time. Maybe it’s how much this place reminds me of home and the rink I played on in high school, or maybe being around these kids, still young and hopeful, has me finally letting go of the last loss of the season. Whatever the reason, it’s been a great week.

My stare lands on Whitney and lingers there. Her dark hair falls over her shoulders and down her back. She’s dressed in black leggings that show off toned legs and a baggy sweatshirt that comes down mid-thigh.

She has the younger guys doing passing drills at one end while the older kids are with Coach Grady doing three-on-three corner drills. Penn and I just finished signing Moonshot shirts for all the boys and we’re waiting to say goodbye to them.

And to the coaches. My throat is tight at even the prospect of speaking to Whitney. She’s hotter than any girl I came into contact with back in high school, or ever for that matter.

“Are you going to ask her out or what?” Penn asks.

I glance away from her and take a drink from my water bottle before I casually ask, “Who?”

“Who?” Penn mocks, then chuckles as he flings a hand toward the far end of the ice toward Whitney. “The coach. You’ve been staring at her all week.”

It feels pointless to deny it. Penn is the kind of guy who notices everything happening around him. It’s one of many reasons he’s such a good goalie. But in this moment, his keen observation is the thing I dislike about him the most.

“No way. I can’t even talk to her.” My palms sweat at the thought.

Yesterday morning when I got to the rink, she asked me if it was still raining outside and all I could do was nod. On Monday when she told me my skating was impressive, I almost had a heart attack. It wasn’t the compliment as much as the genuine admiration in her eyes.

It has never been easy for me to talk to women, but somehow, it’s even worse with Whitney. She’s gorgeous and funny and she knows hockey. It’s obvious she played. Not only in the way she moves around the ice, but in the instructions she gives the kids. It’s in the details. The other thing I’ve noticed is how much she loves the game. She’s always smiling like she’s having a good time with the kids, which in turn has them enjoying it more.

When I look at her JV boys versus the older ones with Grady, it’s clear which group is having more fun.

My point is emphasized when a chant breaks out from Whitney’s group.

“Coach Whit! Coach Whit!” The boys tap their sticks on the ice as they cheer her on.

She fires a shot in the goal and then holds her hands up over her head. The boys whoop and yell and that smile of hers grows bigger. Coincidentally, my heart thumps a little faster.

“Come on.” Penn skates past me toward Whitney and the boys she’s working with. My face flushes hot, and my legs move out of sheer panic.

“What are you doing?” I ask in a loud whisper-screech that totally gives away the anxiety pumping through me.

Penn wouldn’t embarrass me. Would he? He isn’t usually that guy. Travis, D-Low, and a few other friends like to set me up and nudge me into situations to meet women when I’m too shy to do it myself. They do it with love, and I only hate it about ninety-five percent of the time. But never Penn. He isn’t the matchmaking type. Or at least I hope not as he flashes me a reassuring smirk over his shoulder.

I don’t have time to spin out for long because we reach her quickly. She glances at me and Penn as we come to a stop beside her. She blows a loose strand of hair away from her face, then pushes it back with one hand.

Her lips pull into an amused smile as the boys keep cheering her on, and her dark brown eyes are lit up with so much joy, it punches me in the chest. As if I needed another physical reaction to this girl. My nervous system is wrecked.

“Come to show me up?” she asks, looking at me, then letting her stare slide to Penn.