Page 66 of From Now On

I nod jerkily. “Yeah. You’re right. But I promise I’m done being a disaster.”

“I promise I’ve never thought you were a disaster, Eve.”

The soft sincerity in Hunter’s voice is not helping thesecret crushsituation.

I thought that was the point of crushes—they’re rooted in fantasy. They’re an escape from reality and its inevitable disappointments. They’re based on tiny, enticing glimpses of someone, not the full, flawed picture. But each longer look I get at Hunter only makes me like him more.

I glance at the television. The hockey game is back on, colorful jerseys darting around on the ice.

“Do you miss playing hockey?” I ask.

“Yeah.” When I sneak a peek at him, Hunter’s staring at the screen. “But it had to end sometime, and it couldn’t have ended any better than it did.”

“Will you, uh, explain it to me?” I ask.

I feel his eyes on me, but keep mine straight ahead. “Hockey?”

“Uh-huh. I’ve only been to one game, and I didn’t figure out much aside from it being a good thing when the blue jerseys scored.”

Hunter doesn’t reply right away. When I muster the courage to glance over, he’s studying me instead of the game. Almost like he’s testing my true level of interest.

I must pass, because he holds out a hand. “Can I use that?”

I flip to a fresh page before handing my sketchbook and pencil over.

“Okay, so—” He draws a huge oval on the page, slashing a line down the center and two more on either side of it. “Here’s the rink. Red line and two blue lines. Goals are here and here.” Hunter adds two X’s to each end of the oval. “Each team is allowed six players on the ice at a time, one being the goalie. Two defensemen, who guard their end of the rink and assist the goalie in preventing the other team from scoring.”

“That’s what you play, right?”Played, I guess, but he doesn’t correct me.

Hunter nods. “Right. Then there are the two wingers and the center, who are on offense. Their main purpose is to score goals for their team, but when they’re past the blue line and in the opposing team’s zone, the defensemen will typically come down to assist. Just like the other team’s wingers and center will hang back and help play defense in certain situations. Players follow the puck, for the most part. If it’s by your goal, you’re focused on getting it as far away as possible. If it’s by the other team’s goal, you’re trying to get it in the goal. Doesn’t matter your position, as much.”

“That’s why all the players are gathered in the same spot?” I gesture at the screen, where there’s currently a clump of mixed jerseys.

“Yeah. To prevent a goal, you have to be close to the puck. To score a goal, you have to be close to the puck. Half those guys are trying to get it closer to the pipes, the rest are trying to send it in the opposite direction.”

“Makes sense,” I say, and I’m not even lying.

Sports have always been this elusive clump of rules and jargon and chants that, frankly, I’ve had no interest in trying to decipher. My sudden interest absolutely has something to do with Hunter, but I’m also glancing between his drawing and thescreen, attempting to figure out which players are defensemen and which are the wingers and center. The goalie, at least, I can identify easily.

“Okay, what else? Uh, there are three periods. Twenty minutes apiece. And these”—he adds five circles to his drawing, one in the very center and two toward each end—“are the face-off circles. Whenever there’s a stoppage of play, that’s how the game resumes. One of the refs drops the puck, and whoever is playing center for each team fights for possession.” He glances at me. “Still with me?”

“Uh-huh. I think I followed.”

“You sure?” He passes me my sketchbook and pencil back. “I’ve never actually explained hockey to anyone before. As my first pupil, you owe it to me to tell me if I suck.”

“You can give me a pop quiz later, if you want.”

He smiles and glances at the screen. It’s back to ads. “We should go over penalties and offsides and icing first. Overtime rules, for extra credit.”

I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not.

Hunter is complicated. It’s not a bad thing, just noticeable. The guys I’ve dated have been endearing and open and…simple. There was no puzzle to decipher. Never any sign of the quiet intensity that radiates from Hunter like a forcefield.

I noticed it the first time we met, and it’s just as compelling now.

And for some reason, this moment is when I decide to finally say, “You probably don’t remember, but we met freshman year. At one of those first-week mixers. The very first night on campus.”

Hunter’s hand stalls in the midst of adjusting the pillow under his arm, and immediate regret swamps me.

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