Page 19 of Collide
“So, you want to marry a robot.”
“I want to marry a stable man.”
“A stable man who probably can’t make you come.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can think better of them. To my relief, she ignores them, but not before rolling her eyes.
“Anyway, that’s my example. Your turn.”
“I don’t have one. I’ll go to the NHL, play as hard as I can, and hopefully win a Cup one day.”
“What comes after that? Do you want to have a family?”
“That’s not on my mind right now.” When you live and breathe hockey there isn’t much else to care about. Everything I have is spent on making sure I don’t let anyone down—my teammates, coaches, or family.
“So your only goals are hockey and…” she pretends to check her notes, “hockey?”
“Exactly. That’s why I don’t go a day without practice.”
Surprise morphs her features. “You practice on days you don’t have practice?”
I lean back in my chair, nodding. “I gotta make sure I’m keeping up. I’m heading to the NHL in a few months.”
Her expression is incredulous. It takes her several seconds to form a sentence. “You think working out seven days a week is good for you? When do you rest?”
“I get plenty of rest after practice and I usually get eight hours of sleep.”
“That is not healthy, Aiden.”
Her concern isn’t something I need. I’ve heard it enough from everyone else around me. “It’s been working fine for me.”
“But—”
“Are we done here? I have to be up early for more volunteering,” I say, with false excitement.
A twinge of guilt hits me when her expression falls, and I have the urge to fill the tense silence. Summer gathers her stuff and exits the office so quickly, I barely have time to think. When I follow her out, she murmurs a quick bye when the heavy doors lock behind us and takes off in the opposite direction. The cold air hits my face as I slip on my jacket and eye her impractical attire. Her half-dry leggings and thin sweater were not meant for January in Connecticut.
“Where’s your car?” I call after her.
“I walked. My dorm is right there.” She points to the direction of the building closer to campus.
“I’ll give you a ride.”
“I’m good,” she says, trying to tame her long brown hair that flows in the direction of the wind.
“Let me give you a ride.”
She stares at me.
I stare back.
When it seems like she would rather stay out here and freeze under the wind chill, I let my gaze soften. “Please?” I almost don’t recognize my voice, but this girl is damn stubborn, and I don’t want her walking alone so late.
She concedes and follows me to my truck. “Is that like the standard jock-mobile?”
With the click of a button, the black F-450 lights flash. “I see you’re a fan of hockey stereotypes.”
“More like empirical evidence. All you need now is a country playlist to seal the deal.”
I open her door and try to help her up with a hand on her waist, but she swats it away to climb in herself. Sliding into my seat, I let the heat blast through the vents and turn on the seat warmer for her wet thighs. When my Bluetooth connects, the first song plays and much to my pleasure it’s a country song.
