Page 10 of Daring the Hockey Player
Charlotte glances at me. "That's what you ask? Of all the questions one could think up, you ask if he has a first name?" She loosens her hold and glances over her shoulder at him.
She's interested, but she seems like she's playing the long game. The hard-to-get and staying just out of reach game, which I never quite understand with Charlotte. Because I've seen her with boys, and she definitely isn't that hard to catch.
"What should I have asked?"
"Too late," she says and laughs. "Come on." She grabs my hand and hurries down the stairs for the subway in a rush. There's definitely a train downstairs—I can hear the rumble as it comes to a halt—but it doesn't mean it's our train.
But I follow her anyway because I always seem to follow Charlotte's lead. Sometimes I think we're complete opposites, but we complement each other.
When I'm quiet, she's the loud one.
When I'm shy at a party, she has the tenacity to pull me out of my shell and make me mingle.
Sometimes I wonder what I offer her, and then I remember, I keep her from failing her classes. If it weren’t for me reminding her we need to go home to sleep, she’d be up all night, partying. Every night.
But I love the girl like a sister.
While I do have a sister, Emerson, sometimes it feels like we’re two worlds apart. She didn’t even tell me that she was dating a hockey player! I had to find out on the news that she had gotten engaged.
Turns out, the entire ice arena had found out before I did.
I'm a little bitter over it, but I love Emerson. I just, honestly, sometimes don't like her very much. It's probably because I don't feel like I know her anymore. She went to Quantico to become an FBI Agent. She passed her tests with ease. I remember that because I joked about buying her drinks while I'm underage, and she grilled me about how that would be possible.
I neglected to mention the fake ID because if she is a federal agent, I don't need her confiscating my drinking pass.
And somehow, between her becoming a federal agent and her life, she's now dating a hockey player, and I don't know where she works. But it's not the agency. The newspaper ran a piece on her and Kyler Greyson, and it did not mention once that she worked for the bureau. It mentioned she did contract work. I don't even know what the heck that means. Contract work for whom?
I gave up on asking Emerson questions because she wasn't exactly forthcoming with the information, and when I called to ask about the engagement, she practically hung up on me.
We talked it out, at least a little, later that night, but we haven't really spoken much since. Typical Emerson, wrapped up in her own life.
I'm sure I'm in part to blame. It's not like I'm inviting her out on a Friday night to hang out or calling her, except on her birthday. We're not estranged; we're just two different people. One day, we'll cross paths again, and it'll all get fixed, but today isn't going to be that day.
Charlotte pulls me through the turnstiles and down to the platform as the incoming train, which happens to be ours, approaches.
"Do you have the tickets?" I ask, referring to the hockey tickets.
"In my phone. It's all digital nowadays, silly," Charlotte says with a laugh. She grips my hand as the throes of people empty and board the train. She wants to make sure that we don't get separated, and I'm all for it, especially since she has my hockey ticket.
"You didn't get a jersey," I say, gesturing at her ensemble. She's wearing a dark green sweater and black leggings. The girl can rock any outfit and look dynamite. It helps that she has the boobs to pull off anything.
I didn't get so lucky in that department, but that's what padded bras are for. I had hoped I'd outgrow those in high school, but now I'm a junior in college, and they're still giving me the full bust that I have.
She lets go of my hand and grabs the metal bar to hold on to when the train begins to move. There aren't any empty seats, and we're only a handful of stops away from the new ice arena that was built for the Ice Dragons.
"I can buy a jersey at the stadium," Charlotte says. She glances at the back of mine. "Which Greyson are you supporting?" She quirks a grin and glances me over.
"I don't know."
"You didn't look it up?" Her eyes widen, surprised that I had texted her but hadn’t followed through with finding out the answer to my question.
I grimace. "Well, I mean, I already bought the jersey. If I'm wrong, I honestly don't want to know."
She tosses her head back and laughs, her hand gripping the metal bar, keeping her upright as the train jogs forward and shifts from side to side. "You are too much sometimes."
My stomach flops. I am the queen of anxiety. And Charlotte just managed to trigger my next episode. Thanks. "Should I look it up?" I ask and dig into my small purse that houses my cell phone, credit card, train ticket, and a few dollars in cash.
"No." Charlotte shakes her head. "Like you said, you're already wearing it. Kind of late now."
