“Hey," he says. “How’s the eye? Does it hurt?” He winces.
“I’m guessing about as bad as yours does.”
“I’m so sorry.” The sincerity in his tone catches me off guard. I mean, he sounded sincere last night, but now there’s something else behind his voice. Guilt?
I’m quiet as I study his face, trying to get a read on him. He’s a tall guy, broad. Not too bulky, but solid. Makes sense considering it felt like I ran into a brick wall yesterday.
“I didn’t know about your heart condition. If I had...” He trails off.
Well, now that makes sense. I don’t hide my heart condition, but man, could I make a good case for it because this is just the type of reaction that frustrates me. Suddenly, he feels this greater sense of empathy like I’m some fragile damsel in distress.
“Don’t worry about it,” I clip and turn from him.
He skates beside me, moving up with my line. “You’re okay, though, right?”
“Rauthruss!” Coach Meyers, the hockey team’s head coach, voice booms over all the other noise in the rink. “Maybe you and your friend want to share what’s so important that you’re holding up two practices?”
“Sorry, Coach,” Rhett responds.
Coach Meyers skates toward us. He looks from Rhett to me, and I see the second he puts it together.
He leans on the hockey stick in his hands. “You must be the unfortunate victim of Rauthruss’ clumsiness.”
I don’t know how to answer that, so I just nod.
“Coach Brekke,” he calls over us. “Mind if I borrow...” He looks to me for my name.
“Sienna.”
“Mind if I borrow Sienna for a few minutes?”
My coach gives him a thumbs up.
Coach Meyers is probably my dad’s age. He has dark hair that’s graying at the temples and a few wrinkles around his eyes. It’s easy to see that he has his team’s total respect and attention as he blows the whistle and the action immediately stops.
“We’re going to run an agility drill,” he informs them.
The guys groan.
Coach skates, picking up cones as he goes, then placing four in a square. “Sienna, if you’ll stand in the middle there.”
I do as instructed.
Coach Meyers proceeds showing them what to do, moving and talking at the same time. “Skate around the first two cones with the puck, tight transitions, pivot, quick feet, pass, and then continue around. We’ll do it for time. Anyone over six seconds owes me a suicide before they get back in line.”
“What about her?” one of the guys asks.
“Glad you asked.” Coach smiles.
“Automatic disqualification for touching her. Not even a hair on her head. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” they mumble.
Coach smiles at me. “Feel free to lean in.”
They guys line up. Rhett’s in the back.
“Rauthruss, why don’t you show us how it’s done.”
The nervous expression on his face makes me giggle.
Coach passes him the puck when he’s in position. “Go.”
At his command, Rhett starts around the first cone. He’s a good skater, smooth, and surprisingly light on his feet. I say surprisingly because he sure didn’t feel light when he ran me over yesterday. I hold my breath as he moves around me the first time. It’s sort of a weaving motion—around a corner cone, around me, another cone, and so on.
Rhett gives me a wide berth, not cutting as close to me as he is the cones. And I’m not the only one that notices.
“Tighter transitions in the center,” Coach barks, sending a pass right at me. Rhett pivots and stops the puck before it hits me, then skates backward around me. He doesn’t touch me, but I feel him. So close I could move a fraction of an inch and brush against him.
He finishes and stops, looking to coach for his time.
“Five and a half seconds.”
Rhett’s face relaxes. That is until his coach looks to me.
“What do you say, Sienna? Any contact? I couldn’t see from this angle.” He fights a grin. I doubt there’s much Coach Meyers misses.
I consider lying. It would be amusing to watch Rhett’s reaction if I did. His expressions play out so well on his face. I like that about him, actually.
“No contact,” I confirm.
“You’re sure?”
The guys laugh. I do too.
“All right. Thank you, Sienna.”
“Rauthruss, give me a suicide anyway.”
“What?” His mouth falls open, and he looks between his coach and me.
“Consider it an apology. Should I make it two?” Coach asks me.
I pretend to think about it, bringing my hand to my chin and making him sweat it out for a few seconds. “Nah, I think one should suffice.”
“Fair enough.” He nods to me. “Thanks for your help, Sienna. I think we can manage on our own from here.”
I skate toward my team, sneaking a peek at Rhett skating along the wall. He really is a good skater, and something about seeing him in the full gear after knowing what he looks like underneath really does it for me. Yeah, I’d say I like this apology a whole lot better than his others.
“All right, boys,” Coach Meyers calls. “Keep it moving.”
The rest of practice is far less eventful. Coach Meyers keeps the hockey guys on point, and we work on jumps in small groups. There is no time to look at Rhett. Okay, there’s very little time. And the opportunities I do get, he’s completely focused on hockey.
After morning practice, I have classes until lunchtime, and then I have to book it over to Ray Fieldhouse where I teach barre and then yoga.
My schedule is crazy busy, but I happen to like it that way. And the money I’m making teaching group fitness classes will help pay my rent for a while after graduation. I still don’t have a job lined up, and with only two months until I say goodbye to college, it’s starting to feel like I never will.
How do people choose a career? Trying to imagine myself working forty-plus hours sitting behind a desk, working my fingers to the bone doing anything is difficult. Or maybe I just haven’t found the right thing. My dad thinks it’s the first of those two. “You can't expect to love any job right away. Work hard and be loyal,” he says, every chance he gets.
That has worked well for him. He started as an assistant and worked his way up to an executive at a software company. I’m proud of him, and I think it’s amazing what he’s done, but I’m not necessarily sold on his story being the right plan for me.
I have another interview next week, and I’m hoping that this time when I sit down across from the interviewer, I’ll feel something akin to genuine excitement.
As people trickle into the classroom, I smile and start the music. Barre isn’t my favorite class to teach, but it’s popular and almost always filled to capacity. Today is no different.
For thirty minutes, I lead them through a brutal toning workout using my ballet training.
“Eight more,” I call.
A collective groan sounds under the music. I know I’m an awful person because I love that groan. It means I’ve done my job. I glance up at the clock to make sure we’re on track. A line has already formed for the yoga class that starts next. I love teaching yoga. It’s not quite as popular as barre, but most of the students who attend are pretty advanced, so I can push them harder than if it were a class full of beginners.