Brenna

Mom's not happy Shea is coming over again.

As she's attaching her ID to the front pocket of her jack-o-lantern scrubs, she continues to rant about him. "I thought this was a onetime engagement, Brenna. You know how I feel about that boy. He's—Goddamn it. Why won't this attach?"

"Mom," I sigh, taking the ID from her. She's too flustered to attach it. The clasp is also locked. Mom's shoulders sag as she watches me. "I told you our French project will run throughout the semester. If we continue meeting at Starbucks, I won't be able to afford gas for my car. Instead, we're going to meet at each other's houses. It's still costing us money, but not as much." I clip the tag to her pocket, making sure it's straight and her name is visible. "Before you yell at me, don't forget Shea and I have made a truce. We want a good grade for our transcripts. I promise I will not commit a felony."

There are times I want to throttle Shea, but I could never commit a felony. The picture on my wall is proof of that. Somewhere, under that thriving ego, I like to think my old friend still exists. Especially now, considering he's trying to keep his attitude under control.

Mom chuckles, patting my shoulder. "I'd still be your ally..."

"Mom," I snort, giving her a shove. "I would never kill someone—even Shea Smith. In case you don't remember, we used to be friends."

Mom opens her mouth, looking sullen. She's on the verge of giving me another lesson about friendships and how people grow apart. I'm not in the mood, so I cut her off.

"That doesn't matter," I continue. "All Shea and I are doing is working on our French project while we watch the Canucks game. And, if he doesn't like the Canucks, he can shove it up his ass."

We'll also hand out candy to the little kids—if I haven't eaten the entire bowl by then. Halloween isn't my favourite holiday, but it's not bad. I enjoy seeing all the costumes and the joy on their faces when they yell "Trick or Treat!"

While Mom organizes her bag, I swipe a Mars bar from the bowl and unwrap it. I should avoid chocolate bars. It's not good for my figure or health. But it's Halloween—a cheat day.

When Mom has gathered all her belongings, she leans against the counter across from me and removes Coffee Crisp from the bowl. Loose tendrils of brown hair bracket her face. "If you keep eating the candy, there will be none left for the trick-or-treaters."

"Says you!" I exclaim as she pops the mini Coffee Crisp into her mouth. "At least you're getting rid of the crappy chocolate bars, though. Who likes coffee and chocolate together?" I wrinkle my nose for added emphasis. "Mars bars are way better."

Mom shakes her head in disappointment. "Just like you believe sour cream glazed Timbits are better than the jelly-filled ones."

"They are!" I exclaim. "Hunter agrees with me!"

Behind Mom, the timer for the oven goes off. The lasagna is ready. She tosses the wrapper of her chocolate bar to the counter and turns around. From a nearby drawer, she removes a pair of black silicone oven mitts and pulls them on. A wave of heat envelopes the kitchen when she opens the oven and removes the lasagna. With the heat comes the scent of melted cheese, tomato sauce, and fresh basil. She sets the glass dish on the stove, removing her gloves and putting them back in the drawer.

When she turns back to me, she says, "I had better be on my way. I'm trusting you, Brenna. Don't make me regret this."

I roll my eyes. "Shea's already been over. We spent an entire Sunday together."

My tone of voice figuratively makes her take a step back. Instead of continuing to argue with me, she bites her lip and sighs. "I'm sorry, Brenna. I do trust you. You know that, right?"

"Do you?" I challenge. "You don't seem to right now."

"I do," she insists, adjusting her bag. Mom glances at the candy bowl and grabs another Coffee Crisp. She slips it into her pocket. "Sometimes... Sometimes I forget how old you are. Forgive me, Brenna. I know you're telling me the truth. I'm sorry, okay?"

I stare at her for several seconds before sighing. "I know. Honestly, Mom, just because Shea and I are getting along again changes nothing. He's still a jerk."

A jerk that's trying to improve.

I think back to our conversation from two days ago. Shea showed a softer, more vulnerable side. A rarity, but also... appealing. It's nice to know he has a soul. That, despite his dislike directed at me, he'll stand up for what's right. Although his personality still needs some serious work, he's not the monster I thought he was.

Walking around the island, Mom stops and pulls me into a hug. She presses a kiss to my temple, an understanding smile on her face. "Have a good night, sweetie. I'll see you in the morning."

"Bye, Mom. Have fun at work."

"Always do," she drawls.

I send her a sympathetic smile. Mom loves her job as a nurse, but that doesn't mean she has to like the hours. She enjoys helping people and making sure they receive the treatment they need, but the hours weigh heavily on her.

After Mom has left, I help myself to some lasagna. It's almost five o'clock, so I pull out an extra dish from the cupboard. Shea's coming here directly after hockey practice. If he hasn't stopped at Timmie's for a bagel or a drive-thru chain restaurant, he's welcome to have some lasagna. I also have some chips and salsa for when we're working and watching the Canucks.

While I'm enjoying the lasagna, I read a book. We Were Liars is on my "To-Read" list on Goodreads. It has been for a while. Which is why I'm reading it now. It's nice because time hasn't been my friend lately. I have to admit, I enjoy sitting down and drowning out the world. 

Sadly, I'm interrupted several times throughout dinner and reading. The first wave of trick-or-treaters arrives with a ruthless attitude. Knock after knock, ring after ring, I'm adding candy to their strained bags and complimenting on their costumes.

By the time I've finished my food and read seven chapters, Shea still isn't here and my face hurts from smiling so much. I glance at the digital clock on the stove. He should've been here half-an-hour ago. If weather conditions were different, I'd be concerned about him getting into an accident on Westlake road—the hill can be nasty in the winter. But snow has been nonexistent.

I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, wondering if I should call him. It wouldn't hurt.

Swiping my iPhone from the counter, I unlock the screen and open the phone app. As I'm typing in Shea's number, the doorbell rings again. Sighing, I tap the call button and head to the front door, grabbing the bowl of candy from the bench.

I open the front door as the first ring echoes in my ear, expecting to be bombarded by a chorus of "Trick or Treat!" Naturally, I'm surprised when I see Shea standing on the other side of the door.

He's dressed in charcoal-grey joggers and a white T-shirt that leaves nothing to my wild imagination; I can see every hard edge of his body through the cotton. His brownish-blond hair is damp beneath his backward ball-cap, curling at the nape of his neck. His face is tilted downward as he searches his pocket for his ringing phone. 

Quickly, I hang up and slip my phone in my pocket. Suddenly, I feel flustered. I hope he doesn't overthink me calling him.

Shea removes his phone from his pocket and stares at the screen. "Did you just call me?" he asks.

"Yeah," I blink, bringing myself back to reality.

"Why?" he asks.

"Y-You were supposed to be here half-an-hour ago." Why the hell am I stuttering? What is wrong with me? I keep my gaze locked on the door mat. It's Halloween-themed; orange and decorated with bats and skeletons. In eerie writing, it says, "Have a Spooktacular Halloween."

"Oh, yeah," he replies, sounding sheepish. "Sorry about that. Chelsea needed to be dropped off at her friend's house. They're going trick-or-treating together. I should've let you know."

My heart melts a little. I haven't seen many interactions between Shea and Chelsea, but all his decisions seem to be based on her well-being. Shea's a strange specimen. That's my hypothesis, at least. While his intentions seem to be purposeful and positive, his attitude and the way he portrays himself are opposite. Have his father's comments pushed him to be this way? What is life like at home?

Daring to look up, I do. When I make eye contact with him, my mouth drops open. "What happened to you?" I gasp.

The bruise on Shea's face is nasty. It's blue and purple with green lining the edges. It sits on his jawline. Either he got into a fight with someone or took a puck to the face. Either way, something bad happened. 

"Nothing," he replies, looking away. He sounds defeated, but that defeat fades away when he clears his throat and straightens his posture. With a charming smile on his lips, he says, "I'm fine, Harrison. Let's get this French shit finished."

Shea pushes past me and kicks off his shoes, leaving them next to my runners. I close the door behind us, wondering what made him flip the switch so quickly. With the bowl of candy still in my arms, I lean against the door and watch him. He kneels down in front of the bench, rifling through his backpack until he finds his papers and French textbook. As he does this, I note how off his behaviour is.

Jayden was right—it isn't hard to tell when Shea is faking. He doesn't want to be here. Despite his charming smile and confident posture, it's clear he'd rather be at home. The smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. He's constantly glancing around, too, as if he's expecting someone to jump out from the shadows.

It's... strange to see Shea Smith fidget.

I have to wonder if his behaviour is off because of the bruises on his jaw.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Harrison," he sighs, standing up. He turns to face me, his mouth pulled to one side. "Drop it, okay? I'm fine."

His voice is snarky and condescending, which brings a frown to my face. For once, fighting with him doesn't sound appealing. What happened is none of my business unless he tells me. I'm pushing too much. I raise my hands. "Fine. I was just asking."

His shoulders sag and his eyebrows furrow together. "Fuck. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound so rude." As he moves, a pen falls from his arms.

Setting the bowl of candy down on the bench, I lean over and grab the pen for him. "Tell me they got what they deserved." If it was Shea's dad or Connor or some other miserable, insecure man, I hope Shea dished it out, too. I've seen him fight on the ice. Hell, I've felt one of his punches. When he uses his strength, he brings anyone to his knees. 

The look on Shea's face falters, which causes negative emotions to stir in my gut. Whatever happened, he didn't fight back. Or he did, and he lost. Maybe that's why the bruise is so bad. Questions pile up on my tongue, but I hold them back. It's safe to say I'm concerned. 

Shea turns his back to me. He inspects the entryway, taking in the stairs, photos, and the overall aesthetics of my house. Aside from the plants and photos, my house is pretty basic: greyish-brown flooring, cream-coloured walls, and modern décor. "Nothing's changed," he says. He gestures to the photos on the wall. "Your mom still does that, eh?"

I roll my eyes. Running parallel with the hallway are seventeen pictures of me, ranging from when I was a baby to last year's school photos. The next one mom hangs will be my graduation photo. "She never stopped."

He glances over his shoulder as we head down the hallway, grinning at me.

My stomach flutters. Why does he have to look so good with a backwards ball-cap? It's unfair to my poor stomach.

"Where are we doing the work?" he asks at the end of the hallway.

We stand there for a moment while I contemplate. The game doesn't start until seven, so it would be best to start in the kitchen, where we have lots of space and better lighting. Once we get through the harder work, we can switch to the living room. "Kitchen?" I ask. "There's also some lasagna if you're hungry."

Setting his belongings down on the island, he nods. "Food would be good."

I press my lips into a flat line and nod. Something feels off tonight. We're being too friendly, and it feels natural. It's as if our truce has morphed into something more. A potential friendship, despite the bad blood.

"Okay," I shrug. "After you eat, we'll get started."

* * *

Within two hours, we get a lot of work done. Our presentation is going to be a mix of digital and physical components. We've outlined a power-point presentation for terminology and other potentially boring topics. The fun side was deciding how we're going to engage with the class and keep them interested in our presentation. Shea suggested French macarons. I've never been fond of baking, so I wasn't big on the suggestion until he reassured me he could handle it. He's going to put in an order at his family's café.

I seem to forget he works at his family's café. Probably because I've never been there. The confession makes me feel guilty. It's always good to support local businesses. We should have been going there instead of Starbucks.

I make a mental note to visit next time I'm in Kelowna.

Soon after the decision was made, Shea and I called it quits. We've both had enough of French. Now, we're sprawled out on the couch and eating the leftover candy. We were interrupted several times while working on our project, but the trick-or-treaters have died down now. So much so, I shut the porch light off and closed the blinds to signal no one's home.

"God," I groan, enjoying the taste of chocolate. "I love cheat days."

"Cheat day?" Shea snorts, opening another Crispy Crunch. "Are you on a diet?"

I freeze, the half-eaten Mars bar centimetres away from my mouth. "No."

"Then how are you cheating? If you ask me, it's toxic to think you're cheating when you eat candy or chocolate. You're allowed to eat whatever the hell you want."

My eyebrows raise in surprise as I stare at his body. Shea is lean and toned, with broad shoulders and muscle in his thighs. I bet he's never skipped leg day. He seems like the type of man who would avoid junk food at all costs. "Are you telling me you eat junk food daily?"

"No," Shea replies, rubbing his neck. He shifts on the couch, fixing his slouchy posture as he leans forward and sets the wrapper on the coffee table. I avert my gaze from the pile of wrappers. We've consumed way too much chocolate. "Salt, sugar, fat—everything is healthy for you in moderation. If you have cake on your birthday or are craving chocolate, you're not cheating anything."

I don't respond to him. Instead, I focus on the TV and watch the Canucks break into Colorado's zone.

"You cheat on a test. You cheat on your girlfriend. You don't cheat on food."

My gaze flicks to his. "Comparing food habits to cheating on your girlfriend won't sit well with women. You should watch what you say."

He snorts again. "I would never cheat on someone. That's what my parents did and look where it's gotten them."

I blink. "Your parents are cheating on each other?"

"Not sure," he shrugs. From the bowl on the coffee table, he grabs a chip and dunks it in salsa. He inspects it before popping it into his mouth. Honestly, I don't know how he's still eating. He's already eaten half the lasagna, more mini chocolate bars than I can count, and now he's helping himself to the chips and salsa. I feel like he should look pregnant at the moment. Yet... his body is still slim as ever. And... and his shirt is riding up, giving me a prime view of his hipbone.

I clear my throat and look away. "How can you just assume if you don't know?"

"Please," he replies, rolling his eyes. "Both of them keep going on trips. You can't tell me other people aren't playing their games, either." In a weaker, much more timid voice, he adds, "I wish they would divorce. It'd be easier for Chelsea."

I cock my head to the side, frowning. "What about you?"

Although it's terrible what's going on with his parents, I'm enjoying our conversation. Usually, he's short with his sentences and his tone is snarky. This Shea, the one I'm talking to right now, reminds me of the one I knew when we were friends.

He shrugs off my question and gestures to the TV. "How do you think the game's going to go?" he asks, crumbs falling from his mouth as he consumes another chip.

Disappointment fills me. I'd been hoping to fuel the conversation. I glance at the TV. "Colorado is a shit team—minus Landeskog and MacKinnon. I'm not worried, but hockey is hockey. I've seen a team come back within the last minute and win the game. You never know what will happen. Pettersson's been on fire lately, though."

Shea glances to the side, murmuring something incoherent.

"What was that?" I ask.

He yawns and stretches his back. His shirt rides up, giving me a view of his hipbone again. And the band of his boxers. "Nothing. It's hard to believe we're fans of the same team."

I can't argue with him. I was surprised when he admitted to liking the Canucks, too. Tearing my gaze away, I glance up at the screen just in time to see Brock Boeser snipe one into the net.

Shea whoops, doing a little fist pump. "Fuck, Boeser is awesome. I wish I could play like him."

"We've got such an excellent team this year," I nod. My excitement is building. Something tells me this is going to be a good game. Colorado and Vancouver have already traded a pair of goals. If we have a back-and-forth game ahead of us, fans are in for a wild ride. That's my favourite part about being a Canucks fan. Even when they're at their worse, their games are never boring. Just for the fun of it, I nudge Shea. "I'm guessing he's your favourite player?"

"Yeah," he nods. "Who's yours?"

"JT Miller."

Shea rubs the bruise on his jaw, nodding in agreement. "I don't understand why fans are mean to players. They made the NHL for a reason, be it skills or potential. Plus, he's a great team player"

I side-glance Shea. He hasn't looked away from the TV, despite the first period being over. He's very focused on the replays the commentators are analyzing, which doesn't surprise me. There's passion burning in his hazel eyes. The determination of someone who's bound to make it into the NHL. My thought pattern causes jealousy to burn deep in my gut. It's unfair that, if Shea ever makes the NHL, he'll be able to make a living off of hockey. Me? Women need two jobs in order to create a sustainable lifestyle. It's unfair how I have just as much skill as Shea, yet mine doesn't get a spotlight.

But that's the reason I'm playing hockey with the boys. I'm trying to break that barrier. I want to watch it crumble beneath my feet. My actions may not work out for me, but maybe they'll be enough for future generations.

For now, though, I push the jealousy away. Shea and I are having a good night, and I'm enjoying watching the game with him.

* * *

At the end of the third period, Vancouver and Colorado are tied at six apiece and going into overtime. Shea and I are both sitting on the edge of the couch, feeling the stress of an overtime game on our shoulders. Tonight's game has been nothing but back and forth between these two teams. In front of us, the coffee table is covered in forgotten chips and salsa, candy wrappers, and empty plates smeared with tomato sauce. Shea and I got hungry again, so we finished the lasagna.

Shea sets his water down on the coffee table and flops back against the couch. "I can't believe Pettersson scored with thirty-five seconds left and tied the game up."

"I hate overtime," I groan, dropping my face into my hands. "I mean, it's exciting and can be fun to watch, but I still hate it. It always feels like I'm going to have a heart attack."

"OT sucks," he nods, "but not as much as shootouts. I think shootouts put too much pressure on the goalies, which is unfair. Normal games should be just like playoff games—sudden death. The next team who scores wins."

Just then the commentators return to the screen, announcing puck drop. "Shh!" I say, slapping his shoulder. "Overtime is starting!"

Watching overtime with Shea is actually... fun. Because the teams have been trading goals, we don't know what to expect. The win could go to either team. We're also cheering for the same team which is a pleasant turn of events. When the Canucks come close to scoring and end up missing, we groan in unison. When Colorado narrowly misses, we breathe a sigh of relief.

The minutes tick by, and soon we're down to the last minute of play.

Shea and I shift closer to the TV, our eyes wide and postures tense. The Canucks have gained possession of the puck and making their way into Colorado's zone.

"Come on, guys," Shea mutters. His hat is off and his fingers are tangled in his hair, tugging lightly. 

We have just under half a minute to go and—

The buzzer goes off and fans erupt on the screen.

The Canucks have scored with twenty-two seconds left in the game!

Shea and I both jump to our feet and cheer. Our palms connect with a loud smack, and then we're pulling each other in for a hug.

"That goal was nasty," I laugh.

"It was!" he agrees, grabbing his hat from the coffee table. "Damn, I wish I could have been at that game. It would've been worth the money."

"Me, too," I sigh. I've never been to Canucks game, but one day I will go. It's on my bucket list.

Then a thought occurs to me. Realizing what I'm doing, I jerk away from Shea and turn to the coffee table. To distract myself, I collect the dishes, wishing the memory of his warmth and hard body would leave my mind.

Shea Smith gives superb hugs.

"What are you doing?" Shea asks. I can hear the frown in his voice, and I don't dare look at him.

My cheeks heat. Why am I freaking out over a hug? I should be thankful that hockey, which we usually fight over, is bringing us together. There's nothing wrong with being allies or friends over a sport. We're just two fans celebrating.

So why the hell are my cheeks burning? Why are butterflies fluttering against the lining of my stomach?

I glance at Shea, noting the lone dimple on his left cheek. "Cleaning up," I reply.

"Let me help," he says, reaching for the bowl of salsa.

I swat his hand away. "I've got this."

"Harrison," he drawls, shooting me a smartass grin. "You know I don't enjoy being bossed around." He pushes my hand away and grabs the bowl of salsa. "So, that means I'm helping. And I'm guessing the kitchen is still in the same place?"

His last sentence comes out teasingly. I decide to fight fire with fire. "No," I reply sarcastically. "I moved it upstairs while you were watching the game."

"Hilarious," he snorts.

I roll my eyes and push past him, a pile of plates in my arms. "Whatever."

Shea follows me to the kitchen. While we're walking, I contemplate whether we were just flirting with each other. We've always been teasing and sarcastic with each other, but there was always some truth to what we would say. Now? Now I don't think there's any real meaning behind our banter. I think it's just playful banter. And the possibility scares me.

Lost in my haze of thoughts, my hip collides with the corner of the island. The force knocks the plastic bowl and plates from my hands. Shattered ceramic, plastic, and chip crumbs coat the kitchen tile. I groan and close my eyes. "Shit."

To hide my embarrassment, I kneel and collect the plastic bowl. Aside from the cutlery, it's the only thing that stays intact. The rest is a mess.

Beside me, Shea leans down and collects the larger pieces of ceramic. His shoulder brushes mine as he reaches out, careful to not cut his hand.

I glance at him. "You don't need to help. This was my fault."

He meets my gaze. "You really don't like help, do you?"

We're so close, his breath is hot on my cheek. His voice is rough, giving me a weird vibe. His magnetic field is pulling me closer, but my mind is telling me to pull away. But I can't.

Instead, I trace the pattern of bruising on his jaw beneath the pad of my thumb. "Who did this to you?" I whisper. I inhale deeply, and soap and laundry detergent overwhelm my senses.

Shea breaks away, putting distance between us as he shakes his head. He heaves a heavy breath. "It doesn't matter."

A thought occurs to me. Shea shut Connor down at the party, and he wasn't happy about that. "Was it Connor?"

He flinches, confirming my assumptions.

"Why don't you tell your coach? If Connor stepped out of line, he doesn't deserve to get away with it."

"It's..." Shea trails off,

"Complicated?" I ask, rolling my eyes. "That's such a male response."

"Yeah," he swallows, looking severely uncomfortable. He adjusts the collar of his T-shirt. "Complicated."

I shift into a sitting position and lean my back up against the island. "Well, we've got plenty of time for you to make it un-complicated." I pat the empty spot next to me. "Have a seat."

Frustrated, Shea exhales deeply and sits next to me. "You're a fucking pusher, Harrison."

"I know," I smile. "Now, you're going to tell me who did this to you. And then, we're going to solve the problem." If Shea is being abused at home, then that means his sister probably is, too. Someone needs to know if that's the case. If it was Connor... then we need to find a safe route. That kid is unpredictable.

Shea sighs again and removes his ball-cap, running a hand through his hair before he repositions the cap. "It was Connor," he admits. "We had a complication after practice. Jayden was involved, too. But we dealt with it, Brenna. There's no need to tell anyone what's going on."

Frowning, I shake my head. "No. I don't agree with that. If Connor is being a controlling, abusive jerk, tell your coach."

"It's not that simple," he argues. "We're boys. We don't tell people shit. We deal with things."

I roll my eyes and scoff. "That is bullshit. What you're arguing for is toxic masculinity, and you know it. There is nothing wrong with telling someone what's really happening. If it puts you in danger, why let it fester? The solution is straightforward."

Shea keeps his gaze locked on the tile beneath his feet for several seconds. When he makes eye contact with me, there's a powerful look in his eyes. "I'm not playing Connor's games. I can handle some punches, but I'm not his pawn. Speaking out will only give him power. He's a psycho. All he'll get is a slap on the wrist and come back with a vengeance. He takes pride in punishment."

A shudder reverberates down my spine. It's clear I will not change his mind. "Did you at least get the bruises looked at? Is Jayden okay?"

"Since when do you care about Jayden?" he snorts.

I blink. "He's friends with Nick. We hang out sometimes."

Shea clenches his jaw and looks away. "He's fine. I took him to the hospital."

My eyes widen. "He had to go to the hospital?!"

"All he did was break his nose. He's fine," Shea replies, rolling his eyes.

I nudge him in the ribs and shift my weight. The tile is cold through my leggings. "Why are you rolling your eyes? He's your friend!"

Shea drops his head to his shoulder and glances at me. "Because he's fine, Brenna. That kid is tougher than you think. I promise."

I cross my arms are stare ahead at the cupboards. There's a smudge of tomato sauce from one plate that broke. It's the last thing I care about at the moment. I'm not happy with Shea's response. Can't he see there's nothing wrong with raising the alarm? If Connor is bullying them, something needs to be done.

"Shea..." I say, turning to face him. "We should tell—"

"Brenna," he sighs, "just leave it alone, okay? I'll deal with it."

"Just like you'll deal with your parents' responsibilities?" I shoot back.

His face darkens. "That was low."

I lean in closer to him. So close our noses are almost touching. "I know. It's like you said: I'm a pusher."

Shea's hazel eyes flick down to my lips, and before I know it, his lips are on mine. My conscience goes out like a candle. I don't know what the hell I'm doing, but I can't prevent myself from ending the kiss. His mouth tastes like chocolate with a hint of mint. He must've had gum or something after we left the living room.

A rush of adrenaline hits my head as his lips move, as his tongue coaxed my mouth open. I inhale, breathing in laundry detergent and soap. I've kissed boys before, but never to this degree. I've never had someone's hand pressed against the small of my back. He tries to pull me closer as he angles his head and intensifies the kiss, but it's impossible. I'm as close as close can be, considering the way we're sitting. 

My entire body feels like it's on fire.

Shea brings his other hand to my flushed face and cups it, trailing his thumb along my cheekbone. I feel like I should do something with my hands, but they're weightless in my lap. I'm consumed by shock and longing and those goddamned butterflies again.

But as soon as we break apart, the weight of what we've done comes crashing down on us. I fold into myself and Shea's face falls. He looks as horrified as I feel. Isn't this what people call fraternizing with the enemy? To me, it sure as hell is. One rule about joining the boy's hockey league was no romantic relationships or anything remotely close to a romantic relationship.

"I should get going," Shea mutters, climbing to his feet.

He books it out of here so fast he forgets his papers and textbook.

I stare down the dark hallway, watching his silhouette pull on shoes and grab his backpack. He's out the door before I can say anything. All I can do is stare at the closed door, dumbfounded and wondering what is wrong with me and my calamities.

I sigh.

Oh, my calamities.