Brenna

"You're working with Shea Smith?" Catina Torsney asks as I step off the bus. Although I have a vehicle now, parking in downtown Kelowna is a nightmare. Their parkade is too expensive and good luck finding a parking spot on Bernard Avenue. Unless you arrive before the crack of dawn, you're screwed. I figured I wouldn't waste my time.

"Yeah," I sigh. "I'm not looking forward to it."

"I'm sorry, Brenna," she says, sounding sympathetic. "If it's any consolation, you kicked his ass at the game last night. Maybe he'll keep his tongue in check." She sighs. "We miss having you on the team. Those road trips to Revelstoke and Vancouver aren't the same without you."

I turn my back to Queensway and head down the sidewalk. Cat's reminiscence of our old road trips strikes a chord in my heart. It's difficult being the only girl on a male-oriented hockey team. I'm alone in the dressing room. The road trips are okay—my teammates treat me no differently. There's still one problem, though. I'm the only girl. And because of that, I avoid outings with the team either post- or pre-game. It makes me feel like the third-wheel, despite all of them being welcoming.

When the crosswalk sign lights up, I cross the street, stopping in front of Mosaic Books. Starbucks is across from the bookstore. I have one more side of the four-way intersection to cross.

"Brenna?" Cat asks. "You still there?"

"Yeah," I reply, loneliness weighing on my heart. "I miss our road trips, too. Playing hockey with the boys is difficult, but I like the challenge."

"What?" Cat laughs. "Were we too easy?"

"No!" I exclaim, glancing at the traffic lights. They should turn yellow any second now. "That's not what I meant. From my experience, women have better technique and speed; we're more agile and focus on the structure of the play. Most men like to use their brute force combined with technique. You don't see women throwing their strength around. Having to deal with their force gives me the opportunity to analyze plays in ways I couldn't with the girls' team. It sharpens my senses; I have to be aware of action in every direction. Women's hockey, in my opinion, is more fun to watch. Our skills shine. We're more concise. Men's hockey is much more... rugged."

The light changes and I walk across the intersection, stopping outside of Starbucks. It's busy inside. I doubt I'll be able to hear Cat once I'm inside.

"I knew what you meant. I was just teasing you." She chuckles, her voice scratchy through the speaker. "Are you almost at Starbucks?"

"Yeah," I reply. Through the glass floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see Smith sitting in the back corner. He's hunched over his laptop, a sling supporting his right arm. Despite our bad blood, the sight of him sends a rush of guilt through me. My innocent hit turned to a dirty one when he passed the puck and turned around. Because of his footing, I couldn't see the puck until it was too late. I couldn't change direction. I was unable to stop. No amount of guilt can compare to the guilt that comes with taking someone out of the game. I hope I didn't dislocate his shoulder. I sigh again. "If you wanted, I could try to convince Coach to put you on the team. He's supportive of mixed gender teams."

"I want to play on a mixed gender team when society doesn't need persuasion. Women are just as good as men. But you're making a statement for women. That counts for something." She pauses. "Don't forget about us. Me, Millie, and the rest of the team miss you. We need to visit Mad Mango and share their salad rolls soon."

Her response disappoints me. It is unfair we have to work in order to gain equality and break norms, but we need to make a stand. As a unified force, one that builds each other up, we're influential.

"That sounds good," I reply. I don't want to lecture her. I'm already stressed about working with Smith. "What about next weekend? Are you free?"

Papers ruffle through the other line. "I'm not sure yet. Coach Ashley was discussing a potential tourney. She's supposed to let us know by tomorrow. It was a last-minute thing. I'll text you, okay?"

"Okay," I reply.

After we've said our goodbyes, I slip my phone into my pocket and step into Starbucks. The homey aroma of coffee fills my nose and the warmth unthaws my cold cheeks. While I enjoy Starbucks, I wish we would've agreed to go to Pulp Fiction instead. They have the best hot chocolate in Kelowna. I was craving something chocolatey, but I suppose my usual macchiato will do.

Smith still hasn't seen me. He's too busy staring at his laptop screen, trying to work the touchpad with his left hand. My mouth pulls to one side, and I decide I'm going to buy him a coffee. Maybe he'll consider it a peace offering. I know he's pissed at me. He's had just under twenty-four hours to cool down, and he wasn't in class today. I'm assuming he took the day off for some rest.

After I've paid for the drinks and received them from the barista, I take a deep breath, adjust my backpack, and then stride over to where he's sitting. I keep my shoulders thrown back and my expression neutral. My chin is slightly tipped to the ceiling.

"Hey," I say, setting the cup down beside his laptop. "I bought you a coffee."

Smith glances up at me, his exasperated expression turning neutral. It's creepy how well it mirrors my own. I take a deep breath, remembering what Hunter told me. We have a common goal. While we may not like each other, we want a grade that will reflect our work ethics.

"Thanks," he says, picking up the drink and taking a sip.

Preventing my face from displaying surprise is nonexistent. It's obvious he's not pleased with my presence. I figured he was going to throw the coffee in my face or tell me he didn't like it. I wasn't expecting gratitude.

"Don't look so surprised," he drawls. His hazel gaze flicks to mine, and I'm surprised by how different they look without a crease being between his brows. He always frowns when we're playing hockey or when we're in class. His eyes are a collage of greens, browns, and tinted with gold around the pupil. It's like his genes couldn't decide which colour to go with, so they chose them all. "I don't give up free drinks."

While Smith is enjoying his coffee, I remove my notes, textbook, some loose-leaf paper, and a pen from my backpack. I organize them in a neat line and then look up at him. He's set his coffee down and is tapping at the keyboard. Watching him hunt-and-peck for letters drives me crazy. He looks like a kindergartener learning how to type.

After a sip of my macchiato, I clear my throat. "So, um, are you ready to work?"

His lips curl into a semi-sneer. My grip tightens around the pen. God, I hate his sneers. After the way he's treated me both on and off the ice, I have every right to toss my coffee in his face and say to hell with it. I'd gladly do all the work alone if my other classes weren't so weighted with homework.

Because he's not replying, I direct the conversation elsewhere. "How's your shoulder?"

Smith's chest rises and falls before he shrugs his good shoulder. "It's fine." He glances down at the sling. "I don't need the sling, but the doc said it would be beneficial for the strained muscle. It should be ready for hockey around the same time my concussion heals."

I draw my bottom lip between my teeth. It's relieving to know his shoulder isn't dislocated. "I'm sorry."

"Whatever," he says. He leans down to scoop up his laptop bag. My hands itch to help him with the zipper, but I stay glued to the chair. If I help, he'll snap at me.

But when I think back to last night, when he leaned against my shoulder and trusted me to hold him upright, I change my mind. "Here," I say, reaching over. "I can help."

He swats my hand away, the motion causing a strand of his sandy-brown hair to tangle with his lashes. "I don't need your help or your pity, Harrison." His eyes flash with disgust, making the pretty colours ugly. "Wouldn't want you to waste your precious time. You might lose out on painting your nails or whatever shit girls do."

I look at the coffee cup before me, the temptation to throw it in his face growing. Although he's being his typical asshole-ish self, I have to give him the benefit of the doubt here. Based on what he's told me about his shoulder injury, I'm assuming his concussion is mild to moderate. Sitting on the sidelines for two weeks isn't fun. And if there's one thing we have in common, it's our passion for hockey. He must be devastated.

Still, I don't like his tone of voice.

"Can it, Smith!" I spit, my voice venomous. I'm not letting him get away with this. Instead, I'm calling him out on his bullshit. "You don't have the right to act like a dick because of a mistake I've apologized for. We need to finish our project without killing each other. Until January, we have to get together once-a-week. Just pretend to like me, okay?"

I lean back in my chair, exhaling. He doesn't look impressed with me, but he sighs and runs a hand through his tousled locks. "Fine. Working with you sucks, but I need an A for my transcripts."

I almost sag in relief. Mostly, we have diffused the situation. "Okay. Good. Then let's get started."

"I just don't get why we have to start so early," he complains. "It's not due until January."

I take a sip of my coffee, burning away the sarcastic remark sitting on the tip on my tongue. "We're staring now because this project weighs heavily on our final grade. It's also relatively large. We also have to decide which French-speaking area we're basing our work on."

Smith rolls his eyes and shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He grimaces, but the pained expression on his face diffuses quickly. It's almost like he doesn't want me to see it. "So, what are we doing it on, Harrison?"

"We're supposed to decide together," I reply.

He lets out a sardonic laugh. "You think I give a shit? I'll contribute, but you can make the major decisions. I don't care. We just need a good grade."

I press my lips together. Smith never struck me as the type to care about his grades. From rumours, I heard he was more interested in parties and hockey than passing French. I only assumed he cared based on how badly he wants to play university hockey. I've heard him mention it a few times to Kaleb in the hallway when I'm passing by.

"Québec," I reply, writing the word in block letters across the top of my paper.

"Why not France?" he snorts.

I let out a huff of frustrated air. I may end up killing him. "Because," I reply, "I think it would be fun to explore another province."

"Okay," he shrugs, taking a sip of coffee.

I drop my pencil to the table. "Why?"

"Why what?" he blinks.

"Why do you act like a pigheaded asshole?"

He cocks a brow. "Because you don't belong on the ice with us. You belong to a women's league. I don't know what you did to get on West Kelowna's team, but you don't deserve it." He glances at the coffee in his hand. "Plus, this is a shitty peace offering. Everyone knows my grandma's café has better coffee."

To my dismay, tears prick my eyes. He's such a dick. Why he hates me is still a mystery. But that doesn't mean he's allowed to treat me poorly.

So why am I sitting here and taking it?

Mom taught me better than that.

Forgetting about my coffee, I round up my belongings and shove them back in my bag. The chair screeches across the floor as I stand. "Keep telling yourself that, Smith," I snarl. "We both know the real reason you hate me is because I intimidate you. I'm a threat. In fact, I can skate circles around you. Plus, I have more apples and ice time than you and Kaleb combined." I cock my head to the side and smile sweetly at him.

He raises his eyebrows, a subtle smirk on his lips. "I'm so brutally offended I don't think I'll be able to look at my reflection."

My emotions bubble over the edge.

Picking up my coffee, I strip the lid from it and douse him in the remaining liquid. It's cooled down, so it doesn't burn the smirk from his face. It does piss him off, though.

"The actual hell, Harrison?" he sputters. Coffee stains the sling and his grey sweatshirt.

Sick and tired of his shit, I turn around and storm towards the exit. My hand is on the handle when I hear him shout.

"Wait!"

A hand curls around my wrist, causing me to spin around. When I see the regretful look on his face, my tongue falters. I'm not used to seeing his sensitive side. I didn't think he had one.

"Fuck," he mutters, releasing my wrist. He runs a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, okay?" His eyes close for a second, as he takes a deep breath. "I'm upset I can't play hockey for at least ten days. I'm upset you refused to believe my apology opening night." He glances down at the coffee-stained fabric. I can tell it pains him to apologize to me. "I didn't mean to punch you. And Connor's comment was out of line. That kid is an asshole."

I run my tongue along my lip, remembering the taste of blood the night he punched me. The punch that was meant for Hunter, not me. Although I know I can't trust Smith, his intention was to punch Hunter. That was obvious. No one expected me to push Hunter out of the way. My interference led to a split lip. And, I have to admit, Connor's comment is part of what drove me to shove past Smith in the dressing room. If there's one person I hate more than Shea Smith, it's Connor Watt. He's the type of man who believes women belong in the kitchen. Thank God he's a goalie or else our teams would hold the record for most penalty minutes.

"I'm sorry I punched you back," I sigh. Although I didn't aim for his face, I still tackled him to the ice and contacted his chest... with my fists. I think I bruised my knuckles more than I bruised him. "And I am sorry about the hit."

Still, after everything he's done, it pains me to reinstate my apology. I'm the bigger person, though. I can't allow someone's negative attitude to affect my character. When that happens, I make bad decisions like I did on the ice.

"Okay," he nods.

I eye him, noting the coffee stains on his sweater and sling. "I'm not apologizing for the coffee. You were being an ass."

He glances down at the stains. The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Okay," he repeats.

I follow Smith back to the table where there's a puddle of coffee beneath the chair. It makes me feel sheepish. After today, we're going to need a new spot to meet. I'm never showing my face here again. The barista who has to clean this mess up later is going to curse my name.

I'm not sure how long this coffee-stained truce is going to last between us, but if it means we can get through the outline of the project, then I'm okay with that. At least we'll have something to account for.

Shrugging my backpack off, I sit down across from Smith, hoping our common ground will be enough.