Eighteen-year-old Nat falls for five different boys during her first month at college, but never openly admits her crushes - until one night she drunk texts all five of them. She finds her freshman year turned upside down as she navigates the world...
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My ass was officially frozen to this seat.
With a heaviness in my body, I imagined myself looking up with my hands raised in the why me? position.
The whack of a hockey stick slapping ice drew my attention back to the oblong rink. A puck hit the boards, smack loud above the music playing over the stereo system.
I followed the progress of the game with a stony expression.
Why did I have to be such an idiot? From the way I bolted out of lit class, I could've given Wile E Coyote a run for his money.
The greasy scent of hot dogs cooking at the concession stand wafted over, but I ate back at the dorms. I wrapped my arms around myself, pulling my jacket tighter.
I didn't even give Alec the chance to get within five feet of me before I ran out the door. Who knows if he was coming over to talk to me? I was sitting in the general vicinity of the exit, so he probably just looked at me to be polite.
Plus, I had to leave to get ready for the hockey game. The game that I had two hours to get ready for, but that was still a reason why I had to leave.
Coaches shouting to their players overlapped with the voices of students laughing and talking. The stands around me were packed with fellow crimson-clad students. The group of guys next to me wore team jerseys and baseball caps while carrying plastic cups of beer.
Red wasn't really my colour of choice, so I had slim pickings in my closet. But, buried behind the swimsuit that I never used, I found the red shirt from my welcome package at the beginning of the year.
With a strategic knot tied at the front, it paired well with my pair of high-rise black jeans and a leather jacket. However, I didn't realize that the other team's colour was black, so I kinda stood out in the Summit student section. Oops.
I tracked the fast-moving blades of players racing around the rink, eyes drawn to the one with "SAWYER" lettered across his back. I couldn't fathom trying to balance on thin blades, let alone moving as gracefully as he did on the ice.
But, of course, he was the reason I had to be here at this godforsaken hockey game, sitting among this tiered seating littered with popcorn.
I glared at the thirteen on Tyler Sawyer's back. Weren't hockey players supposed to be superstitious? I rolled a crick in my neck and lost him in the shuffle.
The puck thumped into the other team's goalie's glove, giving rise to groans around me. It was the third quarter, or period, or whatever it's called, and we were tied up.
Even though the goalie grabbing the puck was about as important to me as the crushed peanut shells on the ground, I groaned too. Solidarity, sister. Or conformity, sister, but that didn't have the same ring to it.
