Filed to story: Luci Forrester and Easton Reed: Hockey Romance Story
I suppress the hopeful joy that bubbles up inside me and respond practically, “Only 155 school days left until graduation. Now, it’s just a matter of surviving this final year of hell.”
Luci
Timing has never been my strong suit. It’s not just about my tendency to lose focus or my disorganized nature; it often feels as if the universe itself conspires against me. This morning was a perfect example. I jolted awake, groggy and disoriented, only to realize I had misset my alarm. The coffee shop, our usual morning haunt, was overflowing with people, and that cost me an additional ten precious minutes.
I thrive on routine; it’s a comforting balm in a world that often feels chaotic. Growing up in foster care, where stability was a fleeting concept, I learned early on that predictability was a luxury. Until I found a semblance of permanence with Janet at the age of eight, I had been uprooted three or four times a year. Now, the monotony of my daily life provides a sense of security that I desperately cling to.
As I sit in the caf?, the lyrics of a song swirl through my mind, teasing me with their familiarity. I can’t quite grasp the title, and my frustration mounts as I catch only fragments. Just as I’m about to give in and look it up, the barista’s voice cuts through my reverie.
“Oh, sorry! I’d like a Chai latte and a blueberry muffin, please.”
“Sorry, we just sold the last blueberry muffin to the guy in front of you. How about something else?”
Fantastic. Just what I needed.
I rush to the display case, my heart sinking at the thought of missing out on that perfect blueberry muffin-plump, juicy berries nestled within a buttery, crumbly streusel topping.
FOCUS, LUCI! I mentally chastise myself.
“Umm, how about a cheese danish then?” I reluctantly suggest.
“And we’re out of Chai to make the lattes.”
Great. Just great.
“Then I’ll take a regular vanilla latte,” I reply, disappointment creeping into my voice.
With the danish in hand, I trudge back to my car, nibbling on the pastry I didn’t really want, while sipping my coffee. The taste is tolerable, at least. That infuriating song begins its relentless loop in my head again, refusing to be ignored.
After my first class, I pick up my phone and call Mrs. Simpson, my boss, to check if there have been any inquiries about my availability for work. She sighs heavily, her voice tinged with resignation. “It’s been really slow lately, Luci, but I’m hopeful something will turn up soon.”
I hang up, feeling a mix of relief and anxiety. I can afford to wait a few more weeks before I truly need to find a job; my savings can keep me afloat for another two months. But the thought of being financially stranded makes me uneasy. Unlike many of my peers, I have no safety net to catch me if I fall.
As I make my way to my third class of the day, I come to a sudden stop just inside the door. Typically, I arrive early enough to snag a seat in the back, but today, the two football players and the entire hockey team have decided to show up ridiculously early.
Taking a deep breath, I steel myself and navigate toward the steps on the side, hoping to slip past them unnoticed. Yet, as I pass the second row, I feel a sharp tug on my backpack, nearly sending me off balance.
“It’s the curse. Did you guys know she was in here? Maybe we should tell the professor we won’t sit in class with such bad luck,” Deacon White, the football team’s wide receiver, taunts with a smirk.
I shoot him a glare, my heart racing. He relishes the chance to needle me. Beside him, Julian, the quarterback, shoots me a look filled with disdain, as if I’ve personally wronged him.
I fix my gaze on a blank spot on the wall, willing myself to remain calm. Class will start soon, and I’ll be free from their torment. In the past, I would have fired back with a witty retort, but all that accomplished was making me a bigger target. My silence seems to have rendered me somewhat invisible, which is a small blessing.
“Hey Reed, you seen the curse in here before?” Deacon continues, his voice dripping with mockery.
“I don’t usually look for mice,” Maxton Porter, another hockey player, chimes in, his tone laced with derision. “She could be fun to hunt though. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, little mouse? If we hunted you. Not that the catch would be anything you enjoyed. We could exorcise the curse finally.”
A memory flashes in my mind of the time I accidentally stepped on Maxton’s foot, causing him to spill his drink all over himself while he was flirting with two girls who promptly laughed and walked away. Since then, he’s been particularly insufferable.
Even Deacon raises an eyebrow at that comment. It’s dark and twisted, like something out of a horror movie. My imagination runs wild, conjuring a grotesque figure covered in green goo, reeking of rotten eggs, chasing me like something out of an old Scooby-Doo cartoon.
“Hey, don’t ignore me, you filthy little b***h! You should be glad I even noticed you.” A vice-like grip suddenly tightens around my wrist and neck, and I gasp in pain, almost collapsing to the floor. Deacon is on his feet in an instant.
“I didn’t mean for you to touch her, man!” he shouts, concern lacing his voice.
Maxton looms over me, his eyes ablaze with anger. Just then, another hand clamps down on the one gripping my wrist, overpowering it with ease.
“Release her now! You took it too far, Maxton,” Becker Reed’s voice cuts through the tension, filled with authority. “Coach will have your ass if she presses charges.”
“Be ready, little mouse. Your time is coming. Press charges, and I’ll make sure you really don’t enjoy it,” Maxton snarls as he finally stomps away, leaving me trembling.
Becker extends his hand to help me up, but I shy away, opting instead to use the wall for support. I can already feel the bruises forming on my wrist and neck.
“Does your wrist feel broken?” he asks quietly, concern etched on his face.
“Would it matter?” I snap back, my frustration boiling over.
I stomp up the stairs to my seat, determined not to let the tears spill over. I loathe this school and the athletic departments that seem to rule over us with an iron fist. The football and hockey coaches are brothers, and I know that complaining would lead to nothing but more trouble. If it weren’t for my full scholarship, I would leave this place without a second thought.
Julian scoffs from his seat. “I think I’ll bounce today. I’ll tell Coach Humphries she’s in this class when I go hit the gym.” He raises his eyebrows at me, smirking like he’s won some kind of victory.
I slump down in my seat, enduring the class with a simmering anger that barely allows for daydreaming. My wrist pulses with pain, reminding me of my earlier encounter. I need to get ice on it as soon as possible. I let them leave first, remaining still for almost five minutes after they’ve walked out. I catch Becker’s gaze for a moment; he’s probably worried I’ll report him to campus security and get his teammate benched.
Walking into my next class, I take a seat, trying to shake off the events of the day. Just before it begins, one of the campus clinic nurses strides in, scanning the room until her eyes land on me.