The Boy Who Checked Me First

Chapter 3: 5 A.M. Lace-Up

My alarm went off at 4:15 a.m.

It felt like I had slept for four minutes.

I rolled over and immediately regretted every decision I had ever made in my life. My left side was on fire. That bruise had spread overnight. It was now a lovely shade of deep purple that covered from my sports bra line down to the top of my hip. Breathing hurt. Laughing would probably kill me.

Not crying hurt most of all, because I really wanted to cry.

On the other side of the wall, I heard his alarm. One beep. Then off. Cole Maddox was the kind of person who woke up on the first beep. Of course he was.

I sat up slowly, holding my ribs. I had taken the ibuprofen he left outside my door last night with a glass of water and a sticky note that said TAKE. DON'T BE STUBBORN. in his angry captain handwriting.

I pulled on leggings, a base layer, my practice jersey that smelled like fresh laundry and nerves. I braided my hair fast. I could do that. I could not, however, bend over.

I stared down at my skates.

This is a problem you don't think about when you watch hockey movies. In the movies, someone laces up and goes. In real life, you have to bend completely in half to get the laces tight enough around your ankle so you don't snap it on the ice. You have to yank. Hard. With your core.

My core felt like it had been hit by a truck. A very handsome, very grumpy truck named Cole Maddox.

I tried once. Bent down. White flash of pain. Gasped.

Tried again, holding my breath. Got one skate half-laced before I had to sit back on the bed, sweating.

4:33 a.m. The team bus left at 4:50. If I missed it, I was done.

A knock on my door.

"Chen. Bus in fifteen. You alive?"

His voice, rough from sleep. More rough than usual.

"Alive!" I called, too bright. "Almost ready!"

Silence. Then his door opened and closed. I heard him in the kitchen, shaker bottle, keys.

I tried a third time. This time I actually made a little pained noise. Not loud. Just...

The door to my room opened.

Cole stood there in his full base layer, hair still messy from sleep, holding two coffees from the Keurig. He took one look at me - sitting on the edge of the bed, one skate on, one skate half-laced, holding my side - and his whole face tightened.

"You're not ready."

"I'm almost ready," I lied.

"You're not even laced."

"I am lacing. It's a process. It's a very mindful, slow process."

He put the coffees down, walked over, and crouched down in front of me.

What he did next should be illegal in all 50 states for roommates who hate each other.

He picked up my other skate.

"What are you doing?"

"Lacing you up," he said like it was obvious. "Move your foot."

"Cole -"

"Do you want to make the bus, Chen? Or do you want to sit here and do yoga breathing until Coach cuts you for being late?"

I had no comeback. Because he was right and because he was on his knees in front of me.

He slid my foot - my size seven foot in a thick sock - into the skate. His hands were huge. Warm. He had goalie tape around his fingers.

"Point your toe," he ordered.

I did.

He started lacing. Bottom to top. Slow, methodical, tight. The kind of tight that only a hockey player who has laced skates ten thousand times knows. His knuckles brushed my ankle. Every time he pulled, I had to bite my lip not to make a noise because pulling the laces made me have to engage my abs and that made my ribs scream.

He looked up. Our faces were close. Too close. I could see sleep still in his grey eyes.

"You're holding your breath," he said quietly.

"I'm fine."

"You're lying. Where does it hurt?"

"Nowhere. I'm good."

He yanked a lace tighter. I flinched.

"Don't lie to me," he said, voice low. "I hit you. I need to know if I did real damage."

The way he said it - I need to know - like it was weighing on him all night.

"It's just sore. The bruise looks worse than it is."

"Bullshit. Let me see after practice. No - don't give me that look. I am not asking to see you in your sports bra again, Chen. I'm asking as your captain."

"You're not my captain at 4 in the morning in my bedroom."

"I am your captain everywhere, especially at 4 in the morning in your bedroom."

We stared at each other. The air got tight and weird and hot.

Then he finished the knot, double knotted it, tapped the toe of my skate.

"Other foot."

I lifted my other foot into his hands. This one was already half done, but he undid it and redid it properly. Because Cole Maddox does not do half jobs.

His thumb pressed against the inside of my ankle to hold tension.

"You have tiny feet for a hockey player," he muttered.

"You have giant hands for a guy with such a small -"

"Finish that sentence and you walk to the rink."

I laughed before I could stop myself. And laughing hurt. I doubled over with a sharp inhale.

His hands instantly went to my waist to steady me. Warm, firm, right over my base layer, right above the bruise but not on it.

"Hey. Hey, easy," he said, and for once there was no asshole edge. Just... soft. "Breathe shallow. Don't do that deep breath thing."

I nodded, trying to breathe through it, his hands still on me. He was so close I could see the faint stubble on his jaw. He hadn't shaved.

"You can't practice like this," he whispered.

"I have to. If I don't, Eriksson wins his bet."

"I don't care about Eriksson's bet. I care about you passing out on my ice."

Your ice. My ice. When did it become our ice?

He let go of me slowly, like he didn't want to, and stood up. He grabbed the coffees and handed me one.

"Black, one sugar. I didn't know how you take it."

"You... made me coffee?"

"You made me have a roommate. Consider us even."

4:46 a.m.

We ran for the bus.

The men's team bus is a sacred place. Back row is for seniors and captains. Front row is for scared freshmen. Middle is for everyone who thinks they're safe but isn't.

When I got on, every head turned. Again.

Eriksson, our second-line center who looks like a Viking who got lost, grinned. "Well if it isn't Cinderella. Heard you moved in with the beast, Chen. How was your first night? Loud?"

Park snorted. "Maddox, did you actually let her touch your precious sticks?"

Cole pushed past me, his shoulder deliberately bumping Eriksson's.

"Shut up," he said, not loud, but the whole bus shut up. Captain voice. "Chen is on my line for warm-up drills today. Anyone has a problem, you skate laps after practice."

He sat in the back row and then - to everyone's shock, including mine - pointed to the seat next to him.

"Chen."

I swallowed and walked past ten staring boys and sat down next to my grumpy, coffee-making, skate-lacing roommate who was pretending very hard that he didn't just defend me twice in twelve hours.

The bus started moving.

"Thanks," I whispered, so only he could hear.

He didn't look at me. He was looking out the window at dark Boston at 5 a.m.

"Don't make me regret it. And don't fall asleep on my shoulder. I will push you off."

But two minutes later, when the bus hit a pothole and I winced so hard my eyes watered from my ribs, his arm came up on the back of my seat. Not around me. Just... there. A guardrail.

I didn't fall asleep on his shoulder.

But I really wanted to.

At the rink, Coach blew the whistle at 5:15 sharp.

"Two-on-ones! Chen, Maddox, Eriksson! Let's see if you can play together without killing each other!"

Eriksson came at me fast. Too fast. On purpose. He was going to finish what Cole started yesterday and use the excuse of a drill.

I saw it coming. I couldn't dodge left because of my ribs. So I went right, dropped my shoulder - my GOOD shoulder - and I checked him. Hard.

Eriksson, six-one, two hundred pounds of Swedish second line, went down.

The entire rink gasped.

I stood over him, breathing hard, ribs screaming, and held out a hand.

"Welcome to Whitmore, Viking."

Behind me, I heard Cole laugh. A real laugh. Short, surprised, and deep.

"That's my girl," he said under his breath, so only I could hear.

My girl.

I scored on the next drill. Top shelf.

And when I came back to the bench, Cole was waiting with a water bottle, already uncapped, held out for me.

Eriksson skated past us, rubbing his shoulder, and muttered, "Okay. She can stay."

Cole looked at me, at my flushed face, at the way I was holding my side when I thought no one was looking, and his smile faded.

"You good?"

I took the water. Our fingers touched.

"Never better, Captain."

He leaned in, his mouth close to my ear, his voice low enough that only I could hear over the rink noise.

"You checked Eriksson like a pro, Chen. But if you don't let me look at those ribs after practice, I swear to God I will carry you to the trainer's office myself."

And I believed him.