Stolen Jerseys / ✓

0.03: chapter two

S C O T T

Monroe. I bit my lip as her last name registered in my mind.

Monroe. Had to be fucking Monroe.

I knew who Elle was instantly; the second she said her last name was Monroe. When every player had to go to Coach Monroe's office and fill out paperwork, he had taken fifteen minutes out to blabber on and on about the pictures on his desk. He had spent like ten minutes talking about his daughter Elle. How great of a hockey player she was, great academic student. She didn't seem too bad.

But I was wrong.

I opened my mouth to say something - a retort that my turns weren't that awful - but, for once, I didn't have anything to say. All I could think was how furious I was; since she was Coach's daughter, I couldn't escort her out of Canada. And she just stood there - smirking at me, waiting for a reply that I couldn't come up with.

I narrowed my eyes at Elle, holding her gaze despite the awkward tension. Now I had absolutely no initiative to stay and practice, especially not when she insinuated that I needed it. I just wanted to go back to my apartment, shut off the lights, and forget that Coach Monroe had a rude daughter who thought she had the right to judge my skills.

"Now you have nothing to say?" she mused, a small grin on her face. I tried to ignore the fact that she was attractive, "I figured you'd want to, like, defend your skills. Say that your turns weren't sharp at all."

Instead of agreeing and saying that's exactly what I would've said, I shook my head and narrowed my eyes at her again. I ran my fingers through my wavy hair, pushing it back from my face as I thought of something to say. Usually I was good with arguments; good at having a rebutel. But - aside from coach's advice - I'd never really had someone blatantly call me out with things I lacked. I never really had to defend my skills to a girl I'd never met before.

I gave her a small smirk, a bit forced, but still there, "I don't need to defend myself to you, Elle. Thanks for the advice though."

"Not advice," she shot back, holding up a finger. I glared, and took a step back, making an extreme point not to slip on the ice again, "if I was giving you advice, I would've told you to take your turns a bit slower. But I didn't say that. I was just telling you that your turns aren't the best."

My jaw went slack in surprise, and I didn't make a move to stop it. I had absolutely nothing to say to what Elle had said. And the thing was - she didn't even say it in a rude way. She was smiling sheepishly, a bit of an apolegetic smile on her face. But she had just admitted to blatantly calling me out on something I messed up, and that was.. surprising.

Also awful because I didn't have anything to say.

I huffed and turned, taking quick, careful steps back over to the bench. Angrily, I shoved my Marlies jersey into my bag along with my skates and padding. I picked it up with me and plopped down, ducking my head to keep the blush on my cheeks hidden. I heard Elle shout out my name, but I ignored her, focused on getting everything in my bag set.

I zipped my bag closed, shoved my feet into a pair of sneakers, and stood back up. I was surprised when I saw Elle standing against the door of the rink. She gave me another small smile and I scoffed, standing up and shouldering my bag. She stood up too, the wall separating us, and I was thankful for that.

"I wasn't trying to be rude," she said, and I quirked my eyebrows, crossing my arms over my chest as I stared at her, "just - yeah, let's call it advice. You can't get better if you don't know what you're doing wrong."

I paused for a minute, turning her words over in my head. While what she said was somewhat sincere, it was the furthest thing from an apology. The worst part was; she acted as if I needed her to tell me what I was doing wrong. I knew her for a total of about fifteen minutes. I didn't need her 'advice', nor did I want to be bothered by her.