The Seat Exchange

Chapter 2

Even though I just had a door slammed in my face, I couldn't fight the shit-eating grin I was wearing. The fire in Charlie's eyes warmed me from the inside out. You'd think I'd expect it. Like Albert Einstein said, insanity is trying the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. But maybe, at this point, I didn't care what the result was.

The boys definitely thought I was losing it and for good reason. Why bother continuously finding excuses to wander next door if I was going to be berated? I honestly couldn't give them a half decent reason. But there was something about Charlotte Webber that kept me going back. Maybe it was the way she absolutely fucking hated my guts. Maybe it was the fact that she always had a little smudge of paint somewhere on her face. Or maybe it was that she didn't give a shit about hockey.

Whatever it was, I was drawn to it.

The walk back to my place was a short one. I paced up to the porch, identical to the one that I had just been kicked out of, and opened the navy blue door. It was the only navy blue door on the block–a homage to our hockey team, the Fenton Falcons. It was one of the few personal touches the boys and I made to the place once they had moved in with me. The door shut behind me as I kicked off my shoes, the click of the lock echoing through the front foyer. Four heads turned to stare at me from the kitchen.

"No such luck, boys."

"Can't say I expected anything else," Easton said from his spot by the island. His figures danced over his laptop as he fiddled with some sort of programming software. He had tried to explain it to me on more than one occasion, but it was a language I just couldn't understand.

McKinley, our team captain and Coach Miller's son, shook his head. "I don't know why you even bother, man."

"Really? 'Cause I do." I could hear the smirk in Maverick's voice.

I sent Maverick a bored look before heading over to the fridge and taking a swig from the milk carton. "You're one to talk. Who's your flavour of the week?"

Maverick rested both arms on the countertop. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Easton peered up from his laptop, eyeing me with the carton still in my hand.

"Would it kill you to get a glass?" McKinley asked, face scrunched in disgust.

"Why do you care?" I replied after taking one final gulp. "You don't even live here."

"Thank God for that," McKinley muttered.

Maverick nudged our team captain. "Don't worry about it. No one else in this house drinks milk. Gauthier here has an unhealthy obsession."

Placing the milk back on the shelf, I turned to my best friend. "Define unhealthy."

Maverick, now resting his head in his hand, piped up. "Unhealthy... as in drinking more than two cartons of that shit a day."

"I thought you threw up if you drank more than a gallon of milk," McKinley said.

Easton, without looking away from his screen, replied. "I think that's only if you drink it all in one sitting."

"And eat bananas, right?" Maverick added.

Easton nodded. "Yeah, there's some sort of reaction that happens between the potassium and—"

"While I'm very touched that you're all so concerned about me—and my love for diary—," I said, leaning back against the sink. "Shouldn't we make sure we have everything we need for tonight's rager?"

"The kegs are accounted for." Maverick's phone appeared out of his back pocket. He unlocked it, flipping through something with his finger. "I've asked Hendrix to pick them over after the game."

I paused to listen for any other movement in the house. "Where is he right now anyways?"

"No clue."

"I think he said he was working," McKinley added. Out of all of us, he would be the one to know. From what some of my other teammates had told me, the two of them have been inseparable since the first day of training their freshmen year. They had been taking up the captain and assistant captain positions, respectfully, ever since they enrolled at Fenton U.

Both McKinley and Hendrix were seniors and on their way out of the hockey scene. McKinley was already promised a spot in the show--something that was bound to happen when his father was a well decorated defenseman. Hendrix, on the other hand, was hanging up his skates for good. He was off to put his degree to good use. Not like most of the guys who tried to make it in college hockey.

They were going to leave behind big shoes to fill once they were gone, but I was more than willing to put in the work once they graduated. That year Coach Miller had honoured me with the title of assistant captain alongside Hendrix–and with McKinley still around that was to be expected. But I was gunning for that C on my jersey junior year.

"Shouldn't we focus on winning tonight before we start planning the after party?" Easton commented.

"They should have made you captain," McKinley jutted out his chin from his spot at the island. His bare arms were pressed against the granite countertop. "You're the only one around here that tries to keep us on track."

"I don't know," I mumbled, hands clasped behind my head. "I think I would have made a good captain."

McKinley gave me a knowing look. "Sure, if you ever managed to make it to practice on time, maybe Coach would have considered it."

I brought my hands down to my sides, giving into the urge to roll my eyes. "I always make it to practice on time."

Easton let out an airy laugh. "Yeah, like how you forgot about practice this week?"

"Okay." I pointed at our team's right winger. "That wasn't my fault. How was I supposed to know that practice times had changed without anyone telling me?"

"You got an email," McKinley countered. "The same one we all got."

Easton nodded along.

I threw my hand up. "Who checks their emails anymore?"

Maverick folded his lips, trying to suppress a smile, but failed.

"Next time something changes out of the blue, text me—or call me! What happened to good ol' fashioned phone calls, eh?"

Maverick stepped closer, patting my back. "To be fair, no one was expecting the change in schedule. It fucked us all over."

"Tell me about it," I huffed, crossing my arms across my chest. "Now I'm stuck taking French because it's the only thing they could fit into my new timetable."

Maverick plotted himself down on the couch in the living room. "Fenton just had to get a damn figure skating team to suck up our ice time."

"Yeah," I started eyeing my teammate, knowing he had no problem with the new addition to Fenton's athletics department. "Who wants to watch girl's twirling around in skirts anyways?"

"You're right," Maverick interjected. A sly smile made its way across his face. " I take it back. I love this fucking school."

_ _ _ _ _

author's note:

A little insight on the Hockey House. For those of you who read Shutout, you should already be familiar with most of these boys. But I want to bring them around more in this story. As you know, Booker is the clown of the group. He's going to be a fun character to write. I'd love to hear what you're hoping to get from this story. Any specific scenes you'd like? Any tropes you'd like me to weave in? I'm always open to suggestions.

Happy reading!