Shutout | Complete

Chapter 8

When Hendrix had asked me if I was interested in going for breakfast I had assumed he meant a diner close by. Instead he navigated his truck through a quiet pocket of homes on the outer border of the university's campus. Country music hummed in the background as he drove. The fresh scent of his body wash filled the cab. It was clean and spicy all at the same time. I inhaled, thankful that he wasn't one of those guys who waited until they got home after practice to shower.

The truck came to a rolling stop outside of a quaint townhouse. The stone exterior resembled the grey winter sky. It looked identical to the other houses on the street, but the black garage door and window casings made the place much more modern. It wasn't flashy or extravagant, but something told me that it were worth a pretty penny. Hendrix threw his truck into park by the curb, giving me the opportunity to inspect the two story home.

"Is this...?" I started, still staring out my window.

Hendrix's deep voice rumbled from the seat next to me. "Welcome to the Hockey House."

The infamous Hockey House. I had heard so much about this place from other girls in the sorority. It was the location for some of the biggest off-campus parties. Olivia had told me tales of endless kegs, alpacas, and drunk guys peeing into gutairs. It was ultimate college party experience. But because of my deep distain for hockey players, I hadn't let her drag me to one.

"I hope that you don't mind that I brought you here. I usually make the guys breakfast after practice," he said when I didn't move.

I tore my gaze from the tall staircase that led to the front porch. "No, that's okay. I can't say I ever had a hockey player cook me breakfast before."

"Well, allow me to be the first," Hendrix grinned, cutting the ignition. "Come on."

I pressed the passenger side door open to follow Hendrix up the empty driveway and towards the front door. The wrought iron railing was frigid under my fingertips as we climbed the steps. Hendrix paused on the porch, fixing his hockey bag on his shoulder. His keys jingled as he searched for the one that belonged to the front door. When it swung open the heat from inside greeted me. I stepped in after him, peeling off my boots.

"I'm just going to go air this out in the garage," he said, gesturing to the oversized bag. "I'll meet you in the kitchen. It's just down the hall, to the right."

Before I could reply Hendrix's large frame was moving towards the only other door in the foyer. I followed his direction, padding my way to the end of the hallway. The kitchen of the Hockey House was more grand than I had anticipated. Maybe it was the high ceiling, or the marble countertops and gigantic breakfast bar, but this place did not scream college living. The sorority house for Zeta Tay Alpha wasn't even this nice.

As I settled into a stool at the island, Hendrix made his way into the room. He ran his long fingers through his still-damp dirty blonde hair. The Fenton hoodie he had been wearing was gone, a black t-shirt in its place. It paired well with the grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. I tore my eyes away as he moved to the sink on the other side of the breakfast bar.

Hendrix gave his hands a quick wash in the sink. Once he had dried them, he threw the teatowel over his shoulder. If I didn't know any better I'd think he was in culinary school and not a goalie on one of the best college hockey teams in the country.

"Alright, let's get started," he stated, opening the french doors of the stainless steel fridge and pulling out one of the many stacked cartons of eggs.

"How many eggs do you guys go through in a week?" I asked with wide eyes.

Hendrix chuckled. "Enough that it would be worth it for us to have our own chicken coop. If Easton wasn't petrified of birds we'd probably have one by now."