COMPLETED. A university student. A professional hockey player. They've proved they can be friends. Can they be more?
Although they're both in their early twenties and living in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, their lives couldn't be more different. Cami...
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I told her I didn't want to go. I told her she couldn't make me.
She made me.
I, more than anyone else in the entire city of Winnipeg, should have known not to underestimate Angela French and her power of persuasion. Especially when said power was against my always well-meaning, but at times, self-sabotaging need to please others. It didn't matter that I warned her before she entered the contest that I wouldn't go with her if she won, and it didn't matter—clearly—that I shoved the ticket back into her backpack when she wasn't looking after our Abnormal Psychology seminar.
If it did, I wouldn't be in the lobby of the Modar Centre on a Thursday evening five minutes before the puck dropped in the Winnipeg Storm's final preseason game.
"Oh, come on, you can at least wipe that frown off your face and try to look like you're having fun!" Angela teased.
She certainly wasn't frowning, although that really wasn't saying much, because other than her mom's taste in men, there weren't many situations or circumstances that could take her smile off her face.
"I am."
It wasn't a total lie, even if the corners of my lips did feel forced as they pulled upwards. I was having fun with Ang. Kind of. Did I even know the meaning of the word? We were a month into the semester and this was my first non-school-related outing since classes began. That didn't seem so bad, right? University's hard. I'm sure I wasn't the only passenger in this fun-less boat. The thing was, though, was that I hadn't really done anything fun for a lot longer than that. And by "fun," I mean things that actually involved leaving one's room, putting down the Kindle, and leaving the cheese popcorn for someone else to eat.
"Okay, well, look more alive. I'm going to get something from the snack bar. You want?" she asked, tilting her head toward the aforementioned place.
I shook my head. The chicken penne I ate with my parents not even an hour ago left little room for Modar's overpriced offerings of salt, sugar, and fat. "I gotta pee, I'll meet you at the gate."
After I did my business, I washed my hands extra thoroughly. When your main source of transportation was public, you tended to always act like it's cold and flu season. As I dried them on a paper towel, I inspected my reflection in the mirror and tried not to be too critical. My pale skin seemed extra pale. The lighting could have been at fault for sure, but I'd be lying to myself if I attributed my complexion to anything other than the fact that I was burnt out.
Again.
Already.
It was my fourth year doing this—this being university—and getting back into the swing of things in the first few weeks always kicked my butt. That much was evident by the absence of sparkle in my brown eyes and the presence of the dark shadows underneath them. God, I could use some sleep. I really could. Never mind that I slept nine hours each night. I needed a good sleep. Not a tossing and turning joy fest.
