Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

AVERY

“You look nervous, Bennett.”

I hated how quickly the words got under my skin.

I lifted my eyes from the notebook and found Callum watching me from across the table, looking entirely too pleased with himself. His hair was still damp from practice, a towel resting around his neck, and there was not a single trace of nerves on his face.

“I’m not nervous,” I said, setting my pen down.

“You've adjusted that notebook three times.”

“I like things straight.”

Callum smiled. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

I inhaled slowly and opened my notebook. “This is an interview, Callum. I have an assignment to complete, and you have a responsibility to answer my questions. So if we could behave like two normal people for the next thirty minutes, that would be great.”

He leaned back in his chair. “You make it sound very serious.”

“It is serious.”

“Alright,” he nodded and for once, his voice sounded almost sincere.

I looked down at my questions before I could start wondering whether he was going to cooperate. “What made you choose Hawthorns?”

“The hockey program.”

That was an actual answer so I wrote it down. “And what made you choose hockey in the first place?”

“My dad played professionally, so I grew up around it. I was on skates before I really understood what I was doing.”

I glanced up. “Did you always want to follow him?”

“No.” The answer came without hesitation and that caught my attention.

“Then why did you?”

Callum shrugged. “Because I was good at it. Eventually, it became mine.”

I wrote that down too.

For the first time since I'd walked into the facility, I thought maybe this wasn't going to be as awful as I'd imagined.

Then he added, “You didn't seem very interested in hockey that night.”

My pen stopped and I slowly raised my head to see that he was looking at me.

“The party,” he clarified, as if I needed clarification.

“I know what you meant.”

“Do you?” His gaze stayed on me for a beat longer than necessary before he leaned back. “Because you looked pretty comfortable with me that night.”

My pen stopped. “That has nothing to do with this.”

“It does if you're asking about me.”

“No, it doesn't.” I lowered my eyes to the notebook again, determined not to give him the reaction he was clearly looking for. “I'm asking about hockey.”

“And I'm answering you.”

“You're talking about that night.”

“I'm talking about you.” His mouth twitched when I looked up. “There's a difference.”

I stared at him for a second, then forced myself to look back at the page. “What do you enjoy most about playing center?”

“Control.”

I glanced at him. “Control?”

“Yeah.” He shifted back in his chair, looking entirely too relaxed. “Knowing where everyone is, knowing what they're going to do before they do it. Being able to see something coming before everyone else does.”

I wrote that down, mostly because I needed something to do with my hands. “And off the ice?”

He was quiet for a moment, then his eyes met mine. “Depends who I'm with.”

My pen hovered over the paper but I didn't need him to explain because he knew exactly what I'd hear in that answer.

And judging by the faint amusement in his eyes, that was precisely why he'd said it.

The memory came rushing back anyway—the party, the argument, the way neither of us had been willing to back down, how easily the anger had turned into something neither of us had planned.

I looked down. “That's not what I meant.”

“I know.”

“Then answer the question.”

“I did.”

“No, you didn't.”

“You're the one who decided what I meant.”

I clenched my jaw and moved on. I turned the page in my notebook and forced myself to focus on the next question. “What would you say is the most difficult part of playing center?”

“Knowing when to make the right move.”

I looked up. “Meaning?”

“You're constantly reading the ice, anticipating what everyone else is going to do. If you hesitate, you lose the opportunity.”

I nodded and wrote it down. At least this was useful. This was the Callum I had expected to interview; the hockey player, not the infuriating man who seemed determined to make me regret walking into the room.

“And what do you think you're best at?”

“Knowing what I want.” His answer came so easily that I almost missed the way his mouth curved afterward.

I kept my eyes on the page. “That's a little broad.”

“I don’t think you misunderstood me.” He added and I stopped writing. There was no mistaking the look on his face now.

I exhaled through my nose and moved to the next question before he could say anything else. “What do you enjoy most about playing for Hawthorns?”

“The pressure.”

I glanced up.

Callum had settled farther into his chair, completely relaxed while I was doing everything possible not to look as irritated as I felt. “Why?”

“Because everyone expects something from you. Your teammates. Your coach. The crowd.” His eyes flicked briefly over my face. “Sometimes it's fun proving people right.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And sometimes?”

His smile deepened. “Sometimes it's more fun proving them wrong.”

I looked back down at my notebook. “Right.”

“That's what you did that night.”

My pen stopped.

I didn't look at him. “We're not talking about that so stop finding ways to mention it.”

“I haven't mentioned it that many times.”

I finally looked up. “You've managed to work it into almost every answer.”

“Almost?”

“Callum.”

He laughed softly, and the sound only made my irritation worse. “What? I'm just saying, you weren't nearly this serious that night.”

“That was a party.”

“I remember.”

“Good for you.”

“I remember quite a lot, actually.”

My grip tightened around the pen as I turned another page with more force than necessary. “What do you do when you're not playing hockey?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether I'm trying to have a quiet night or a memorable one.”

I stared at him and his expression was innocent enough to be insulting.

“You're unbelievable.”

“You asked.”

“I asked what you do off the ice. I didn't ask you to give me another reminder.”

That finally made him grin and I hated that grin. I hated even more that he knew exactly why I hated it.

I closed my notebook and Callum's eyebrows lifted. “We're done?”

“Yes.”

“You still have questions.”

“I had questions.” I stood, sliding my notebook into my bag. “You just seem more interested in reminding me that you remember that night than actually helping me with this assignment.”

“I answered everything you asked.”

“You answered enough to make yourself look cooperative, then spent the rest of the time being an nitwit.”

His amusement flickered, but I was already too angry to care.

“I came here prepared to interview you. I sat here, prepared to listen to you talk about hockey, your career, your position, your team. I gave you every opportunity to just act like a normal person, and you couldn't do it.”

He opened his mouth, but I kept going.

“Avery—”

“No. Seriously, do you ever shut up? I came here to do an interview, and you've spent the entire time acting like an asshole because you know exactly what gets a reaction out of me.”

His mouth twitched.

I pointed at him. “See? That. Exactly that.”

He pressed his lips together, clearly fighting another smile.

“Oh my God, you're such an asshole.”

That did it, he laughed.Not loudly, but enough to make my face burn hotter. “You think this is funny?”

“I think you're angry.”

“I am angry.”

I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed for the door. “And for the record, whatever happened that night stays there. I don't care if you remember every second of it. I don't care if you think it's funny. It doesn't give you the right to keep dragging it into everything.”

For once, he didn't immediately have a smart answer and I didn't give him the chance to find one.

I opened the door and walked out, shutting it firmly behind me.

The second I stepped into the hallway, I stopped and dragged in a breath, my heart pounding far harder than it had any right to.

He'd figured out exactly what embarrassed me, exactly what made me lose my composure, and instead of leaving it alone, he'd spent the entire interview pressing on it just to watch me crack.

I pulled out my phone and my thumb hovered over Sienna’s name.

For one second, I almost called.

Then I remembered her face outside Professor Callahan's office after I'd snapped at her. The way she'd gone quiet. The way she'd walked away without arguing.

I locked my phone instead, I couldn't dump this on her.

Not now.

I shoved it into my bag and headed home.

I got home and headed straight for the kitchen, I needed something to do with my hands. I tied my hair back, pulled out everything I needed for dinner, and started chopping vegetables.

It was easier to focus on a cutting board than on Callum Hayes. At least vegetables didn't know how to make me lose my train of thought.

I was halfway through stirring the sauce when I heard the front door open.

I didn't bother turning around.

“Mason, dinner will be ready in a minute.” I called.

Footsteps moved closer and when I reached for the spoon again, his voice came from behind me.

“When were you going to tell me you were assigned to interview Callum?”