“I’ll pick another nickname for you, then.” “No nicknames,” I barter. Nicknames seem too familiar. He snorts. “Says the girl who keeps mocking me as the hockey hotshot. Trying to give me a complex?” “Hard to give you something you already have.” In truth, I don’t know him. In fact, everything I’ve seen from him this far should only prove that he isn’t the hockey hotshot I’m so fond of calling him. In the month I’ve skated with him, he’s either been heartbreakingly sweet or devastatingly panicked and sad.
