The Hoodie Girl

Chapter 4

Asher

As much I try not to, I care about what people think of me. More specifically, I care about what this girl—the one who bumped into me outside the library and now babysits my sister—thinks. I see the subtle judgment in her eyes every time she musters up enough courage to look at me, and it sends an uneasy feeling down my spine.

I had to do some asking for her name, since she wouldn't give it up herself. First, I'd tried to get it from my mom. But she was on a phone call, so she unceremoniously shooed me out of the home office. I couldn't get much there. So I turned to my next resort: Ever.

"Ev," I'd asked, "what's your babysitter's name?"

"Wen."

I deadpanned. "When?"

She nodded. "Wen."

"When?"

"Yes, Wen!"

Suffice to say that conversation didn't go well. Finally, I managed to get it from a guy on the school committee, who knew her from when he was in a group project with her in chemistry.

Wren Martin.

She intrigues me. More than she should. More than I should allow her to, seeing as she has nothing to do with the things that rule my life. The way she looks at me, like she's indifferent to and frankly bored by my presence—it gets under my skin. No one's ever reacted to me that way before.

Either way, it's high school, and I have a few months left to mess around with my boys and focus just enough to get into college. I'm planning to get into a hockey college like Grover, and in a few years, hopefully bag a contract as a rookie with the Boston Bruins. When the season kick-starts this year, I'm giving it my all. Sweating it out on the ice is what I enjoy, what I love, and what I'll never half-ass.

Today's the first early morning practice. I get up extra early, go for a short jog, and eat a light breakfast before driving to school. Practice is something I always look forward to. I don't care if it's five in the morning; I think it's pretty cool to start off a day doing something you love.

Coach told us that we wouldn't be going on the ice because apparently our fitness sucked, so the team and I spend the whole morning running laps and lifting weights.

A towel hits me in the face, interrupting my thoughts. I glance up at Zach, who just shrugs. Shaking my head, I chuck it back at him before pulling on a pair of black jeans and a blue hoodie.

"Yo, does anyone have shampoo?" Harvey yells from his shower, which is now underwear-free. He exits, putting a hand through his hair. "I can't find mine."

Daniels shouts from the other side, "Here, bro," he says, "I got you." Daniels hands his bottle to Harvey, suspiciously eagerly, then moves back to his spot.

"Thanks, man," Harvey says over his shoulder, going back to the shower.

Once he's inside, Daniels grins weirdly and mutters a few words under his breath. He claps his hands, getting back to what he was doing. I raise a brow. Not suspicious at all . . .

"Daniels," Harvey pipes from the stall. "Why doesn't your shampoo foam up?"

"It's just like that," Daniels shrugs, overly innocent.

A few minutes later, a pink haired Harvey emerges. I snort. The rest of the team freeze for a moment, then burst into laughter at the sight. As if feeling all our eyes on him, Harvey lifts his head.

"What?" His voice turns panicked. "What is it?"

Miller's the first to sober. "Nothing. Nothing's wrong, man."