Never Ending Equation

I was twelve when I was practically suckered in to telling her I liked her.

"Just do it, you chicken shit," Eric said, pushing me forward.

"No, no, no. I can't," I rushed out as I turned back around and tried to move past them.

"What do you mean you can't? She's not going to eat you alive," Marc told me, earning a snort from Eric. "Well, she might."

"Okay, if she eats you alive just give her heartburn or something. Now go."

My brothers shoved me away from the goal post we were standing next to and in the direction of her house.

Nicolette didn't live far, about a mile away. But when Mathieu, Nicolette's older brother, asked if we wanted to play some street hockey in front of his house instead of ours, Eric, Marc and Jared practically jumped at the opportunity. They exchanged these glances with one another, like they were planning something.

She wasn't outside when we first started playing, but once she stepped through her front door my brothers immediately dropped their sticks. They said they wanted me to go "confess my love for her," but I mostly think they just wanted to watch me humiliate myself.

Don't get me wrong, I wanted to talk to Nicolette, but at the same time I wanted to sprint back to my gloves and stick, only stopping when I reached home. I was terrified. What if she didn't like me back?

I was at the very edge of the Bernard's driveway, watching as I picked up my right foot before hesitating to take another step. When my shoe hit the pavement I instantly turned around. I couldn't do this.

"Busted."

Crap. My feet stayed rooted to the street as I let out a big sigh and closed my eyes after seeing my brothers double over with laughter. I hated them.

"Yeah, I'm talking to you, Jordan," Nicolette said.

I moved so I was facing her and stood there awkwardly with my hands in my pockets.

"What're you doing playing that dumb game all the way down here? Don't you normally play at your house?"

"You're brother asked us if we wanted to play here instead," I explained.

"Then how come you're not playing anymore and they're all just standing there with shit-eating grins?" she questioned.

"I, uh," I drifted, hoping a believable excuse would flow out of my mouth. "I don't know."

I could see by her facial expression that Nicolette wasn't buying it. "Well since you're not being obnoxious little boys, how about you teach me how to perfect a wrist shot?"

"Um. Sure, yeah. But do you even know what a wrist shot is?"

"Jordan, I'm not retarded, nor am I an airhead like yourself. Now, run along and grab a stick from that pile," she told me.

"I thought she didn't even like hockey," I muttered as I made my way back to the middle of the street, seeing my brothers and Mathieu looking on underneath a tree.

"I can hear you, moron. And I don't like hockey, there's just nothing else to do," she said as she came and stood next to me.

I slid my gloves on and picked up my sick before I found a stray ball and positioned it where I wanted then shot the puck. It hit the crossbar, and I knew I was in for it.

"Wow, Jordan," she laughed. "Still sucking, I see. It's like things never changed."

"Ha ha ha," I mocked before fetching the ball and angrily shooting it again. This time, it went in. "Your turn."

I stepped aside and let her take my place, handing her my stick as I did so. She had trouble controlling the little orange ball, and it didn't look like she knew how to hold a stick very well either. There was no way she'd make it, even on an empty net.

"Are you ready to be shown up by a girl?" Nicolette asked in a shooting stance, looking up at me through her eyelashes.

"You won't make it," I replied, confident.

She didn't speak a word. Instead, she looked to the ball then to the cage sitting about fifteen yards away. In one swift motion she used all of her upper body strength and propelled the puck into the air. In a flash it hit the back of the net.

Son of a bitch.

Nicolette held the stick up, drawing her arms to the sides of her body, fists clenched as she let out a loud 'YEAH!' I could hear the four idiots laughing in the background. I sent them a glare.

"That's your favorite goal celebration, is it not?" she asked, a smirk evident.

My eyes locked onto her lips, and I just stood there, staring. I wondered what it would be like to kiss a girl, Nicolette in particular. Would I suck at it? Would she even let me get that close to her? I snapped out of the trance I was in when she jabbed me in the ribs with my stick.

"I kind of need to tell you something," I blurted.

"Do you now?" she said, almost mocking me. "How about this: If I score on you can tell me, but if you stop it you keep your mouth shut. You can't just step aside and let the ball roll in either. You actually have to try."

"Deal," I replied before going and standing in front of the goal. "I swear if you give me a black eye.."

"At least you wouldn't look like such a wimp. Maybe then people might think you had a little fight in you."

"Just shoot the darn puck."

Nicolette rolled her eyes before lining the blade up with the ball and wristing it at me. It flew past my left shoulder and I hung my head, defeated. I looked up and saw her celebrating yet again, my stick snapped in half, one piece in each of her hands.

Although she had beaten me again and destroyed my hockey stick, I could at least tell her what was so obvious to our brothers.

"So what was it you wanted to say?" she asked, smirking again as she came over to meet me.

I took a big, deep breath. "I-I like you," I told her, my face heating up.

A small smile appeared on her lips before it got bigger. She let out a little giggle before it turned into a full out laugh. I was almost certain my cheeks were as red as the fire hydrant I was standing next to. Here I was telling her that I had a crush on her, and she was laughing in my face.

"Heck, I could have told you that," she said after calming down some.

"You knew all this time and never said anything?"

"Pretty much-"

"Nicolette?" her mom interrupted from their front door.

"Oui, ma mère?" she replied before they had a small conversation in French.

Her mother went back inside a minute later and Nicolette turned to me, handing me my broken stick back. "I have to go, I'll see you around," she said before beginning to run off.

"Wait! I thought you said you didn't know how to shoot a puck?" I yelled.

"No, I told you I wanted to perfect my shot."