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Keep up, or don’t, his long-legged strides seem to say, either way it means nothing to me.
“Gym,” Carter tells me unnecessarily. “Use whatever you want. I’m down here a lot, between classes and practice. But I can share.” He does not, in any way, look like someone who knows how to share. I’ll take his word for it.
“Oh, you have a lot of pads?” “No, I just block pucks naked and hope for the best.”
“I remember your fucking name, I’m not an idiot. But that’s a nickname, right? Zeke?” “Oh. No, that’s my name.” “Weird.” “Whatever you say, Your Majesty, Carter Morgan the Third, Baron of Walnut Ave and King of the Hockey Court.”
“You look twelve, or something.” “And you look like someone who breaks kneecaps for the mafia,” he retorts.
“Isn’t being a goalie all about angles and velocity, though? I bet you’re using math all the time and never even realized it.” I feel strangely pleased by this, like he’s just bestowed a grand compliment on me. Congratulations, Carter, you are good at math and never realized it.
No offense to hockey or anything, but my interest in the sport starts and ends with you.”
It was a fast-paced game, and at one point Carter saved a shot that was clocked at 78 mph. I felt inordinately proud, after he saved that, like I was the one who’d done it and deserved to be cheered. I wanted to text all my friends and tell them what my roommate did.
“It’ll be fun.” Sighing, I sign my own and hand it back to the girl. She doesn’t even look at me. “Maybe for you, super athlete. I’m going to be terrible at this.” “I’ve never done it before, either. You won’t be any worse than I am.” I wonder if I should point out the presence of all those muscles in his arms, and the absence of them in mine. I feel very strongly that this activity will not be my forte.
Great game! You got a shootout! I snort a laugh, and Vas looks over in surprise. I hold up my phone in answer. Shutout. Whatever, same thing. You were very skilled at defending the crease. No puck breached your five-hole. Nobody was going to score a backdoor tonight, not in your kitchen.
Roommates don’t cook dinner for each other, or read to one another, or stay up until the early hours of the morning to make sure the other gets home okay. But I don’t want him to stop, and I’m selfish. If I tell him he acts like we’re boyfriends, he won’t do it anymore.
I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but people don’t particularly like me.” I’m not sure if this is true. People avoid him because he radiates unfriendliness, not because they don’t like him. It’s probably more accurate to say people are intimidated by him. If anyone made an effort to know him, they’d see that he’s actually selfless, kind, and has a sharp sense of humor.
I keep my eyes on Carter while simultaneously stabbing an elbow into Jefferson’s ribs. He looks ridiculously large in his goalie pads, all puffed up like a Pillsbury dough boy. He’s also, I notice, remarkably flexible; a great deal of his goalie moves seem to involve doing the splits.
“I don’t know, I just…he felt right, is all.” I blush as I say this, the tips of my ears burning. There’s no better way to explain it, though. Carter was inevitable.
I think about Jefferson’s question; do we have anything in common? No. The truth is we don’t have anything in common except living quarters. And yet, we never seem to run out of things to talk about.
I take a good look at him, my own eyes widening for a different reason. He’s half undressed, sporting padded shorts that are held up by a pair of suspenders over his shoulders. He’s wearing the sort of skin-tight shirt that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination; it’s short sleeved, showing off the flow of ink down his arms. He’s so sweaty, the hallway lights reflect off his damp neck and face. I swallow, audibly. I believe I understand why hockey players are considered sexy.
This man is wasted as a hockey coach, he needs to be interviewing murder suspects for the FBI.
Troy and Sam’s happiness holding a mirror up to my own and making me realize that the only time I really, truly feel joyful is when I’m on the ice or with Zeke.
What I’m trying to say is that I can count on one hand the number of people who have come to a game with the express purpose of watching me play. I’m trying to tell him that I thought about him the entire game, and felt like a better player because of it. It’s different, winning for someone other than yourself. I want him to know a lot of things that I’m incapable of putting into words.
You’re not going to break up with me, are you? If you get signed by…I don’t know, Colorado or something, and have to leave?” “No,” I say, vehemently, “of course not.” “Well! Then everything will be fine. You’ll have your hockey, I’ll have my math, and we’ll have each other. Simple.”
