The Last Buzzer (SCU Hockey #5)

by J.J. Mulder

You were named as the sole guardian of Parker Lewis, as well as the recipient of their estate, under the stipulation that it be used to care for the child.” “Guardian,” I repeat, barely able to get the word out, tongue suddenly feeling thick and useless. Guardian? I can hardly remember the meaning of the word. “Victoria and Paul Lewis designated sole custody of their son to you.”

“Oh, it’s not washed, Nate…” I trail off as he gets half-undressed, eyes widening as I take in the bruise curling around his ribs and disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. It’s old enough that the edges are a sickly yellow-green color, but the majority is a deep blackish purple. “Oh my god, Nate,” I say on a breath, taking a step forward and holding out a hand. To do what, I’m not even sure. All I know is that is way worse than I’d been expecting. “Holy shit, what happened?”

“Hi, I’m Nate Basset,” Nate says in greeting, holding out his hand. “Defense.”

“Yeah, but there is a laundromat next to the bowling alley.” He nods to the side, indicating the direction he was walking. “And it’s twenty-five cents cheaper than the one at the school.”

“It’s okay,” he says quietly, before clearing his throat and adding in a small voice, “My parents are dead, too.”

“Sorry,” he says, gesturing toward the recently vacated chair. “I wasn’t sure⁠—” “Sit wherever you want, Jacko.

“Hi,” he repeats. “Where’s your dog?” I close my eyes, wondering if parenting is really just a long string of moments defined by being embarrassed by your children.

“I do like vegetables, yeah. I didn’t get to eat them a lot as a kid, but that’s good you do.”

I nod. My parents cared about a lot of things, but my health was never one of them. Until I went into foster care, I lived mostly on handfuls of sugary breakfast cereal and the odd fast-food treat when they were feeling generous. Subway would have felt like a feast for a king.

Nico grimaces. “He’s here on a very inclusive scholarship that’s only offered to children who grew up in care. His tuition and books are paid for, as well as housing and the campus cafés. Unfortunately, extra things such as the student laundry facilities and anything he might need from the bookstore are not included.” “Things that parents would provide extra cash for,” I fill in. Nico nods.

A door slams a minute later, making me jump. Heart thrumming, I push myself back hard against the wall and watch Desmond’s face. He doesn’t look mad—more hurt than anything—but I know all too well how fast people’s emotions can change. I know precisely what happens when you tell your dad you hate him.

“What will yelling fix?” I stare at him. The answer is nothing. Yelling fixes nothing. In fact, yelling only makes things worse, because yelling leads to hitting and an empty stomach and nights spent hiding behind the couch. “You’re not mad?” I ask again, having a hard time thinking around the way my nervous system is alarming.

I smile, and he returns it. I admit, “I told my dad I hated him and it was…bad. It was really bad.”

“Yeah. Both of my parents had…uhm, trouble with substance abuse. They…they actually overdosed when I was nine.”

Desmond doesn’t need to know about the way my mom would vacillate between manic highs and depressive lows. The way she would pet me, and coo like I was a dog; then fifteen minutes later throw a glass at the wall, screaming like she was in horrific pain. Eventually, she’d set off my dad, who was only ever looking for a reason to be mad. That was when I knew it was time to hide.

“Uhm, I just mean…I prefer the women because older men sort of bother me, so…” Stumbling to a stop, I close my eyes. Apparently, there was still a way for me to make it creepier.

There is also the fear that if I get rid of the one thing I have in common with Nate, will he even want to be friends with me any longer? We spend so much time together because of hockey—take that away and why would he even bother? Without hockey, I wouldn’t be his friend. I’d be a burden and an annoyance.

“I think about quitting hockey a lot,” I admit to Desmond, staring at the freckles splashed across his cheeks and the single curl falling down his forehead. “But I’m scared that Nate won’t want to make an effort to hang out with me anymore if I do. If we no longer have hockey in common.”

My brain, which constantly tells me I’m not good enough and everyone would be happier without me around.

“Because…because he’s got so many friends, I guess. Everyone knows Nate; everyone likes him. Of all the people he could choose to hang out with, why the hell would it be me?”

“Jack, mate, I think you’re looking at this the wrong way. You’re right—every single person on our team likes Nate, and wants his attention. But you know who he seeks out every single practice? Who he sits next to on the bus, and when we get team dinner? Who he asked to be paired with when you room for overnight games?” “Me,” I guess. “You,” he confirms. “I can understand worrying about losing a friendship you value by cutting ties with something you have in common, but I think you might be doing Nate a bit of a disservice on this one.” “He’s my only friend,” I admit.

“Happy birthday, Parker,” Jack greets him. Parker somehow manages to smile wider. Jack, blushing sweetly, hands a package wrapped in newspaper back to him. “This is for you.” “No way, you got me a present?” Parker asks, snatching it away and glancing over at me for approval. I nod, and he rips into it. When I look at Jack, he’s already watching me, cheeks pink. “It’s his birthday,” he mumbles, before he’s cut off by an audible gasp from the back of the car. We both turn around to see Parker clutching a navy-blue shirt. “It’s not anything spec—” Jack starts, but is cut off by Parker. “I love it! Look, Des”—he turns it around to show me the front—“it’s a Minecraft shirt! I love Minecraft.” I laugh. “I know you do, bud. That’s awesome.” “It’s probably too big. I found it at the thrift store, and they didn’t have any size options,” Jack puts in sadly, looking apologetic.

“I know. I wanted to though. I like getting people presents,” he admits. The words make me sad, knowing how little money he has and the fact that he chose to spend some of it on my kid. He glances up in the rearview at Parker.

Someone lands on top of me, and the sharp retort of the referees whistle is offset by the grunting and swearing of the players. “Get the fuck off of him,” I hear Nate growl, right before the weight is lifted off my back.

But hockey introduced me to Nate—without it, I wouldn’t have my best friend. I wouldn’t have met Vas, or Desmond. I’d probably have gone through four years of university completely alone, too shy and awkward to make any friends unless they were forced to spend time in my company the way the team was.

I wish i had a hockey

I don’t understand why I can’t just do the correct thing one single time in my life.

I’d lain awake all night, remembering the way, as a kid, I’d desperately tried not to hear the angry, painful sounds of my parents having sex. I’d remembered how hard it had been not to flinch away from Nate the first time he’d tried to give me a hug, and how wrong it felt to have Christopher touch me. I’d decided, early this morning as I got ready for the run, that the intimacy Nate offered—hugs and smacking cheek kisses and smiles that didn’t hide something rotten—were what I wanted. If relationships mean having to give something I don’t want to, then they aren’t for me. I’d rather be alone. I want to lie in my bed and dream, but I don’t need to touch. I don’t need to act on the fantasies. I can be happy with my books and Nate and laundry at Desmond’s. I can love that life.

“I didn’t really eat good as a kid,” he says suddenly, face ducked as he stirs the empty pot of water, as if hoping it’ll help it to boil. “Mostly lived off of sugary breakfast cereal and bread.” He chuckles. I don’t.

His parents died of an overdose while he was at school, and even though Jack’s name was left out of the articles, his parents’ weren’t. It wasn’t hard to connect the deaths with the man beside me. Jack was nothing more than a footnote in the pieces, a handful of lines about a kid forgotten at school until a teacher noticed him sitting out front well after the time he should have been picked up. One enterprising reporter had added a plea asking for any family members to come forward, entreating some long-lost cousin to care about a child that nobody had cared about in a long, long time.

Troy Nichols was the last person off the ice, and he stopped to talk to us. Like…he’d just played an entire game and was probably exhausted, but he stopped to talk to us anyway.”

“But then Troy pulled off his game jersey…like, the one off his back, and someone handed him a Sharpie and he signed it for me. He seriously just gave it to me, can you believe that? And it was the old jerseys too, because they re-did them the next season, so it’s pretty much a collector’s item now.”

“I love hanging out with you,” he comments happily. “Let’s do bookstore first.” “Okay. Are you looking for something, or?” “No”—he shrugs, glancing up at the rearview—“I just figured you’d want to go. You said the other day that the pickings had been slim on books at the thrift store.” Self-conscious, I shift in my seat, fiddling with the strap across my chest. Did he really offer to go only because he knew that’s what I would want to do? “We don’t have to,” I tell him quietly. “We could do whatever.” “Nope,” he replies cheerfully. “We’re going to the bookstore, and the library. Those stuffy old librarians can suck it if they don’t like my belly button.”

But my friend is selfless by nature. A giver. If he has fifty dollars in his pocket, he’s going to spend forty-nine of it on someone else. Which, more often than not, is me.

Corwin Sanhover passes through the open door in the boards, and does a double take when he sees Anthony Lawson. Instead of taking a lap around the ice the way everyone else is doing, he turns and skates over to us. “They’re going to give your photograph to security and bar you from the arena,” he notes, which makes Lawson scoff. “Please. Like security could stop me.” Corwin Sanhover laughs and shakes his head, nodding politely to me and Nate, and murmuring a hello to Vas that makes him flush. When he skates off to warm up, Nate sighs. “He’s so hot,” he comments at a volume that immediately makes me want to slap a hand over his mouth. Lawson snorts.

When Carter notices us, his stern expression is clear even from across the ice. He looks pissed. Vas beams. “He is happy to see us!” he exclaims, which has Lawson tipping his head back and laughing. Carter skates over, shaking his head at Vas but nodding at me.

Incredibly, being an adult feels so much harder than being a kid had. Nobody hits me, or yells at me anymore. I have access to food that doesn’t list sugar as the main ingredient. I have a friend. But a switch was flipped when my parents died. The world was a lot bigger and scarier now, and sometimes I longed for the quiet, secret darkness of the space behind the couch where I’d hide when my parents were at their worst. Sometimes, I wished for the ability to fold myself up, smaller and smaller and smaller, until there was barely anything left.

I just get so fucking nervous, and Coach Mackenzie is so…serious looking. I don’t know, he just reminds me of my dad a little bit, which isn’t fair at all.” I pick a tomato out of my sandwich and pop it into my mouth. Desmond waits, not saying anything, and looking out at the water. “My dad was so mean, and Coach isn’t at all, but he looks like he could be and my brain can’t seem to separate the two.”

“Vas is going to be happy as a clam.” Indeed, Vas’ face lights up so dramatically when he sees Nigel walk in, one would think it was his best friend in the whole world. He skates over to us, smiling widely. He nods politely to me, acknowledging my presence next to the man he’s really come to see. “Bonjour, entraîneur Nigel. Comment allez-vous aujourd'hui?” Looking up from where he’d been adjusting the laces on his skates, Nigel St. James smiles at Vas. “Bonjour, Henri. J'ai hâte de jouer au hockey, ça fait trop longtemps.”

The main light is off in the kitchen, and the living room is dimly lit by the single lamp on the end table. Jack, seated on the floor with his back to the couch, doesn’t hear my soft-footed approach. I stand at the mouth of the hallway, watching. He’s bent over the washing basket I’d pushed to the side to deal with later, carefully folding the clean clothes and putting them in piles on the coffee table. He’s got an orderly row of shirts, boxers, and a pile of socks that he’s paired and rolled together. For some reason, watching the careful way he folds a pair of underwear makes me want to cry.

Ughhhh hes so freaking cute

“Maybe the most important thing is to love him,” Jack whispers after the silence stretches to minutes. “I…I didn’t have a lot of food as a kid, or, like, a nice place to live. But the worst part was knowing that my parents didn’t even want or like me. If anyone had asked me to choose between a sandwich or a hug from my mom, I would have picked the hug every time.”

Parker leans into my arm as he scrolls through the videos, looking for one he hasn’t watched. I stare at the television, Desmond’s head lying back on my arm, hair tickling my skin; Parker’s bony shoulder digging into my bicep. I think this must be what it feels like to be part of a family.

Cheeks hot, I whisper against his mouth, “I love you.” I probably say it too much. After that first time, when I was sweaty and nervous and sick with anxiety, I couldn’t seem to help myself. Sometimes I worry that I tell him so often that it’s going to lessen the meaning behind the words. But greater than that is the desire to make sure he knows. I want my love for him and Parker to be stitched across his skin like tattoo ink. I don’t ever want there to be a time where he questions. There very well might come a day when the sun rises in the west and sets in the east, but there will never come a day when I do not love him. Some things are just too impossible to consider.