Good Boy

by Sarina Bowen

  Under the spray, I knead my shoulder while the hot water pelts me. My teammates shuffle in. They leave me alone, but I can feel eyes on my back. So I cut the shower shorter than the ideal length—eternity—and get dressed.

  While I’m changing, the head trainer hovers, asking me what’s the matter. “Is it something we should evaluate?”

  “Just a stiff neck,” I insist, because it is. There is nothing really wrong with me except a little pain and the horrible sense of doom that’s descended like a dark cloud. I just can’t shake the feeling that something is switched off inside me.

  Last night I lay awake worrying about it. That’s so unlike me it’s not even funny. But it’s as if my carefully calibrated sensory balance has gone haywire. Last year when I had that sprain, I bounced right back. But this time? My bounce has bounced elsewhere.

  I hightail it out of there and drive to the one place that will never let me down.

  The bar, of course.

  It’s only five o’clock, and at this hour Sticks & Stones is empty. The other players will all drift in here eventually, but for now I have the place to myself. Except for Lisa, of course. She hustles over and plunks a mug of beer in front of me.

  “I didn’t order yet,” I mumble.

  She shakes her head. The mohawk is green today. “I can always tell what my customers need. And what you needed was speed, man. You need a beer, like, yesterday.”

  “That obvious, huh?” Good ol’ Lisa.

  Her smile is patient. “What’s her name?”

  “Who?”

  Lisa gives me an eye roll. “Whoever has you twisted up in knots. And she must be somebody special, because you’re never the one who’s sitting here with a mopey face.”

  “Her name is Jess.” I take a big gulp of the beer she’s brought me.

  “Wait…” Lisa puts her elbows on the bar. “She drank the Velvet Fog, right?”

  “Prolly.”

  She nods like a sage. “Nice girl. Not everyone jives with a wheat ale. I’d do her. But I thought you weren’t ever dating again after whatsername.”

  “Molly.”

  “I didn’t forget, Blake. I just don’t like saying it out loud.”

  Right. Lisa is awfully protective of the players. I never told her what Molly did to me, but during my rookie season Molly used to come into Sticks & Stones and guard me like a Doberman. She never liked this place, and she used to complain that her beer was served too warm.

  Now that I think about it, Lisa might be responsible for that.

  “She’s back in town, you know,” I hear myself say.

  “Damn.” Lisa makes a face. “I’m sorry. She giving you a hard time?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  Her face softens. “You always say that, honey. And I’m sure it’s true. No man is an island, though. You’re the kind of guy who takes care of his family. Takes care of his friends. Takes care of his teammates. But who takes care of you?”

  With another gulp, I consider this question. “So you’re saying that men are more like peninsulas? Then women are like the busy parts of downtown. All those one-way streets and all that traffic. It’s so fucking confusing.”

  Her mouth opens, then closes again. Then she grabs my pint glass off the bar and yanks on a tap, topping it up. “Drink this, and tell me what you’re going to do about the Jess situation. Did she dump you?”

  I shake my head. “She said fooling around with me was stupid. Or that I was stupid. One of those.”

  Lisa flinches. “Oh, honey. Maybe she didn’t mean it like it came out.”

  Actually, I’m pretty sure she didn’t. But then where is she? And how long would it take her to realize that we’re good together?

  “Women always want me.”

  The bartender’s lips twitch. “Most women.”

  “Right,” I correct. “Women who like dick want me.”

  “But not Jess?”

  “She likes me a little,” I admit. “But not enough. Seriously, Lise—how could one woman try to trap me and another just considers me her OOPF?”

  “Oopf?”

  “Occasional Orgasm-Producing Friend.”

  “And you want more.” She pauses. “You’re lonely.”

  Ugh. That word again. Why do people assume I’m lonely?

  “Okay. Stupid question,” Lisa warns. “Have you actually told this girl you want more?”

  “Yeah. Well, I hinted.”

  “You hinted. How?”

  Hmmm. I pushed her up against the wall of a coatroom and pounded her. “You may have a point.”

  Lisa cackles. “Yeah? Go figure. So now you need to be straight with her. How’s she gonna give you what you want if she doesn’t know what that is? Oh, and if you’re the kind of guy who likes to make a grand gesture, now would be a good time to do that. You strike me as a grand-gesture kind of guy.”

  “I do?” Granted, I make some very grand gestures with the Blake Snake. But I’m getting the feeling that Lisa might not be talking about sex right now.

  “Yeah. You’re a go-big-or-go-home guy, right? Think of something she really needs, and then give it to her. A girl would have to sit up and notice something like that.”

  “She would, right?”

  “Of course.”

  I think this through a little more. “But if I make a grand gesture, she might still turn me down.”

  “It could happen,” Lisa admits, wiping down the bar. “But then you’d know how it was.”

  Fuck. My neck gives a big twinge, and I feel like I already know how it is.

  22 I Can Do This. I Can’t Do This.

  Jess

  “Rise and shine!”

  The loud and cheery voice jolts me from not-so-peaceful slumber, and before I can blink, the whole world tips over and I’m slamming down onto the floor. What the hell…?

  I groan and rub my arm where it smacked the hardwood, realizing I’d fallen out of my chair. Was I sleeping at my desk? I groggily scrub both hands over my face. Yep, I totally fell asleep mid-cramming last night. There’s a drool spot and a cheek impression on the pages of the textbook that had served as my pillow.

  “Oh my gosh, are you okay?” Violet is tugging me to my feet, her eyes wide with concern behind her glasses. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “It’s fine. I’m fine.” I rub my tired eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Eight thirty.”

  I gasp. “Are you serious?” Crap. Crap. Our final exam for pathophysiology and pharmaco-therapeutics (two words I never knew existed before I started this nursing program) is in thirty minutes. I don’t even have time to shower, damn it.

  “Why didn’t you wake me earlier?” I ask my roommate.

  She wrinkles her forehead. “I did. You said I’m up! and then kept reading.”

  I did? Great. Some people sleepwalk. I, apparently, sleep-study. Except…oh God, I can’t remember a word of that textbook. Same with all the notes I took at the lectures. Panic coats my throat as I struggle to recall even a shred of information from my study sessions. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. I’m going to fail this final.

  Violet is oblivious to my internal anxiety attack. “You should get dressed,” she informs me.

  No shit. I fly around the room snatching up pieces of clothing, then strip out of yesterday’s wrinkled jeans and sweater while Violet leans against the door, watching me.

  “Are you leaving now or do you want to wait so we can walk to class together?”

  “I can wait,” she says graciously.

  I yank a pair of clean yoga pants up my legs. Ugh. I can’t believe I fell asleep in jeans. I have red lines all over my thighs from where the denim dug into my skin all night.

  “You want me to quiz you while you get ready?” she asks.

  If it had come from anyone else, the offer might have been construed as considerate. But there’s a hint of smugness in Violet’s tone. Sure, we’ve been getting along better since the icebreaker at Sticks & Stones, but
that doesn’t change the fact that Violet is super competitive. She crows every time she does better than me on a quiz, gloats whenever our clinical instructors give her any praise, and constantly makes sure to remind me that she’s at the top of our class.

  I’m nowhere near the top. I’m not on the bottom, either. More like middle of the pack, which is a frustrating place to be. I’m killing it in the practical stuff (I secretly do some gloating of my own every time our instructor tells me how wonderful I am with patients), but the academic part is more difficult than I’d expected. Of course, that’s the part that Violet excels in, and she never lets me forget it.

  “Thanks, but I’m good,” I answer as I slip into a V-neck T-shirt. “I don’t like to go over the material right before a test. It clouds up my brain.”

  She shrugs. “Cool. I don’t need any last-minute prep, either. I had that textbook memorized before school even started.”

  Of course she did.

  I duck into the common bathroom on our floor, Violet trailing behind me. After some hurried teeth- and hair-brushing, I shove a stick of deodorant underneath my shirt and swipe it over my underarms, then zip up my toiletry case.

  Five minutes later, Violet and I have grabbed coffees from the stand in our lobby and are making our way across campus. My insides churn with every step I take. I’m so fucking nervous, and chugging half a cup of coffee on an empty stomach isn’t helping to ease those nerves.

  The way this program is set up, most of our courses are on a pass/fail basis. This one is the exception—a score of seventy percent or higher is required in order to pass the course. This is the grade they’ll be checking when they review the status of my scholarship.

  The good thing is, I’ve already passed all my other classes, so this is my last final. But I can’t afford to do poorly this morning. I have to kick this final’s ass.

  “So what’s the deal with you and Blake Riley? Did you break up?”

  Violet’s curious question jerks me out of my panic spiral. “What? No. I mean, we weren’t going out in the first place.”

  “But you went to that charity thing with him last week. There were pictures all over the internet of the two of you dancing.”

  Were there? In all honesty, I’ve been in a study bubble for the past ten days. Blake hasn’t even crossed my mind. Nobody has. In fact, last night I got a text from Jamie that simply said: You alive? I messaged back, Studying. Leave me alone. And that’s pretty much the only contact I’ve had with the outside world since the Broken Paws benefit.

  “You of all people should know that I’ve been married to my desk this week,” I remind Violet. “I haven’t had time to see anyone.”

  “Yeah, but he hasn’t texted you at all,” she points out. “Before the charity party, he was texting you all the time.”

  I furrow my brow, because 1) she’s been monitoring my text messages?? And 2) she’s right. It’s been a while since Blake sent me one of his randomly absurd texts. Or his deliciously filthy sexts.

  Is he avoiding me? Maybe he’s mad at me?

  Why would he be, though? Our on-and-off friends-with-benefits arrangement has suited us both. Besides, Blake is incapable of being mad at someone. He’s the man who lets his evil, lying ex consort with his poor unsuspecting family because he doesn’t want to tarnish her reputation. I doubt he even knows the meaning of anger.

  Still, I’m not thrilled with the idea that he might be ghosting me. I like this casual, have-sex-once-in-a-while thing we’ve got going on. It’s the perfect stress release, a nice orgasmic break from my chaotic schedule and an effective temporary-amnesia inducer that makes me forget about my empty bank account.

  “I guess he’s been busy,” I finally respond.

  Violet gives me a look.

  “What?”

  “Um, he’s a hockey player, Jess. If he hasn’t called you, that doesn’t mean he’s busy. It means he’s busy.”

  I raise my foam cup to my lips and take a sip. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he’s screwing other people.”

  The coffee gets stuck in my throat, and it takes a few seconds of coughing to clear it. “He’s not screwing other people,” I sputter. “And even if he was…” I trail off. Even if he was, what? I’d be okay with it?

  I mean, I guess I’d have to be okay with it. Blake and I never talked about us being exclusive. We agreed that our sexcapades weren’t going to be a habit. So how could I be mad if he’s seeing other women? And why did it take so long for the thought to even occur to me? Blake has the attention span of a fruit fly. He probably forgets I exist the moment he zips up his pants and walks away.

  My chest clenches at the thought. Okay, that stings. And the idea of him having sex with someone else while also sleeping with me sends a hot streak of…something… up my spine. Oh no. I think it might be jealousy.

  Violet speaks up again when I don’t continue. “All I’m saying is, most of the Toronto roster is made up of manwhores, and Blake Riley has always been one of them. If you don’t lock him down, he’s going to move on to some other girl.”

  “I don’t want to lock him down.” Then I question my own statement, because…do I? No, of course not. If I asked Blake for exclusivity, that would be saying that I want a commitment from him. Which I don’t.

  She shrugs. “Then you can’t get mad about him not texting you.”

  I wasn’t mad about it! I want to shout. I hadn’t even noticed Blake’s radio silence until she brought it up.

  I suddenly wonder if maybe she’s trying to get into my head. I was already freaking out about this final, and now, thanks to Violet, my brain is even more of a jumbled mess. But nobody is that calculating, right? I’m sure she was just trying to make conversation.

  As we walk into the lecture hall, I banish all thoughts of Blake from my head and force myself to concentrate on what’s important. Passing this exam. Excelling in this program. Proving to everyone that Jessica Canning is not a screw-up.

  I can do this.

  I know I can.

  I can’t do this.

  For the millionth time since I sat down, my gaze flies toward the clock over the door. We had three hours to write the final. We’re down to ten minutes.

  I have one question left to answer. It’s the hardest one on the test, which I decided to save for last after wasting the first twenty minutes blankly staring at my exam booklet and struggling to write something.

  I’m supposed to pick one of the diseases on the list and write a two-page “systematic examination of the disease process, physiological changes and nursing implications, grounding the assessment in a pathophysiological framework.”

  What the fuck does that even mean?

  Heat stings my eyes, and I order myself—no, command myself—not to cry in the middle of the lecture hall. I have ten minutes to write a two-page response. Nope, make that nine minutes, because I just wasted a whole minute panicking about it.

  Violet, of course, is long gone. She was beaming like a fireworks display when she delivered her booklet to the instructor thirty minutes early. She’s probably at the campus coffeehouse right now, bragging to everyone about how she aced this final.

  Stop thinking about Violet! Write something!

  I take a breath, then utilize the mantra Wes taught me after he caught me freaking out over a flower-related disaster when I was planning his wedding this summer.

  It’s going to be okay.

  It’s going to be okay.

  It’s going to be okay.

  I exhale slowly. Wow. All right. That kind of worked. Wes is really good at this calming-yourself-down stuff.

  With my pen firmly in hand, I bend my head and start writing. I write as fast as I can, not bothering to proofread every sentence the way I usually do. There’s no time. Just write, Jess. You’ve got this.

  When the instructor clears her throat and announces that our time is up, I drop my pen and release a breath of relief. My wrist is sore as hell, and my fingers are numb and l
ocked in a claw position, but I don’t care, because I did it. I answered the motherfuckin’ question! I filled two pages and I feel like I’ve just finished a 10K marathon.

  On shaky legs, I walk down the steps to hand in my paper. The instructor sets it on the pile with the other booklets and smiles as she bids me goodbye. I smile back, but it’s a tight, strained smile. The panic is setting in again, because I notice that a lot of the other students are handing in not one but two booklets. They wrote so much that they had to ask for extra paper? I wonder how many booklets Violet filled up. Ten, I bet.

  God, why couldn’t I have been born an over-achiever?

  I’m glummer than glum as I hitch my messenger bag over my shoulder and exit the building. Outside, the air is frigid and the wind is brisk. Winter’s coming, and I’m looking forward to it about as much as the Starks in the north. And that’s just another mistake the under-achieving Jess Canning could’ve avoided—spend more time studying and less time binge-watching Game of fucking Thrones. Maybe if I hadn’t wasted so much time on pointless shit these past couple of years, I wouldn’t be a twenty-six-year-old first-year nursing student who probably just bombed her final exam.

  Wonderful. I’m feeling sorry for myself again.

  What happened to me? I used to be so confident. But it’s like something has slowly been chipping away at my self-esteem ever since I graduated from high school.

  I watched all my siblings accomplish their goals. All my friends killed it in college and now have successful careers. The friends who didn’t have a driving career passion still found passion in other ways, like Darcy, who married the best guy on the planet and just had her first kid. She emailed me a few weeks ago and admitted that being a wife and mom is the most rewarding thing she’s ever done.

  And me? I’m struggling with yet another career path, and I don’t think I’ve ever been in a relationship that I would classify as “rewarding.”

  Okay, enough. Pity party’s over, missy.

  I draw a breath. Yeah, I need to stop wallowing. It’s totally counterproductive.

  I head back to the dorm, where I take the shower I was forced to skip earlier. Then I crawl into bed and pass out, catching up on all the sleep I missed during my ten-day cram session.