After practice, we hit the showers. I stand under the spray and let the scalding water beat down on my aching shoulders. This tournament might just be the death of me.
My old team in LA sucked, which means we never had to worry about a post-season. Going this long at this high a competitive level is taking its toll on my body. Bruises, sore ribs, tired muscles. I honestly don’t know how professionals do it. If I’m even able to stand up on skates next season it’ll be a miracle. There are a lot of guys who think they want to go pro. Less than half have a legitimate shot. Me, I’ve never harbored any delusions that I’m NHL material. Nor do I want to be. Hockey has always just been a hobby, something to keep me out of trouble. Idle hands and all that. Soon, this part of my life will be over.
Problem is, I don’t have any idea what comes next.
“Hey, Captain, I move to call the Relationship Status Inquisition into session,” Bucky shouts out above the noise of the showers.
“I second that motion,” Jesse calls back.
“The motion carries.” Hunter stands in the stall beside me. I feel him staring at the side of my face. “This session of the Relationship Status Inquisition is now open. Bucky, call your first witness.”
“I call Joe Foster to the stand.”
“Present!” Foster gurgles out under the spray of his shower faucet at the opposite end of the room.
“I fucking hate you guys,” I say as I grab a towel and wrap it around my waist.
“Is it true, Mr. Foster, that Conor Edwards did publicly and embarrassingly drop to his knees to profess his love to Kappa Party Girl after he was known to have hooked up with Instagram Natalie?”
“Wait, what?” Foster asks blankly. “Oh, at the banquet thing. Yeah. It was fucking gross.”
“And did he subsequently bring Kappa Party Girl home that evening?”
“Yo, Bucky, I didn’t know you could use four-syllable words,” Gavin says, ribbing him as they leave the showers.
I head to my locker to get dressed, the guys breathing down my neck.
“Yeah, they spent a long time in his bedroom. Alone.” Foster’s going to find his car stuffed full of dildos sometime in the very near future.
“And they FaceTimed the other day,” Matt pipes up, a big stupid grin on his face. “He called her.”
A round of mock gasps travels through the room.
Guess Matt can look forward to some dildos too.
“You can all eat shit,” I drawl.
“I seem to remember,” Hunter says, “you conspiring to interfere in my dick affairs. Payback’s a bitch.”
“At least I don’t need you to make out with my girlfriend to get me to fuck her.”
“Ouch,” Bucky laughs. “He’s got you there, Cap.”
“So this is a real thing?” Hunter asks, unfazed by my jab at his stupid chastity bargain. “You and…”
“Taylor. And yeah, sort of.”
“Sort of?”
No, it isn’t real, technically. And it kind of sucks lying to the guys.
But also, what makes it not real? I mean, I’m not going to sleep with other women or date, because that wouldn’t be respectful to either Taylor or those potential women. She hasn’t said as much out loud, but I suspect she feels the same way on the subject. So that checks the monogamy box.
And okay, yeah, we’re not screwing or kissing or touching at all, but that doesn’t mean I’m opposed to those things. I think if I could make Taylor see herself the way I do, make her appreciate her body the way I do—fuuuuuck, do I appreciate it—then maybe she’ll loosen up a little and be open to the screwing and kissing and touching part. So that checks the attraction box.
Truth is, Taylor’s fun to hang out with and I like talking to her. She’s unpretentious and kinda hilarious. Best of all, she doesn’t expect anything from me. I don’t have to be some version of me that she’s concocted in her head or meet some wild expectations that only wind up disappointing both of us. And she doesn’t judge—not once has she made me feel like she looks down on me or is embarrassed by my choices or reputation. I don’t need her to approve, just accept, and I get the sense that she likes me for me.
Worst case, I get a good friend out of the deal. Best case, I screw her brains out. Win-win either way.
“It is what it is,” I say, pulling a hoodie over my head. “We’re having fun.”
Fortunately, the guys drop it, mostly because they have the attention span of fruit flies. Hunter’s already texting Demi on his way out the door, while Matt and Foster start discussing the squid movie we all watched the other night.
On my way out of the hockey facility, my phone rings. “MOM” flashes on the screen.
“Go on ahead,” I tell Matt. “I’ll be right there.” As my teammate ambles off toward the parking lot, I slow my gait and answer the call. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hey Mister,” Mom says. No matter how old I get, it’s like I’m still five in her eyes. “I haven’t heard from you in ages. Everything okay out there in the tundra?”
I chuckle. “Sun’s actually out today, if you can believe it.” I don’t mention that the temperature is only fifty degrees—and it’s the end of frickin’ March. Spring is taking its sweet-ass time getting to New England.
“That’s good. I was worried you’d finish your first east coast winter with a Vitamin D deficiency.”
“Nope. All good here. What about you? What’s happening with the fires?” Wildfires had been wreaking havoc on the west coast for the past few weeks. It’s been making me antsy knowing my mom’s out there breathing in all that crap.
“Oh, well, you know. Last couple weeks I’ve been putting up plastic and taping the doors and windows shut to keep the smoke out. Bought four brand new air purifiers that are supposed to suck up anything bigger than an atom. I think they’re drying out my skin, though. But maybe it’s just the lack of humidity lately. Anyhow, the fires down this way are out now, they said, so the smoke’s mostly cleared. Which is good, because I just started a new sunrise beach yoga class.”
“Yoga, Mom?”
“Oh, God, I know, right?” She laughs at herself. It’s an infectious sound I hadn’t realized I’d missed so much. “But Christian’s partner Richie—you remember Christian from across the street—he just started teaching the class. He invited me and I didn’t know how to tell him no, so…”
“So now you’re a yoga lady.”
“I know, right? Who woulda thunk it?”
Certainly not me. Mom used to spend sixty, seventy hours a week on her feet in a salon then came home to chase my ass all over the neighborhood. If someone had invited her to sunrise beach yoga back then, she probably would’ve punched them in the throat. Making the transition from LA working single mother to HBC housewife was a tough one for her. She spent a lot of energy trying to fit in with a certain idea of herself and then resenting the inadequacy as a result, at least until she figured out how to stop giving a shit.
People who say money doesn’t buy happiness aren’t using it right. But hey, if Mom’s at the point where she can take some joy in waking up at the crack of dawn for frivolous shit, I’m happy for her.
“I told Max if he starts seeing Goop charges on the credit card statements to stage an intervention.”
“How is Max?” Not that I care, but it makes Mom feel better when I act like I give a shit.
In my defense, I’m certain my stepdad only asks her about me for the same reason—to score points. Max tolerates me because he loves my mom, but he’s never bothered trying to get to know me. Dude’s kept his distance from day one. I suspect he was relieved when I told them I wanted to transfer to an east coast school. He was so happy to get rid of me he pulled every string possible to get me into Briar.
And I was equally relieved to go. Guilt has a way of pressing down on you until you’ll do anything to escape.
“He’s terrific. Out of town for work right now, but he gets back Friday morning. So we’ll both be cheering you on in spirit F
riday night. Any chance the game will be televised?”
“Probably not,” I reply as I near the parking lot. “If we make it to the final tournament, then for sure. Anyway, Mom, I gotta go. Just finished practice and need to drive home.”
“Okay, sweetie. Text or call before you leave for Buffalo this weekend.”
“Will do.”
We say goodbye and I hang up and approach the beat-up black Jeep I share with Matt. Technically it’s mine, but he chips in for gas and pays for the oil changes, which means I don’t need to dip into the account Max tops up for me every month. I hate being dependent on my stepfather, but at the moment I have no choice.
“Everything okay?” Matt asks when I hop into the passenger seat.
“Yeah, sorry. Was talking to my mom.”
He looks disappointed.
“What?” I narrow my eyes.
“I was hoping you’d say it was your new girl and then I could make fun of you some more. But moms are off-limits.”
I snicker. “Since when? You mock Bucky about banging his mother practically on a daily basis.”
Although speaking of my “new girl,” I haven’t heard from her since last night, when she replied “LOL” to a hilarious video I sent her. Just an LOL. To a video of a surfing Chihuahua! What the hell.
As Matt pulls out of the parking lot, I shoot a quick text off to Taylor.
ME: Whatcha doing, hot stuff?
She doesn’t respond for nearly thirty minutes. I’m home and in my kitchen making a smoothie when she finally gets back to me.
TAYLOR: Working. I’ve got co-op at Hastings Elementary.
Ah, right. She’d mentioned she was serving as a teacher’s aide as part of her degree requirement.
ME: Dinner later?
HER: Can’t :(
HER: Have plans with friends at the diner. Talk later?
Well, shit. Been a while since anyone turned down a date with me, and even that was only so she could get me into bed faster. Taylor’s rejection hurts more than I know what to do with, but I’m very good at pretending not to care about stuff. Fake it till you make it, right?
ME: Sure thing.
10
Taylor
I’m neck deep in construction paper butterflies and pipe cleaner caterpillars when the end-of-day bell rings. The kids drop their scissors and glue sticks to run for their cubbies where their backpacks and coats are kept.
“Not so fast,” I remind them. “Come put your supplies away and hang up your projects to dry.”
“Miss Marsh?” One of the girls taps me on the arm. “I can’t find my shoe.”
She stands forlorn in one purple waterproof boot and one cartoon character sock.
“When’s the last time you had your shoe, Katy?”
She shrugs.
“Did you and Tamara trade shoes again?”
Another shrug. This one with some bottom lip protruding and eyes cast down at her mismatched feet.
I swallow a sigh. “Go find Tamara and see where she left your shoe.”
Katy scurries off. I watch her progress while picking up scraps of paper and pushing desks back into their proper arrangement. With Tamara’s guidance, who herself isn’t wearing any shoes, they find the missing footwear in the reading corner with the costumes Mrs. Gardner uses to have the kids act out characters while they read aloud.
The thing about first graders, they lie as easy as breathing. They’re just not very good at it yet. That, and it’s damn near impossible to keep all their clothes on them. Half my job is just making sure we send them home wearing only what they arrived in. Yup. It is a thankless and unending battle against the Lost & Found box.
“If there was such a thing as foot lice,” Mrs. Gardner says as we see the last stragglers off, “this classroom would be quarantined by the CDC.”
I grin. “At least it’s still cold enough outside that they’re wearing socks. I hate to see what happens when it gets warmer.”
She heaves a defeated breath. “That’s why I keep anti-fungal spray in my desk.”
There’s a lovely thought.
Hastings Elementary is just a ten-minute walk from my three-story apartment building. There aren’t any high-rises in Hastings, only little buildings and shops, and residential streets lined with townhouses or rambling old Victorians. It’s a cute town and everything is in walking distance, which I appreciate because I don’t own a car.
I let myself into my tiny studio and grab a granola bar from the cupboard. As I munch on it, I text Sasha with my free hand.
ME: I don’t need to dress up for dinner or anything, right??
I’ve never actually gone out with Lisa and those girls, so I have no idea what to expect. But we’re only meeting at the diner, so, really, how fancy can it be?
SASHA: Dress up?? I’m not. Jeans + tank + leather jacket + boots = me.
ME: Ok, good. I’m keeping it cas too.
HER: You bringing C? :P
ME: Why would I be bringing C??
HER: Lisa said bf’s were welcome…
ME: Haha.
Sasha knows damn well that Conor isn’t really my boyfriend, but she’s getting a kick out of teasing me about it. Or maybe she thinks if she refers to him as my boyfriend enough times, then it’ll magically transform from pretend to real. Poor, naïve Sasha. I have no doubt Conor will get bored soon, which means the charade can’t last much longer. A shame, really, because our supposed love affair continues to piss the hell out of Abigail.
Last night at a mandatory house dinner, Abigail’s boyfriend wouldn’t let up on all the “jock cock” I was gobbling while blatantly staring at my tits. During dessert he remarked that I looked like Marilyn Monroe only “extra curvy,” at which point Sasha asked him what it’s like living life with a micropenis. Abigail, meanwhile, kept scratching at the side of her neck every time Conor’s name came up, until her skin was red and raw and flaking off her. Is it possible to contract jealousy hives?
Of course, such pettiness would be entirely beneath me.
Entirely.
ME: You don’t think Lisa invited Abigail, do you?
SASHA: God I hope not. I don’t have the patience for 2 dinners in a row with that witch. If she’s there, we turn around and walk right out, deal?
ME: Deal.
Luckily, when Sasha and I walk into the diner later that night, Abigail and her douchebag boyfriend Kevin are nowhere to be seen. Lisa brought her boyfriend Cory, though, and Robin’s sitting with some guy who introduces himself as “Shep.” Olivia came solo, and I end up seated next to her, with Sasha on my other side.
I get barely a bite into my BLT before the girls start in on me.
“Okay, but, like, how is he in the sack?” Lisa asks, thoroughly ignoring her boyfriend’s uneasy squirm. Clearly he’d rather be anywhere else than smack in the middle of Conor Edwards’ exploits.
You and me both, brother.
“How big is he?” Olivia demands.
“Is he circumcised?”
“Grower or shower?”
“Could we not?” Sasha says, dangling a chicken finger in the air. “I don’t want to hear about dicks while I’m eating.”
“Thank you,” mumbles Cory.
“Fine, but is he a good kisser?” Olivia has her phone out, openly salivating at Conor’s Instagram. The boyfriends have at this point been reduced to chewing their burgers in emasculated silence. “He looks like he’d be a good kisser. Not too much mouth.”
“What does too much mouth even mean?” I ask with a laugh.
“You know, when they’re like trying to swallow your lips. I don’t want to feel any part of the kiss on my chin.” Olivia plants her elbows on the table, a fork in one fist. “Spill it, Taylor. I want filthy details.”
“His kissing is…” A mystery. Unascertained. None of my business. “Apt.”
“Apt, she says.” Sasha shakes her head, smirking. “Only you would call kissing ‘apt.’”
“I don’t know, it’s kissi
ng.” I shrug awkwardly.
How much is there to say on the topic? Nothing, in fact, when I’m working on entirely fabricated experience. Not that the idea doesn’t hold some appeal. Conor is incredibly attractive, and he has really, really nice lips. Full, in a masculine way. He seems like the kind of guy who treats kissing as its own pursuit rather than a means to an end.
To be fair, I haven’t kissed many people—only four, to be exact, and three of those four were terrible experiences. Junior year of high school was my first kiss, and we both sucked at it. Waaaay too much tongue. We made out a few times after that but it didn’t get any better.
Then came freshman year of college, when I was pressured into kissing Rebecca during pledge week, and sophomore year, when I accidentally kissed Abigail’s boyfriend on a dare.
My fourth go at kissing wasn’t awful. Not earth-shattering, either, but at least it didn’t include buckets of saliva or forced contact. I dated a guy named Andrew for four months and he was a decent kisser. We never went further than dry humping, though, which is probably why we broke up. He claimed it was because I couldn’t “open up” to him, and I suppose that played a part in it too, but we both knew the no-sex part wasn’t cutting it for him. I just… I didn’t feel comfortable doing it with him.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever meet a guy who makes me feel secure enough to take all my clothes off in front of him.
“Oh my God.” Olivia all but dives under the table. Beside her, Lisa chokes on her soda and begins hacking up a lung.
I turn around to see what’s got them in such a fit.
Conor Fucking Edwards.
Why am I not surprised? I feel like he’s got Spidey senses that alert him whenever chicks are discussing his penis.
All six feet and two inches of him comes striding through the diner toward our table. He’s in his black-and-silver Briar Hockey jacket and a pair of dark-blue jeans that hug his long legs. Steely gray eyes sparkle with mischief as he combs one hand through his long blond hair. When his gaze lands on me, the excitement in his full, broad smile does a number on my head. And my pulse.
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