Hard Stick

by Paige North

  I smile, happy that he said nothing that made him look too much like a total egotistical douchebag.

  Then the interviewer tells him he’s looking good to be called up to the NHL, and he says, “I’ve always been good enough to play in the NHL. You didn’t tell me anything I don’t already know.”

  Major cringe moment.

  I mean, all my life, I’ve worked hard to get approval from people. I need to feel like people like me. But Flynn? It’s like works extra hard to make people hate him, to get a rise out of them. He actually feels better knowing people dislike him.

  Except, he’s kind of sweet to me. He’s never been mean to me. That means something, doesn’t it? No, he’s not Prince Charming, but on the bus, when he said he didn’t deserve me and called me a goddess? I swooned like any fairytale princess would.

  The next afternoon, I expect him to show up at my door, ready to crawl into that bed of mine he loves so much and spend all day fucking me. Instead, he texts me:

  Miss me?

  Oh, yes. If he’d shown up at my door, I’d have him in my pants right now, where he belongs. Instead, now I have to wait for him to get here. Pouting, I type in, Who’s this again?

  Smartass.

  I type in: You know what’s smart? And I quote: You didn’t tell me anything I don’t already know.

  I can tell he’s grinning in his next text: You saw that? Classic. The look on his face…

  A lot of people saw that. And I doubt your coaches and the ownership found it funny.

  Oh well, Freckles. Just being me.

  He’s proud. He’s actually proud of looking like a total dick.

  And then suddenly he switches subjects as his next text comes through. And it nearly blows me away:

  You really want to see where I live?

  Almost too eagerly, I type in: Fuck yes.

  That’s my dirty girl. Tonight. Pick you up at your place in an hour

  I put in a smiley emoji. He puts in one that looks like a crazy guy. As thrilled as I am to see him again, I have to wonder . . . what the heck does the crazy-face mean?

  What new insanity does he have in store for me?

  Flynn arrives at the house as the sun is setting, leaving me all day to prepare myself for the evening on his turf. By the time he arrives, I’ve been sitting out on the front stoop for fifteen minutes, and have the whole night planned in my head.

  I’d love nothing more than to take a romantic stroll through the city, to his neighborhood. We take the elevator to his swanky penthouse, kissing and canoodling the whole way up. His apartment will be modern and sparse, with floor to ceiling windows overlooking a vast cityscape. Maybe he’ll have a few posters of hockey greats on the wall, but other than that, no décor. It’ll be positively screaming out for a woman’s touch. Maybe we’ll order in Chinese, but I expect we’ll spend most of the time in his King bed, under the clean white comforter.

  When a giant black motorcycle stops in front of the house, my stomach drops. Then, its owner pulls off his helmet, confirming my fears.

  It’s Flynn.

  My stomach nose-dives, right into my big toe.

  “Hey,” he says, holding the helmet out to me as I pull my coat up around my ears. “You wear mine. I don’t have another.”

  I stare at the helmet. Oh, my god. This is one of those things my mother classified as utterly insane, along with juggling chainsaws and snorting cocaine. She’d kill me if she even saw me considering this.

  Then I think, maybe I can just take the T wherever I need to go and meet him there. But the idea of wrapping my arms around his waist, being close to him . . .

  I take the helmet, fix it over my head. “I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before.”

  “New city, new experiences. Right, Freckles?” Then he grins and pats the shiny black seat. “Besides, this isn’t a motorcycle. It’s a Harley Road King.”

  I stare at it. “What does that mean? Does it fly?”

  “Almost.” He stands in front of me, jiggling the helmet on my head to make sure it’ll stay on. Luckily what I lack in head I make up in hair, because it fits pretty well. “It’s not far. You’ll be warm enough?”

  I nod. Whenever I’m with him, the temperature always seems to skyrocket.

  I straddle the cycle behind him, wrap my arms tight around his waist, clasping my hands together in front of his hard chest, and he murmurs, “You scared?”

  I squeeze him harder, imagining the cycle taking off, somehow dropping me behind in its dust, where I crack my head open and bleed to death. “What makes you think that?”

  “You’re holding me so tight, breathing isn’t even possible.” I blush and try to loosen my grip, but I can feel his body vibrating with laughter. “For the record, I don’t mind, Savi.”

  I squeeze my eyes closed and press my cheek against his leather jacket, right between his shoulder blades, as the Harley roars to life and we begin to ease out of the parking space outside my house. I inhale the scent of leather and diesel and him, hoping that as intoxicating as it is, it’ll be enough to calm me down. It won’t be long. He said it was close, I remind myself, trying not to concentrate on the fact that there is absolutely no barrier between the hard, hard pavement and my soft little body.

  “You okay?” he calls to me.

  I can’t answer. My vocal chords are frozen. He slows to a stop and I peek one eye open, but as I do, I realize we’re just at a light, and he starts up again, zooming through the city.

  I open the other eye and venture a look around, just as we’re racing across a bridge and into the deepest part of the city, where there lights of skyscrapers are glittering above us. “What bridge is this?” I ask him.

  “Longfellow,” he says.

  And then, I don’t know what happens. I breathe in the chilly sea air, mingling with the yummy clean scent of him. Scenes whip past us at breakneck speed, lights blur into bright lines all around me, and it all I know is that it’s exhilarating and thrilling and Ohio seems a billion miles away.

  And that’s just fine with me.

  I somehow feel safe with him, can sense his comfort with the cycle, trust his power and strength and instincts. I don’t believe he would take chances with my life.

  When he finally does pull into a side street and slows down, I’m sad it’s over. I could totally see myself being one of those Harley girls who wears nothing but head-to-toe leather and hangs out in biker bars. I scan the street as he eases the Harley onto a street that’s positively packed with cars. The street is lined with crumbling brick row-homes, all impossibly narrow, squished together like sardines. There are cars parked on lawns, boarded-up windows, and discarded trash cans everywhere. A few people are milling around outside the Irish pub on the corner.

  I pull off the helmet and shake out my hair, hoping I don’t look like hell.

  And he thought I lived in a bad neighborhood. Already, this night has been nothing like what I imagined. But the funny thing is, I don’t even mind. In fact, I think I like this place—quiet, unassuming, lived in—better. “Which house is yours?”

  He points to number 747, which is half brick, half peeling blue-gray clapboard. “I live in the apartment upstairs.”

  “You grew up in this neighborhood?” I ask, recalling the information from his file.

  “Yep. Grew up downstairs.”

  So that means he’s lived in this house all his life, with his family. His family, who, up to now, he’s never even said one word about. In fact, up until now, I assumed he never had any family. That picture he’d had in his wallet of his “sister”? I assumed it came with the wallet. No guy who acts as outrageous as he does can possibly have family, can he?

  And if he does, are they as outrageous as he is?

  I follow him across the street to the virtually non-existent front lawn, which is really just a small square of yellowing grass, putting two and two together. No. He can’t be. He’s not really doing what I think he’s doing.

  He leads me to a long,
narrow ramp, which is really two boards, placed over a staircase. He climbs it like it’s nothing, but the second I step on the first board, it shudders, and I nearly lose my balance. I grasp the cold metal railing.

  He looks back and me and reaches for my hand. “Sorry. Shitty makeshift ramp,” he says. “Boards keep coming up. Haven’t had time to set them good.”

  “It’s okay,” I say breathlessly and he grabs a hold of my hand and hoists me up to the landing. He knocks on the door there, as I look up the staircase toward the second floor. Is he really going to . . .

  A man with gray hair opens the door and peers at us from behind the screen. “Flynn, you suddenly forgot you live here? What’s with the knocking?” he asks, his eyes shifting to me.

  “I brought a guest. You all decent?” He says as the man opens the screen door for us, ushering us in. “Dad, this is Savannah.”

  Oh, my god. He is doing what I think he’s doing. He is introducing me to his parents. His father has a kind face, Flynn’s dark eyes, and his strong jaw, but he’s nearly a head and shoulders shorter than Flynn, and as skinny as can be. I probably weigh more than him. Still, he shakes my hand firmly. “How you doing?” he asks.

  “Um. Good.” If I’d had any clue that a family meeting might be in store, I wouldn’t have worn the clingy red V-neck sweater that shows my cleavage. I might be totally wrong, but isn’t meeting the parents a big step in a relationship? And Flynn doesn’t do relationships. Plus, didn’t we already discuss this . . . I’m leaving at the end of December?

  “We’re always decent!” a voice calls from somewhere within the house. I peer over his dad’s shoulder to see a woman with dark, curly hair, maneuvering toward us in a wheelchair. “Oh, my god, Flynn, you brought a girlfriend to our Annual Friday Thanksgiving?”

  I look at Flynn. Is that a slight blush I detect underneath his stubble? I expect him to correct her and say that I’m just a friend, but he doesn’t deny it. He says, “Yeah, ma, this is Savannah,” as his father ushers me inside. He says to me, “For the past few years I’ve always had a game on Thursday, so we always do Thanksgiving on Friday.”

  I find myself in a cramped kitchen that smells like . . . oh, Hallelujah. It smells like turkey. And . . . apple pie?

  My mouth immediately starts to water. I haven’t had a home cooked meal in ages.

  I immediately see why his mother is in the wheelchair. Just below her knees, there is . . . nothing. I look away quickly, doing everything possible not to stare. “Hello,” I say quietly. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Flynn brought a girlfriend?” someone shouts inside the house. A thundering noise on above, and then there’s two, three . . . okay, no, four young people running down the narrow staircase toward me, whooping and hollering. Before I can brace myself for the onslaught, they’re all crowding around me, shaking my hand, introducing themselves. I barely catch the name of a perky teenager with blue streaks in Flynn’s cinnamon colored hair . . . Regan, or Tegan. A couple of tall, lanky boys with acne, who have got to be twins. A girl of about eight or nine with a beat-up American Girl-type doll, who flings herself into Flynn’s arms.

  The girl from the picture. So she is really his sister.

  Flynn swings her around and then puts her on the ground, and all I can think of is . . .this is Flynn’s family? Yes, I see traces of him in them—the youngest girl has his eyes, the boys have his strong nose. But they’re so normal.

  “Okay, guys, give her space.” He looks at his dad. “When’s dinner?”

  “In five. Good timing.” He pats the little girl on the head. “Set places for two more, Livvie.”

  She rushes off to do as she’s told, and I just stand there, swallowing. “Hey,” he whispers, squeezing my hand. “You asked for this.”

  I did? I can’t seem to remember anything right now, because I have eight pairs of strange eyes watching me like I’m the evening’s entertainment. His mother elbows him in the thigh. “She’s a pretty one, Flynn.”

  Flynn groans. “You do realize she’s right there, ma. And she can hear everything you’re saying?”

  She shrugs and smiles at me, then whispers conspiratorially to me, “He’s so silly, sometimes, about girls.”

  I have to laugh, because now, I’m sure he’s blushing, just like a teenager who has his first crush.

  “Ma,” he says, slumping against the door jamb. “I’m right here. And I, also, can hear everything you’re saying.”

  She shrugs again, and whispers, “He never brings his girlfriends home.”

  Flynn’s smile is tight-lipped. “Wonder why.”

  He never brings girls home? Why am I the first? Regan grins. “We begged him to bring Melissa Sawyer over for dinner when he was going out with her. You know, the actress? I wanted her autograph.”

  Wait, he was dating Melissa Sawyer? Not only is she insanely talented, she’s been on the cover of MAXIM because she’s a goddess that men all over the country drool over. My stomach flip-flops as Flynn motions to me like it’s no big deal. “Well, Savannah’ll give you her autograph.” Then he shoves his brothers down the hall, away from me. “Okay, everyone. Disperse. Give her some breathing room.”

  “Can I help with anything?” I ask Mr. Taylor as he heads back into the kitchen.

  “How’d you like to help me make a salad?” he asks me.

  I follow him into the kitchen. I can tell Flynn isn’t sure I should be left alone with his dad, but I wave him away. “You’re safe,” I tell him. “I can’t mess up your salad that much.”

  He thrusts his chin at his father. “I’m worried about that one, messing with you,” he mumbles, hesitating in the doorway. “He’s full of shit. Don’t believe a word he says.”

  “Language, Flynn,” his father says, monotone, shoving both of his hands into oven mitts.

  I laugh. Hearing Flynn being berated by his dad for using the s-word is about the last thing I thought would be on the agenda for tonight.

  His father is wiry and swift, moving around the kitchen like a dynamo in a little flowered apron the way Flynn moves around the ice. Despite it being cramped and dated, Mr. Taylor clearly knows his way around it. He sets me up at the breakfast bar, slicing cucumbers, and meanwhile dances about the place, peering in pots and inside the oven. “So, you’re not from around these parts, I take it?” he asks.

  “No,” I say as I slice, wondering what gives me away. “Ohio. I’m a senior at Cambridge.”

  “How’d you meet our supahstah?” He says, actually giving me jazz hands in his oven mitts. When I laugh, he says, “Don’t ask me where he gets it. The rest of us don’t have an athletic bone. Sure, I took him to a lot of games and some practices at the Y, but I’m a retired warehouse manager, myself.”

  “I’m doing a psych study for my senior project, and the Argonauts are part of it,” I explain.

  “Oh, you’re studying to be a head shrinker? Well, that’s good, maybe you can figure out a way to get him past himself.” When I start to ask him what he means, he whispers, “One bad game in the NHL, and he was done. I don’t say as much, but I think that game messed with his head so bad that he’s deliberately doing everything he can to avoid getting called back.”

  I raise an eyebrow, a little surprised about the revelation. “I never heard about that game. What happened?”

  He shrugs. “He just blew it. It was everything he’d been working for, every day of his life, landing in his lap. Had a crisis of confidence, I guess. And then I think he decided it was better for him to stay a big fish in a smaller pond. He makes like he doesn’t want the NHL because he doesn’t want to be sent to another city and have to leave his mother and me. But that’s bullshit, pardon my French. His dream has always been the NHL, even since he was a kid. I mean, you’ve seen him. Ain’t a better forward on the ice anywhere.”

  Hmm. I pile the cucumbers in my hands and drop them in a salad bowl. “He is amazing,” I agree. And not just on the ice, I think.

  “And don’t let any of that stuff
he does fool you,” he says. “It’s all an act. There is a different soul under that tough-guy act of his.”

  At that moment, I can believe it. I’ve already seen a completely different, gentler side of him, in the ten minutes since I’ve walked through the door.

  A second later, Flynn pokes his head in the kitchen doorway. I have to wonder if he heard us talking about him, but if so, he doesn’t let on. “Hope this man isn’t harassing you,” he says, pulling open the refrigerator, hanging on the door, and grabbing a Sam Adams. He holds it up to me. “Beer?”

  I nod.

  He opens the lid on the side of the counter and hands it to me. I take a swig and finish tossing the salad with croutons, carrots, and iceberg lettuce as his dad pulls a giant, picture-perfect turkey out of the oven.

  Dinner is a little surreal. In my family, the three of us are so quiet, every little clink of silverware is noticeable. Here, it’s so noisy, with people carrying on side conversations, screaming at the top of their lungs, fighting over the last potato. The food is utterly delicious, so I easily stuff myself worse than a Thanksgiving turkey.

  I sit next to Flynn, who is the oldest of the five siblings, and clearly the big favorite. Livvie keeps asking him when he’ll take her rollerblading on the new blades he got her for her birthday and the twin boys, Andrew and Tom, are each trying to impress him with stories from their last high school hockey game. Regan, who must be thirteen or fourteen, keeps looking at her phone, but when she isn’t, she’s looking back and forth between the two of us. I think she’s trying to figure out what our relationship is, exactly.

  Me, too. Up until tonight, I was pretty sure it was ending with the semester. And now . . .

  By the time dessert ends, I almost feel like part of the family. Clean-up is this massive joint effort. Flynn washes and his father dries, then hands it to Tom, who puts it away. They are so cute, like a well-oiled machine, and yet they easily fit me into the works. I take plates from the table and hand them to Livvie, who hands them off to Regan, as Mrs. Taylor gives orders from her wheelchair. Clean-up is done in no time.

  Afterwards, Flynn leans down to give his mother a kiss, then hugs Livvie, who is still trying to get him to take her rollerblading outside.