“How would I even do that?”
“By hacking into the system and driving my Rover off a cliff.” He sounds smug.
“I want to drive you off a cliff now,” I threaten. “Just let me sync up, dammit.” And then because I’m a jerk, I go through the process of pairing my phone to his car. Whistling the entire time.
When I’m done, I graciously ask, “What would you like to listen to?”
He glowers at me. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“If you don’t pick something, I’ll put on Disney soundtracks.”
Hunter capitulates. “Got any old-school hip hop mixes?”
I nod in approval. “Coming right up.” I click on a popular playlist and we spend the remainder of the drive locked in a competitive rap battle to Cypress Hill and Run-DMC. By the time we reach the city, my throat is hoarse, and Hunter’s face is lobster red from laughing.
“You got mad rhymes, Semi!” he says gleefully. “We need to make a YouTube video.”
“Oh God, never. I have zero interest in being in the spotlight. Unlike you.”
“Me?”
“You like the spotlight, no? Won’t you be playing professional hockey when you’re done college?”
Hunter surprises me by shaking his head. “No, I didn’t declare for the draft and I don’t plan on signing with a team after I graduate. Teams have come knocking on my door since high school, but I always tell them I’m not interested.”
“Why the heck not?”
“I’m just not. I don’t want that kind of national attention.”
I wrinkle my forehead. “But aren’t you really talented? The girls at the house said you’re the best player on the team.”
“I’m okay.”
I appreciate the modesty. But all it tells me is that Hunter must be a lot more than okay.
“I’m not interested in the pros, Demi. Not everyone wants to be famous.”
It’s a peculiar answer and I don’t quite buy it, but the British lady on Hunter’s GPS is chirping that our destination is up ahead on the right.
I smile as we drive down the street I’ve called home since I was fifteen. Even after six years on the east coast, my mother still isn’t in love with Boston, whereas I liked it the moment we moved here.
Miami is loud and colorful and undeniably fun, but just because I’m half Latina doesn’t mean I want things to be loud all the time. We lived in Little Havana, a mostly Cuban community full of art galleries and coffee shops and cigar stores on every street corner. It’s a bustling area, almost the polar opposite of Boston’s conservative Beacon Hill neighborhood.
My new city, while not as IN YOUR FACE as Miami, has its own unique character, from its brownstones and tree-lined streets to Boston Common and Newbury Street. Plus, despite contrary opinion, I find the accents downright charming.
“Here we are. Have fun with your parents,” Hunter says.
“Have fun at your game.”
I’m pleased to notice that he waits until I reach the front stoop before pulling away from the curb. Real gentlemen are hard to find these days.
My mother shrieks happily when I walk through the door. She’s the loudest person on the planet. My friends insist that she’s a clone of Sofia Vergara from Modern Family, and they’re not far off the mark. Although Mom’s not Colombian like the character, she’s drop-dead gorgeous with a voice that could shatter every plate in a china store.
Blabbering on in Spanish, she hugs me tight enough to restrict my airflow, then drags me down the hall toward the kitchen. “Where’s Dad?” I ask.
“On his way home from the hospital. He just finished surgery, so expect Grumpy Papa tonight.”
I’m used to Grumpy Papa. Some surgeons ride a high after they operate, but Dad is always exhausted after a long surgery, and he gets cranky when he’s tired. Like a toddler. But he deserves to be cut some slack, because—hello—he just saved somebody’s life. Brain surgeons are allowed a free bitchiness pass, as far as I’m concerned.
“Are you hungry?” Mom demands, then answers her own question. “Of course you are! Sit down so I can feed you, mami. How is school going?”
“Good.” I fill her in on my classes and the project with Hunter, while she unloads Tupperware containers from the fridge.
If my visit hadn’t been last minute, I have no doubt she would’ve cooked me a feast. Instead, I’m relegated to the leftovers from whatever feast she cooked for Dad yesterday. And it’s spectacular. Soon the cedar work island is laden with dishes, most of them Cuban, with a few of Dad’s American favorites sprinkled in.
My mouth waters as each new item emerges from the microwave. There’s shredded beef seasoned to perfection with veggies and olives and served on brown rice. Cuban chicken stew with raisins to give it a bit of sweetness. Stuffed peppers. Fried beans. The roasted potatoes and garlic carrots that Dad likes.
“Oh my goodness, Mom,” I declare while inhaling her food. “I’ve missed your cooking so much.” Pieces of rice fly out of my mouth as I talk.
“Demi,” she chides.
“Hmmmm?” I mumble through a mouthful of spicy beef.
She flips her glossy brown hair over one shoulder. “Of all the traits you could’ve inherited from your father, his poor table manners is what it had to be?”
“What? You should take it as a compliment that we both enjoy your cooking.”
“Maybe you can enjoy it with your mouth full,” she suggests. “And leave some carrots for your father.” She slaps my hand when I try to stick my fork in the carrot container.
Speaking of my father, he appears in the doorway without warning. I hadn’t heard him come in. Granted, that’s probably because I’m chewing so loudly.
“Hi baby,” he says happily. Enormous arms encircle me from behind as he places a kiss on the top of my head
“Hey Daddy.” I swallow some more rice.
He greets my mother, which is always a fun sight to see. Standing at six foot five, Dad is a bald black guy with arms like tree trunks, palms like oven mitts, and long but surprisingly delicate fingers. Or I guess not surprisingly, seeing as how nimble digits are required when poking around in somebody’s skull. And then there’s Mom, who’s all of five feet, with huge boobs and shiny hair and the Latin temper she passed on to me. They’re the cutest couple ever, and I adore my little family. Being an only child means I don’t have to share anything with a sibling, including my parents’ attention.
Dad joins me at the counter and digs into the leftovers. Mom, who has trouble staying still, eventually sits down too and nibbles on an olive while Dad tells us about his surgery. The patient was a construction worker whose skull nearly got crushed by a falling steel beam. He wasn’t wearing his hardhat, and now he might have permanent brain damage. It’s heartbreaking. Which is one of the reasons I’d never want to be a surgeon—that and I don’t have the hands for it. My fingers get trembly when I’m nervous, and I can’t imagine a more anxiety-inducing situation than sawing into a human being’s skull.
The topic once again shifts to my classes, which I list for my father. “Organic Chem, bio, math, and Abnormal Psych.”
“Organic Chemistry was always a favorite of mine,” Dad reveals, sipping on a glass of water Mom gets for him.
“It’s my least favorite,” I confess. “Right now I’m having the most fun with the psychology class. It’s so fascinating.”
“Are you taking physics next semester?”
I grimace. “Unfortunately.”
Dad laughs. “You’ll enjoy it,” he promises. “And then wait till med school! Everything you learn there will be fascinating. Have you given more thought to that MCATs tutor? I have a good one lined up—just say the word.”
I swallow, but it does nothing to alleviate the lump of pressure that constricts my throat. “Maybe next semester?” I counter. “I’m worried my grades will dip a little if I add another study commitment to my schedule.”
“It’ll only be a few times a w
eek.”
A few times a week? Oh my God, I thought I’d only have to see this tutor once, maybe twice a week.
“Let me see how it goes with midterms and then we can reevaluate?” I hold my breath, praying he’ll accept the compromise.
Luckily, he does. “All right. But I do think the head start will help you a lot. The med school application process can be stressful.”
“Honestly…” I find some courage, then continue, “Sometimes it feels overwhelming when I think about it. Med school, I mean.”
“I won’t deny it’s a lot of work, and a lot of sleepless nights. But that makes it all the more rewarding when you graduate and start calling yourself Dr. Davis.”
“You’re Dr. Davis.”
“There can be two,” he teases.
I hesitate again. “You know, I could still call myself doctor if I got a PhD in psychology rather than med school.”
His shoulders immediately stiffen. “Are you considering that avenue?” There’s an edge to his voice, along with surprise-tinged disapproval.
Yes, I almost blurt out. Because it’s the more appealing avenue, in my eyes. What do I care about biology or anatomy? I’d way rather be taking courses like psych theory, cognitive and behavioral therapies, research methods, personality development. AKA far more interesting areas of study.
And yet I can’t say any of that out loud. My father’s approval matters to me. Maybe too much, but that’s how it’s always been.
So I backtrack as fast as I can. “No, that was just a joke. Everyone knows people with doctorates aren’t real doctors. Like, come on.”
Dad booms with laughter again. “You got that right.”
Then I shovel more food into my mouth so I won’t have to keep talking. This doesn’t bode well, though. With senior year coming up, I’ve been giving more and more thought to what I want to do after I graduate. Med school had been the plan, but grad school is also tempting. Truth is, I find psychiatry to be so…clinical. There’s such a large focus on medication management of patients, and I can’t seem to gather much excitement at the notion of prescribing meds and monitoring dosages. I suppose I could specialize in something stimulating, like neuropsychiatry and treat patients with Alzheimer’s and MS. Or maybe work in a psychiatric unit of a hospital.
But I want to focus on treating the behaviors of patients, not only the symptoms. I want to talk to people, to listen to them. But my father never would get that. And this proves it. I mean, I just stuck my toe in the water and an alligator bit it off. That doesn’t exactly make me want to broach the subject again.
14
Hunter
“Dude! It’s been ages!” Dean looks insanely happy to see me.
Dean took me under his wing when I was a freshman and he was a senior, and I think part of him still views me a bit like his protégée. To be honest, he’s the one who taught me the bad habits that landed me in trouble last season. “How To Pick Up Chicks” by Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis should be a prerequisite course for all horny college boys. The guy knows what he’s doing.
Of course, it helps when you have supermodel-chiseled features, golden hair, sparkling green eyes. Summer is like the girl version of Dean, which is a bit unnerving considering I’ve jerked off to fantasies of her before.
“It’s good to see you,” I tell my old friend. “How’s it going?”
“Pretty damn good. My roster is killer this year.” Dean coaches a girls’ hockey team at a private school in Manhattan. He’d actually gotten into Harvard Law, but at the last moment accepted a teaching position instead. I guess you could say he’s a high school gym teacher, but he also coaches hockey and volleyball, and coaching is where his true passion lies.
“Nice. I should try to catch one of your games if they don’t conflict with my sched. Do you ever have road games? Anything in Boston?”
“Actually, there’s a tournament here next month. I’ll let you know the dates. But you should definitely come. Allie showed up to the last game and the girls lost their shit. They love her show.” Dean’s girlfriend, Allie Hayes, is an actress on a popular HBO show. It even won a bunch of Emmys recently. Allie wasn’t nominated for her role, but they won for Best Drama, which is impressive as fuck.
“Is Allie here?” I ask, searching for her blonde head.
Dean nods. “She’s up in the box with Grace, chatting up a storm. All the girlie talk got too much for me, so I said I’d wait for you out here.” He gestures to the front entrance of the massive arena behind us.
The air is electric tonight, as it always is for a home game. All around us are black-and-yellow jerseys, interspersed with the red-and-white ones worn by the fans representing Detroit, tonight’s opponent.
It’s utterly surreal to think that I’m friends with not one, but two of the men on the ice tonight. Garrett Graham is the star of the team, the leading scorer in the entire league, and arguably one of the greatest hockey players of all time. I can’t believe I played one year of college with him.
The other friend is John Logan, another college legend. It’s Logan’s rookie season with the team. Before this, he was playing for the Bruins’ farm team, so this is like his big promotion. So far, he’s done well in the first few games of the season, and I’m excited to watch him and Garrett play live again. These days I catch their games on TV, but it’s not the same.
“Is Fitz still staying with you guys in Manhattan?” I ask Dean as we head inside.
“Not at mine and Allie’s place. He’s at my fam’s penthouse, doing work for that Brooklyn game studio. He has the whole penthouse to himself this time, which I think is a huge relief for him.”
“Oh, it is. He told me he was staying there with your dad last month.”
Dean chuckles. “Yup, the two of them living it up in the bachelor pad, while Summer’s in Boston and Mom’s in Greenwich. Jesus. I can’t imagine having to shack up with Allie’s father. He’d probably murder me in my sleep and bury my body in a block of cement under their brownstone. No one would find it until years later, when someone decides to rebuild the house and jackhammers the foundation.”
“Oh come on, I thought you and Allie’s dad were cool.”
“For the most part. But he still calls me ‘rich boy’ and always asks me what designer I’m wearing.” Dean sighs glumly. “So now I just wear rags when I’m there so that I don’t get made fun of.”
I swallow a laugh. Stories about Allie’s father never fail to entertain me. I haven’t met the man, but he sounds hilarious. “Does your dad like Fitzy?” I ask curiously.
“Are you kidding me? Dad will love anybody Summer brings home. She’s his princess and can do no wrong. She could legit bring home a serial killer and Dad would be sitting there asking to see pictures of the victims.” Dean imitates his father’s voice. “Oh, you used a hacksaw to chop off the head? Neat! Can you show me how to do that?”
This time I can’t contain my laughter. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Not exaggerating in the slightest, dude. Remember that guy in high school? You’d know him—you were in the same year. Rickie? Ronnie? The one with the face tattoo?”
“Lawrence,” I say with a groan.
“Man, I was way off.”
“That guy was such a loser. Summer went out with him?”
“It was during her rebellious stage. Mom told her she couldn’t do something, I can’t remember what, so Summer got all huffy and that weekend she brought Face Tattoo to our family picnic. Mom almost died. Meanwhile Dad’s asking him about the inspiration behind the face tattoo.”
“It was…stars?” I ask, trying to picture Lawrence’s tats.
“Birds,” Dean corrects with a snort. “Winding around his neck and going up to his cheek and forehead.”
“Sounds hot.”
Snickering, we take the escalators up to the private boxes reserved for VIPs. I flash the guest credentials Dean handed me downstairs, and the guards wave us through. Our box is the one for Wives and Girlfriends. I
love it. We’re considered WAGs tonight, but the only actual girlfriend present is Grace Ivers, a senior at Briar. She and Logan live together in an apartment between Hastings and Boston.
I don’t know Grace very well. In fact, I don’t think we’ve ever had a conversation. But she greets me warmly and gives me a quick hug.
I know Allie a lot better because of Dean, and her hug is tighter and lasts much longer. “Hunter! You’re looking so good! You’ve gained like fifty pounds of muscle.”
“Not quite.” I smile. “You look great. I’m digging the shorter hair.”
She smooths a hand over her blonde bob. “Really? Dean says it makes me look like a pixie.”
“So? Pixies are hot. Did you guys take the train in from New York?”
“Yeah. We were both free tonight and decided, what the hell. Might as well support the boys.”
“Good call.” I wander over to the massive window overlooking the rink. The players are warming up at the moment. I search the ice for Garrett’s and Logan’s jersey numbers. I spot Logan first. Grace’s eyes are glued on him too, as she comes up beside me.
“How’s he doing this season?” I ask. “I haven’t studied his stats line too closely.”
“He’s doing well. Not as well as he’d like to be doing, but he got two assists in the game against Philly. Boston has some pretty amazing defensemen already, so John’s not seeing as much ice time as he wants.” Grace sounds unhappy. I’m not sure if it’s on Logan’s behalf, or if there’s more to it.
“Uh oh, is he taking it out on you?” Allie demands. Evidently she glimpsed that same flicker of discouragement in Grace’s eyes.
“No, not at all. But he’s just a bit on edge. And I’m busy at the radio station, so our schedules often conflict.” She shrugs before offering a halfhearted smile. “Every relationship has its speed bumps in the road. We’ll be fine.”
“True,” Allie agrees. “But if you need me to knock some sense into him, let me know. I’ll get my boyfriend to beat him up.”
“Wait,” Dean balks, channeling Mike Hollis. “I’m your boyfriend.”
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