by Ginger Scott
Chapter 6
Andrew Harper, Age 21
“You’re a fucking cocksucker, Harper,” Trent says, slapping the back of my head as he passes behind me at the bar. I hit him hard today. He blew it last week, though, and that’s my job—to get guys ready to take hits in the real games.
I get to play, but I’m more of an insurance guy—the one they send in to be distracting and cause trouble for the other guys, to shift the game to our advantage. It lands me in the box a lot, but we’re surprisingly good at penalty kill. We come out stronger, and sometimes we need to feel the pressure to get things going.
“I wouldn’t have to hit you so hard in practice if you weren’t such a pussy during games, Metzger,” I say, pulling my lips from the rim of my beer bottle just long enough to dish out a quick insult to my best friend.
“Fuck off, you’re just bitter that girls like me more ‘cuz I’m the sexy captain,” he says in this fucking annoying-ass voice while he rubs his chest like he’s a stripper. It’s creepy.
“Yeah, you got me. Totally jealous of all that,” I deadpan, gesturing toward him.
I kid with him, but truth is Trenton Metzger is the most talented goddamned hockey player I’ve ever been on the ice with. He’s the only reason people talk about Northern Tech hockey, and it’s an honor to be on the roster with him.
Hell, it’s an honor to be on any roster at all. I’m a partial-scholarship player; partial lots of things, really. After two years of busting my ass in junior college and proving myself in junior leagues, I managed to pull together enough of an academic and athletic resume to get my ass into Tech. My grades were never the issue. It was my stint at Lake Crest that gave people pause. The list of schools willing to hand out free money just so I would go there dried up fast even though I finished out high school in the Excel Program, my senior year in independent study—graduating early with shining academics. I was still accepted lots of places, I just couldn’t pay for them.
What a fucking tease college is. Hey, come to our university and have this awesome life we’re showing you in these glossy pictures. Oh…what? You can’t afford it? Here…here’s a nice mug and calendar magnet of our football schedule instead.
Luckily, I’m enough of an asset on the ice for NTU to pay for part of my last two years. Part. I get another small percentage in academic scholarships, but even then there’s still a shitload I have to figure out on my own. My mom and step-dad Dwayne help, but they don’t have much either. They gave me what little they made from combining households when they got married two years ago, and that little went right to what was left on my tuition tab my first semester. So I work the rest off with odd jobs. Right now, I have two. In the mornings, I work at a nearby elementary school. I get there early for the parents who have to drop their kids off before school actually starts. We play dodgeball for two hours, and the girls sit at the tables and color. It pays shit, but it’s better than nothing.
My other gig is…different. But the pay is awesome—when it comes. I’m a fall guy. Basically, I spar with wannabe fighters for this dude Harley who manages up-and-coming boxers. He pays me ten bucks an hour to throw a few punches, but take way more than I throw. It builds up confidence in the guys he wants to move up and it keeps me aggressive on the ice. When he thinks his guys are almost ready, he sets up small fights at a few of the gyms in the city, and my job is to always go down, but not until we’ve gone at least three or four rounds.
This is where I make my tuition money.
Harley takes bets on the side—rolling money into the thousands with a network of bookies he knows. I get a cut—because I’m the one who gives him the lock. He’s careful about running me too often, switching me up with two or three other guys who have the same deal, and he always loses a bet when he needs to make it look legit.
The fights are only on Sundays, so it never runs into practice or games. And it’s rarely more than one a month. But one fight can land me a few grand in a night. It’s money I need, and the first time I did it, I couldn’t believe how many of my financial problems it helped make go away. But that’s not what made me come back.
That feeling—the one of knowing my arms aren’t going to move fast enough, that my instincts are going to be purposely numbed, is a rush. To know the hit is coming, and that I’m going to deny myself protection. When I get hit—gloves to the temple, chest, chin, ribs—it’s like getting high. Everything that hurts gets centered on the pain, and my runaway thoughts and fears come to a grinding halt. Regret fades. The only thing that exists is getting my ass kicked, feeling my flesh sting and my body hum with pain.
Sometimes, I think that if I didn’t do this—if I hadn’t stumbled into Harley’s gym one day and found my way into a ring with a boxer twice my size—that I would have turned to something else. My body can take the abuse, and my mind…it craves the distraction. It’s the same way on the ice.
“All right, Harper. Who’s the target tonight?” Trent leans over me, startling me out of my trance, grabbing my next beer and taking it for his own.
“Hey, dickhead,” I say. He holds up a hand and orders another one, sliding it to me. “I’m pretty sure it’s your turn this time.”
His face falls and his complexion turns green. Trent and I have this game we play with one another. It started as a drunken dare a few months ago, when he goaded me into taking a girl home from Majerle’s Pub. I’m not suave; I don’t have great pick-up lines. I usually wait for girls to hit on me. I wait for easy. When Trent dared me, I came up with my own set-up—I stole a girl’s wallet. I returned it to her later, pretending I’d found it. She was so grateful she spent the rest of the night sitting on my lap, her arms looped around my neck, her lips sucking on my skin, her hands soon finding their way in my pants.
That first girl taught me never to bring any of them to our apartment. I go to theirs now. It’s easier to leave than it is to kick someone out.
“Fine, I’ll go. But next time, I get to pick your girl,” I say, tipping my beer back to drink what’s left before leaving the bottle on the bar behind me and pointing at my friend.
“Dude, whatever. You know it’s your turn anyway,” he says.
“My choice next time,” I remind him as I walk backward. I know it’s his turn, and I also know he doesn’t really like taking the dare. Trent’s too nice, and he usually ends up dating the girl for weeks after. He doesn’t like to be an asshole. Or maybe he just doesn’t like people to say bad things about him. Maybe there’s no difference between the two.
I couldn’t give a shit what people say about me. Let ’em talk.
I make one pass through the crowded bar, letting my eyes roam over the dance floor and the tables that line the back wall on the way to the bathrooms. It’s a Friday night, so there are lots of girls here. It’s the middle of the semester, too, so they’re all ready to party—no finals to worry about. There’s one group that seems like an easy target, a blonde on the end who keeps trying to talk the others into dancing. I hover around the restrooms waiting for my shot, and when she finally drags the group of girls with her out to the dance floor, I walk back through the crowd, passing their table.
So easy.
Their wallets and purses are all piled in the center of the table except for a red bag looped over the back of a chair, the ID sticking out of the top. I drag my hand along the bottom of the table, and as I pass the red handbag I grab the small plastic card poking from it, tucking it into the sleeve around my palm. I glance up to make eye contact with Trent, and raise the corner of my mouth in a smirk.
“Dude, you are so slick at this. Seriously, if you flunk out of the engineering program you should just turn to a life of crime.”
I slide into my stool and look away from him. I know he was just saying words, but the joke doesn’t sit well with me. I have a chip on my shoulder. It’s my fucking chip, and I earned it by giving up a year of my life for a series of bad decisions and shitty circumstances. Trent knows my story—mostly. He knows there
was a girl, and he knows I got screwed over by both the girl and the law. But I’m not sure he knows exactly how fucked up it all left me. And he also doesn’t know how many nights I walk that line with Harley, fixing bets that are illegal in the first place. Trent just thinks I like the workout boxing gives me.
“Well…let’s see it? Who’s the lucky lady?”
I pull my sleeve loose from around my wrist and let the card slide out, flipping it over while I drink what’s left of my beer, and that’s when karma slaps me like a bitch.
She’s older. Of course she’s older. She’s twenty-one, too. But she looks…older. She also looks the same. Nobody looks good in an ID photo. Emma Burke looks like a dream. Her brown hair is just as I remember it, long waves around her bright pink cheeks, lips that stretch into this sensuous smile. I don’t know if it’s sensuous to anyone else, but to me, it sure as fuck is.
It’s also cruel. I swear to god she’s mocking me in her picture, her eyes shining through and looking at me, calling me stupid, telling me what a chump I am for thinking I was some sort of hero or something.
She’s slapping me in the face for being good and decent to her.
Don’t worry, Emma. I won’t ever be good and decent to you again.
“Well?” Trent asks. I slide the card toward him, never looking down at it. He picks it up, holding it in his hand and reading her details while I choke down another beer and wonder how the hell I’m going to get out of this.
“Damn, Harp!” he says, his heavy pat on my back almost making my beer spill down into my lungs. I know what has him impressed; it’s her eyes. I get it. They worked on me too. That’s the first thing I recognized. And like hell am I putting myself in a position where I have to stare into them again. She’d probably hypnotize me right into prison—for good this time!
“It was your night anyhow; you take her,” I say, letting my gaze drift off to the TV mounted above the bar. It’s a commercial for toothpaste, and I’m so interested in it. So very interested. I’m ignoring everything—Trent, the brewing sensation in my gut, the heaviness of knowing Emma is in this room, breathing the same air I am.
I feel the card slide under my elbow, and I close my eyes.
“Awwww no you don’t. You’re not going to pussy out on me now. You know the deal.” He’s talking loudly. I know there’s no way she can hear me, no way she’d know, but my body heats up at the thought of getting caught.
I take a slow, deep breath so Trent doesn’t notice how tense I’ve become, then slide the card back into my palm, glancing at it before putting it in my back pocket as I stand. I toss a twenty on the bar and put my empty bottle on top of it.
“Whatevs, man. I’ll play hero a little later; I’ve got some shit to take care of,” I say, nodding goodbye.
“You’re such a prick, making her wait,” he chuckles.
If our friendship were a superhero, Trent would be Ironman, and I’d be Tony Stark. I think Trent is amused by my dick moves, because he’s the good guy and could never pull them off. I used to be that way, too.
I don’t respond. Yeah, I’m a prick. I’m a prick because what I really want to do is toss her ID in the trash on my way out. But I don’t do that, because instead I’m the kind of prick that gives up a year of my life and any possible future because of a fucking crush on a high school cock tease. This gift—knowing where she is—feels like something I shouldn’t waste, so I’m going to think of the perfect way to play it all.
I hit the exit and glance over to the group of girls on the dance floor again, and I wait for a few seconds until I see her body come into view. She looks like she’s having the time of her life, arms over her head, eyes shut, smile on her face, sweat dripping down her body. She’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. There was a time when I imagined her like this, grown up—this is what I saw in my sixteen-year-old fantasies.
That hate I’ve worked so hard on burying comes right back, and my heart hardens as her eyes drift open and there’s a short flash of recognition that crosses them. That’s right, Delaware—it’s me, and I see you.
I leave quickly, pretending not to notice her, knowing that she’s still not sure about what she saw. I don’t want to give her enough to be sure. I want to give her doubt and worry, and then I never want to see her again.
* * *
When I left the bar, I headed to the warehouse. Harley wasn’t expecting me, but he let me work in, take a few rounds in the ring. Harley’s only at the gym at night, and usually only on the weekdays. During the day, he’s the perfect law student his rich parents think he is. He manages the warehouse space as a gym; it’s in a building his grandfather owns. He told his dad he wanted to learn about running a business. Nobody in his family visits; they just take his word on things.
Harley is the kind of guy people trust.
I’ve run the numbers in my head, and I’m pretty confident Harley’s making out better running his boxing scam. His father’s a pretty powerful corporate attorney though, so there’s an expectation of his life going one way. If things go south, I guess he’ll be able to find his own loopholes and get his ass out of trouble.
The only guy boxing tonight is a dude they call Pitch Black. He got that name because he knocks people out cold. I’ve never sparred with him before; he’s not one of the guys Harley needs to fake things with. He took it easy on me; I could tell. But he still fucked my face up pretty good. I’ve had the ice out for an hour, and I’m just putting it back in the freezer when Trent walks in, sliding his keys on the counter behind me.
“Dude, do not tell me you blew that chick off just to get your fix at the gym.” He’s leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed.
“I had a guy who wanted to work on some things with me,” I lie.
“Yeah, like seeing how many stitches he could rack up on your face?”
“Fuck off; it’s not that bad,” I say. He reaches at me, poking my tender jaw, and I wince and slap his hand off me in one motion.
“Right…not bad at all,” he says, judgment oozing from his tone.
I sigh and open our pantry, grabbing a handful of almonds from an open tin. Then I shut the door and ignore my friend, knowing he’s going to ask me about the girl and the ID and my plans. I thought going to the warehouse would help me gain perspective. I was wrong.
“Look,” he starts as he kicks his shoes off and empties his pockets onto the counter. He leaves his shit in piles—drives me fucking nuts, and it’s not just because I’m in a bad mood.
Maybe it is. Whatever. I stare at his crap until he waves a hand to get my attention back to his face.
“Drew, man…if you weren’t really in the mood to hit on some chick, you shouldn’t have taken her ID. That girl is going to be freaked out and worried when she can’t find it, so at least just get it back to her.”
My gaze has drifted away from him again, back to his pile of stuff.
“Why can’t you dump your crap in your room? That’s what I do when I come home. I go to my room, put my things in there, and then I come out here.”
Trent cocks an eyebrow at me, staring for a few seconds, then moves back to the kitchen, scooping up his wallet, keys, and change and holds it up so I can see him and acknowledge it.
“Don’t forget your shoes,” I add.
He laughs once. Not a funny laugh. He’s pissed. I’m being an asshole. He can fuck off. He doesn’t have her ID in his back pocket.
Trent bends down and grabs his shoes, pointing one toward me as he goes to his room.
“Sometimes you’re a real dick, Harper,” he says. He lets his door slam closed behind him.
I turn my attention to the TV in front of the sofa and hold the remote up, turning on some bad teen soap opera and cranking the volume up to an obnoxious level. Might as well let this being-a-dick thing really run its course.
* * *
Trent never came out of his room, and I finally fell asleep on the couch to some protein-supplement infomercial. I woke up when Tr
ent let the front door slam shut loudly. We have practice in thirty minutes, morning skate before our game tonight. We usually ride together, because Trent has a car. Looks like I’ll be walking today.
After a quick shower, I change into sweats and my long-sleeved tee and jog to the arena about two miles away. I shove Trent’s pads off the bench when I walk by his locker. He laughs, so I know he’s over being pissed at me. I also know that I still have Emma’s ID in my wallet.
Pre-game skate only lasts half an hour, so I can’t put things off any longer. I want to. I want to be so busy I can never go to 407 Clark Street, which yeah…is less than three miles from my apartment. Usually, I have to look the girl up to find her address—her license normally from another state, but Emma’s is right there on her license. She must be planning on living here for a while, or maybe she already has. How the hell I haven’t seen her in the year I’ve attended this school is a miracle.
Then again, I get the feeling Emma and I probably run in different circles. I know her building. It’s the big high-rise on Clark. Balconies, windows that look over the lake, a bellman at the front desk—a far cry from the rats and drug deals that go down out on the street in front of our apartment. It’s not like gangland or anything, just cheap rent and a lot of college kids who like to get high.
When I’m done skating, I rush through changing and just hold up a hand with her license for Trent to see. He smirks, figuring I’m off to make good on my dare. I’m really going to take my penance. Lesson learned—I’m never playing this game again.
The wind from the lake has a cold bite to it, so I pull my hoodie from my bag and throw it on over my beanie. Maybe I’m also shielding myself. I get to the front of her building, and my heart starts to race wildly, my throat dry, but somehow my mouth so moist I feel like I’m going to throw up.
The doorman is helping a group of girls when I walk by quickly, and he glances at me, probably memorizing what I’m wearing, but he doesn’t stop me when I pass. My hands are shaking in the elevator, and when I press the button for the ninth floor, I hold it down, afraid to fully commit.