“Hey, Spence?”
“Yeah?”
“You weren’t nervous today.”
“When we played hockey? No. I never am when I play. I mean, some games are more intense or require more focus, but nerves don’t usually get to me before I play. And definitely not at practice.”
“No, I mean in front of the camera. You were basically giving a speech, on ice, in skates, and you didn't lock your knees, or say “umm…” a bunch or deliver your words at warp speed. I just wondered why it was different than a regular speech. Is it that we could edit it if you messed up?”
“It was the ice,” he says, as if the answer is that simple. “I feel at home out there, relaxed and confident, if that makes sense?”
“It does.”
“Like, in a game, I know what to do. I’m in my zone. And even when things don’t go as planned, I can adjust. And even if I make a mistake, I need to forget it and recover or I’ll make another. I learned that as a kid. But in front of our class? With all those people staring at me? It’s a totally different situation—fear takes over. There’s no fear on the ice, and not just because I’m wearing a shit-ton of padding and my mask is awesome and goalies usually get to keep their teeth. It’s because I know what the expectations are and I know I can meet them. And if I miss a block? Ok, that happens. Perfection is not the expectation, unless you’re my dad,” his laugh is mirthless, “the expectation is confidence, proficiency, skill, adaptability… And I’ve got exactly zero of those traits when it comes to public speaking.”
“It seems to me like you have more skill than you think you do.”
“You have to say that. You’re my girlfriend,” he jokes.
“Seriously,” I swat at his bare chest, “but I wonder if that’s just a thing people do? Sometimes we’re so busy calculating and cataloging our flaws as others see them that we fail to calculate and catalog our skills.”
He doesn’t answer me. He just keeps gently tracing lazy circles on my back until I fall asleep.
Spencer
“Hey, Big Red!” I cringe at the nickname Emma, Paige’s roommate, has christened me. But I’ve also learned there’s no stopping Emma.
“You can go on in, Spence. She’s waiting for you. Also, I’m on my way to dance practice in about fifteen, so…”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I laugh. “But we’re here to film a—”
“Jesus, Red. I don’t need the details. Although, you’re both very attractive people. I’m not saying I’d watch a video of you two doing the horizontal mambo, but I’m also not saying I wouldn’t.”
Holy hell. I am 100% certain that my face is the color of a fire truck. “It’s for class. We need to film these how-to videos and, um…” My stumbling is only making it worse.
“Huh. How-to sex videos for class. That’s either very progressive of Moo U or a sign of the degradation of the moral fibers of our society.”
I cannot have this conversation any longer, so in true Spencer Briggs fashion, I nod, turn around, and open Paige’s door. When it's fight-or-flight with Emma, I’m picking flight every damn time.
I step through the door while simultaneously knocking. As usual, she’s in her makeshift studio, sitting in her leopard print chair, legs dangling to one side as she messes around on her phone.
It looks casual enough— like she’s texting a friend or watching videos—but I know better. Paige is in full-editing mode.
At my knock, she looks up and smiles. Jesus. Is there a way to bottle that? Or can I just look at that smile every day for the rest of my life? Because it instantly relieves my tension and puts me in a good mood.
“Was Emma harassing you again? She’s petitioning to make it an Olympic sport.”
“I have no doubt Emma will take the gold.” I stand behind her and rest my arms on her shoulders, massaging gently. I spin her chair a few degrees and there—I can see us in the mirror and I like what I see. We look good together—happy, content. Despite the bullshit we’re both dealing with as college students whose futures loom ahead, we’re handling it. I suspect that’s because we have each other. Well, at least that’s a big part of it for me.
“What was today’s video?” I ask, taking a closer look at her hair and makeup—both of which look beautiful as always, whether they’re “done” or not. “Are we baking? Is that what we’re doing?”
She laughs. “No baking, but look at you throwing around terms like that. Have you been watching makeup tutorials without me?”
I go red in the cheeks, not because I’ve been binge-watching makeup tutorials. I have, but I feel no shame and they’re all hers. “The internet may have been spying on me and may have suggested many, many videos on baking. And here I thought that was only something you did in the kitchen or if you were stoned.”
She shakes her head. “Thank goodness the internet is here to educate you.”
“Right? I say, lifting her from the chair with ease, taking her spot, and settling her on my lap. “How could I enter the NHL or continue my college career without knowing about the finer points of foundation and powder application?”
