He dives into his plate as I rush around my apartment, getting ready for a long day at work followed by a study session at the library.
“I really am sorry,” he repeats. “Do you…do you think we would have had a good time if I hadn’t…”
“Shown up shit-faced? Well, it would have made the date less stressful.”
“Is that the only thing I did wrong?” he asks, rinsing his plate and sticking it in the sink.
“It’s definitely at the top of the list,” I say with a smile.
“Is it a long list?” he asks, and he’s just so damn sincere. It almost breaks my heart. Almost. But not enough to lie. One thing about me is I’m honest. I’m not out to hurt anyone’s feelings, but I’m also not out to throw a bunch of lies around just to make someone feel good. Because in the end, they’ll just get hurt anyway.
So, I deliver thetruth in the gentlest way I know how.
“It’s not short,” I shrug, and his face falls. Damn me and my honesty. But I can’t be sorry. And I definitely can’t lie and tell him it was fine—it wasn’t.“Look, you’ve gotta know that showing up drunk was a bad idea, but it’s kind of hard to even judge the rest of the date. I mean, you stole my wine—not cool, and you photobombed an older couple's anniversary pictures, so now their kids have a picture of them with you in the background, yakking into the bushes. So, let’s be fair: it was a pretty bad date. But you’re not a total lost cause as long as you get your shit together.You just need to chill, to relax. Dating’s not hard—I mean, if you can keep your balance on skates while careening down the ice, I’m pretty sure you can survive going to the movies or out for pizza. Just lay off the sauce, ok? And, at the risk of sounding like an after-school special, just be yourself. If people don’t like it, they can fuck off and move on.”
I’m thinking maybe that was a little too much unsolicited advice for this hour in the morning, because Will just nods before putting his mug in the sink. No time to worry about that, though, because if we hang out in my kitchen much longer, I’ll be late for work. So, we grab our stuff and head out the door. The ride to the hockey house only takes a few minutes, and soon, I’m dropping him off out front.
“Thanks, again,” he says, his cheeks pink. “And sorry, again.”
“Consider yourself officially forgiven,” I say as he steps out of my car and heads into his house. I shake my head as I drive away. That guy needs a lot of help. Not from me, obviously. But from someone.
16
Will
All freshman athletes are required to report to study hall for three hours a week. I don’t know how other sports do it, but for hockey, we meet Mondays and Wednesdays in the early afternoon. I grab lunch at the dining hall and make my way to the south edge of campus where Wolford Field House is located. We affectionately call it the Wolf’s Den. Our arena is housed inside, as well as our gym, offices, training rooms, and locker rooms.
I swing by the assistant coach’s office and drop my phone in the little box on his desk. That’s one thing they are strict about—no phones. It’s not so bad, though; at least I get some work done. Then I head up to the second floor and the little room that’s designated for study hall. I’m sure it was somebody’s office at some point, but it’s a little cramped and has only one window, so I can guarantee that whoever used to work in here moved on to better digs. It’s become a bit of a dumping ground for unwanted office furniture, but I’m not complaining because that means each of us get decent sized desks and swivelly office chairs. Nothing matches, but no one cares.
“Hey, Dean-o,” I call to Dean Strathmeyer, who’s already got his books cracked and a giant cup of coffee in his hand.
“I fucking hate this class,” he mutters, so I take a glance at the textbook he’s reading:Great Plays of the Nineteenth Century.
“That’s for your theater class?” I ask, taking a seat and grabbing my laptop. “I thought you loved that one.”
“Nah, he never said he liked the class,” Van says, striding into the room and tossing his backpack on an empty desk. “He said he liked a girl in his class. Those are two very different things.”
“Well, she hates me, and I hate theater. How much longer is this semester?” Dean-o asks.
“Like, twelve weeks,” I tell him.
“This girlhatesyou? You just met her.Damn. What did you do? And what did you do, Franconetti?” Van asks, turning his attention on me. “Word around campus is that you spent Friday night at Mel’s, but when I ran into her at Drip over the weekend and asked her about your date, she told me never to get you drunk again. The hell?”
“Wait, what?” Dean-o asks, setting his book down. “You got Will drunk before his date with Mel? How was that a good idea?”
Van shakes his head. “It wasn’t. And I didn’t. I told you to take one shot—one—before you met up with Mel. What the fuck happened?”
I think back to the date, what I can remember of it, at least, and it’s not good. But I really don’t feel like reliving it. I know it wasn’t a real date—not in the sense that I asked her out and she accepted, but still, it shouldn’t have been a disaster, and it was. And that’s all on me. “What happened was that I was a total dumbass. Can we just leave it at that?”
Van looks at me and must decide I’m worthy of pity, because he nods. “Fine. Besides, I should probably hit the books.”
“What are you doing here anyway?” Dean-o asks. “Aren’t you a senior?”
“Just barely,” he tells us. “And this semester is off to a spectacularly bad start, so I figured I’d get some studying in before my grades take a total nosedive, or Coach’ll be on my ass. It’s probably good that I’m here, though. Maybe I can keep you two knuckleheads from totally striking out with the female population of Bainbridge.”
“And you’re an expert?” Dean-o says, looking skeptical. “Cause we’ve been living in the same house for almost a month. If you’re such a relationship know-it-all, where’s your girlfriend?”
Van just laughs. “I am not a relationship expert by any stretch. And I don’t have a girlfriend, at least, not anymore. My only real relationship lasted all of three weeks before I fucked it up, so trust me when I say I don’t know shit about romance. But I clearly know more than you two. I mean, three weeks is pitiful, but it beats the hell out of what? One date? Two?”
