With girls? That’s another story. And it brings me right to the next item on my list.
Goal #2: Lose My V-Card.
How did I make it to the ripe old age of twenty without losing my virginity along the way? Two reasons. First, remember those helicopter parents? Look, if my mom wasn’t gonna let me sleep over at Chase Goodwin’s house because his mom served microwaved food for dinner and let him watch cable TV, then she sure as hell wasn’t letting me within six feet of Chase’s sister, or any other pretty girl in the neighborhood. The fact that I went to an all-boys prep school didn’t help matters. And yeah, I could have snuck out and rebelled. But that’s not as easy as it sounds. Since I was fourteen, I’ve been waking up at five in the morning for training, putting in a full day at school, then practicing well into the evening. And game weekends always passed by in a blur. Then I spent two years in Juniors, but it wasn’t much different than high school in terms of free time or friends. The truth is that most of the time, I was too damn tired to find mischief.
Well, that’s half the truth. The other half is the second reason I’m a twenty-year-old virgin. My mom always said I was a late bloomer, which is a kind way of saying my middle school and high school years were rough. And they were, at least from the looks of me. Thankfully, despite the fact that I carried an extra thirty pounds, I could skate pretty fucking fast. That, plus my ability to score on the ice, made me pretty immune to high school bullies. Which is fortunate, because being a chubby fucker was the least of my worries. There was pretty much a three-way tie for awfulness between my pockmarked skin, my buck teeth, and the unfortunate haircuts my Aunt Lisa used to give me. A little more than a year ago, I caught a few lucky breaks.
Aunt Lisa met a guy on the internet and moved to Texas to be with her true love. And now, I get my hair cut at the mall like everybody else.
My dermatologist finally found the exact cocktail for my skin, and it cleared up. Granted, all the sweaty hockey gear doesn’t help, but the facewash I use is a miracle in a bottle.
There was some stiff competition in Juniors, and that forced me to work out harder and pay more attention to my diet. Plus, I wasn’t eating all the cookies and bread and homemade pasta my mom liked to spoil me with. The extra pounds melted away, and I’m a lot leaner and stronger than I used to be.
But the luckiest break of all came when Tim Spangler nailed a slapshot that went rogue and landed on my face instead of the back of the net. It hurt like a bitch, took my two front teeth out, and left a scar on my lip. But now? My smile is picture-perfect.
So now that no one’s hovering over me, and I’ve got washboard abs and a killer smile? Well, that brings me to the last goal on my list.
Goal #3: Have Some Fucking Fun.
I’m gonna sleep in if I want. I’m going to parties and hanging with my teammates. I’m drinking things that are not protein shakes. In short, I’m gonna be a college kid. I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and the time has come to chill a little, to relax. Don’t worry—I’m still gonna kill it on the ice. But a guy’s gotta have a little down time, right? And for me, that means letting loose and having a good time without worrying about curfew or who’s watching my every move.
Those are three goals I’ve outlined for myself and I’m pumped to get started. And I can’t wait to move into the hockey house—living with my teammates I’m sure will be awesome. I mean, the closer we are off the ice, the better we play on it. And I intend to play hard and party harder. Living here is going to be one nonstop good time, and I’m here for it.
And if Ihappen to find the girl of my dreams and learn how to kiss without being compared to a sea creature, well, then I really will be living the dream.
I crawl out of bed,throw on some sweats and head downstairs in search of food. I enter the kitchen to see my teammates staring at the wall. Or rather, at a giant hole in the wall.
“I told you,” Van says, pulling his long hair back into a bun, “my cousin’s coming next week to help me patch up that bare spot.”
“Bybare spot, do you mean the gaping hole that was going to be a pantry or are you talking about replacing the wall that used to separate the bathroom from the living room?” Santos asks.
I take a step further into the living room and see exactly what they mean. There’s a freaking shower in the living room. I’m guessing there’s a toilet too, but they at least had the decency to hang a shower curtain around it. I’m glad my parents are at my Aunt Lisa’s wedding in San Antonio this weekend. If my mom got a look at this place, I have a feeling she’d want to haul my ass to the dorms or call on the dean to have the hockey house condemned. And it’s not just that my parents are especially overbearing. It’s that this place is…well, kind of a shithole. I arrived so late last night that I only had time to drop my stuff and then head to the party. But now, in the light of day, it’s glaringly obvious that my new home needs some TLC. Or maybe a bulldozer.
But that’s part of the college experience, right? Living in a crappy house, sharing space with eight other guys. Call me weird, but I can’t wait.
“Ok, look,” Van says. “That was all Shuler’s doing. Let’s call it his parting gift to us. It’s not my fault that the night before he graduated, he got wasted and started doing drunk reno in an effort to leave the place better than when he found it—his words, not mine. Besides, I wasn't the one who grabbed the sledgehammer. That was Ollie.”
“Was not!” Ollie yells indignantly, then pauses. “Okay, maybe it was me.”
Santos spots me in the doorway and smiles in my direction. “Sorry, Will, I’d tell you the place doesn’t normally look this bad, but…”
“It’s cool,”I say. “I’m actually just looking to mooch some food. I didn’t get to the store last night, so…”
Ollie tossesme a half-eaten box of donuts. “Help yourself,” he says before shaking his head.
“Freshman, you need a nickname,” he declares. “We can’t keep calling you Freshman because we’re getting another one of those today.”
“What about New Guy?”
“Nah, it’s pretty much the same principle. We’ve got to come up with something. Will needs a nickname.” Ollie says, vetoing Rosco’s idea.
They all look at me and I feel like I’m under a microscope. It shouldn’t bother me; they’re not judging me, I know that. They’re just sizing me up to see if I’ve got bright red hair under my hat or hidden tattoos or any other distinguishing feature that might inspire a nickname.
I don’t. Not anymore, at least.
If I’d met these guys just over a year ago, nicknames like Bigs, Crater Face, or Bucky would probably have been tossed around.
But these days, I look like anybody else. And I’ve got to say, I’m kind of excited to get a nickname. Granted, hockey players aren’t known for being super creative in this area, but nicknames, no matter how generic, are a rite of passage.
