“Santos’s right. We need to keep that momentum going, and that means more ice time,” Ollie adds, then turns toward our goalie. “You with us, Norris, or are you too busy scrolling Tinder or what the fuck ever?”
Poor guy nearly drops his phone like a hot potato. When Ollie makes a grab for it, Norris pockets it fast. Whatever he’s doing on there, it’s clear he doesn’t want any of us to know about it.
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” he says, standing and taking his plate to the sink. “But I gotta go now. Meet you all at the rink at what, 11:30?”
“Where the hell are you going at 9 a.m. on a fucking Saturday?” Ollie asks.
“To the library,” he says, though none of us believe the lie. I watch as he checks his phone again, grabs his bag, and heads for the door. His old truck starts up and peels out when Santos surveys all of us.
“I’d ask if everything’s good with Norris, but something’s clearly up. You guys know anything I should be concerned about?”
I shake my head no because even though we share a wall, Norris kinda keeps to himself. He’s a good guy, though, and I can’t think he’d do anything to put the team—or his place on it—in jeopardy. He was drafted last year, and he’s got a pro career laid out. He’d be fucking stupid if he did anything to mess that up.
“Something’s up for sure, but I’d bet my left nut it’s nothing serious,” Ollie tells us. “That guy fucking eats, sleeps, and breathes the game. No way is he into something stupid.”
“I get that,” Santos says. “But this season is too important to fuck up. I don’t know if that’s weighing him down, or what, but we can’t let outside influences distract us.”
“It’s nothing like that,” Van says, shaking his head, and I get the feeling he knows more about what’s going on than any of us do. “Trust me, Norris is okay. And what he’s got going on will work itself out. I don’t doubt that for a second.”
That’s good enough for Santos, so he texts Booker and tells him about our plan to meet up in a little while. I amble over to the sink and start doing dishes, knowing full well if I don’t, they’ll just be sitting here when we all get back tonight. I love these guys like brothers, but they are gross to live with. I never considered myself a neat freak until I moved in here. Then again, I don’t think it’s that I’m especially tidy. I’m pretty sure I just live with slobs.
This theory is confirmed when Ollie hollers, “Fuck me! Why does the washer smell like somebody’s asshole?”
“Shit,” Mikalski mutters. “I forgot to switch my clothes over the other day. Just run ‘em again, ok?”
“Should I put twice the soap stuff in? This shit stinks!”
“Don’t do that!” I call. “You’ll make a mess. Just run it on hot with the regular amount of detergent. Then set a timer and have Mikalski switch it before it gets fucking moldy.”
They grumble but follow my directions. I go to scrape plates into the trash and see that the can is overflowing. And when I lift the bag out, it’s ripped and leaking. Jesus. I haul the whole thing outside to hose it out before returning to finish up the dishes. I swear to god, this place is gonna get condemned someday.
31
Mel
Istare at the screen on my laptop and check the time. It’s 8:17 p.m., which means Will’s going to be here any minute. I’m glad for the distraction, even though I’ve got nothing to show for an evening’s worth of work. Can I really call it “work” if I was just zoning out for the last half hour and scrolling through the internet the hour before that?
I look at each tab before closing it out—there’s the clutch I’m deciding I might need for the hockey fundraiser, even though I don’t have a dress yet. There’s the QuikTok app where I was watching Ian’s latest video, so that doesn’t count as distracting myself. There’s a tutorial on how to make fried rice, but I don’t cook, so that one definitely slots into the distraction column. There’s also the assignment that’s due tonight. It’s a reflection on my internship about the weeks Ispent at the hospital. It should be an easy assignment, but I’m not really sure what to write. Can I actually say that it was as boring as I figured it would be, but I never expected to have a job that thrilled me? My work at the community center is fun—I really look forward to going, but that's not the kind of job I’m looking for. And I’m definitely not sticking around here for work. I’m destined for the big city and a corporate job, no matter how boring it promises to be.
When I was a freshman, I had it all mapped out. I dropped education to pursue a degree in accounting that would land me a good, dependable job. I’m all about working hard and playing hard, so I could always see myself grinding away the workweek in a city, be it D.C. or Philly or even the Big Apple. I also knew I’d spend just as much energy unwinding and de-stressing as I did crunching numbers.
I'd be the kind of gal who would work her ass off sixty hours a week, and drink the guys under the table every weekend.
And that’s still my future, even though I’m really not the same girl who dreamed those big dreams.
Last year changed me. My relationship with Chaz changed me, and not for the better. Don’t get me wrong. I still believe wholeheartedly that age-gaps aren’t a big deal. As long as both parties are of age and consenting, I firmly believe couples (or throuples or whatever) should do what works for them.
The problem is that I didn’t know Chaz was married, or I’d never have agreed to date him. That might work for some people, but not for me.And the thing that I can’t get over is how gullible I was—how naive. How foolish. I have no one to blame but myself.
If I could be duped by Chaz, what else have I been wrong about? I thought I was so ready for a mature relationship, but I was too callow to see the signs that were right in front of me. He kept his damn ring on! Sure, he fed me a line about how the boys were struggling with the transition, and I ate it up, defended him to Ian as a great dad. What a fool I was. And if I could be so blind to such an obvious detail, what else have I misjudged? What else have I missed? What else have I believed without any proof?
These are the thoughts that run through my mind when I think about the interviews I have scheduled for the end of the semester.
I’m not saying I’ve lost my mojo. I’m just not exactly sure where it is right now.
My phone buzzes with a text from Will telling me he’s on his way over. This shouldn’t bring a smile to my face or calm my jangled nerves. If someone had told me a month ago that I’d look forward to seeing him or that his ridiculous jokes would make me laugh, I’d never have believed them. But the big, gorgeous hunk has grown on me.
I finish shutting down my laptop and do a quick sweep of my apartment. Apart from a stray mug in the sink, it doesn’t look too bad. My phone chimes again with an alert, and I buzz Will up. He steps inside my apartment, drops his bag by the door, and looks at me with a smile. I’m still blown away by how handsome he is. I mean, Bainbridge has no shortage of hot guys, and the hockey team can definitely hold their own, but Will Franconetti is in a class by himself. He’s tall and broad with clear blue eyes that have the dangerous capability of seeing right through every wall I’ve built. His jaw is peppered with a day’s worth of stubble, and his sweats and hoodie hide a body I can’t wait to devour.
