Ollie just laughs. “Good thing we’re not going swimming. Suit up, Brick. It’s almost time to motherfucking gooo.”
With that, Ollie’s out the door, but Mickey’s still here, spinning himself around in my desk chair while simultaneously tossing popcorn in his mouth. He reaches for each catch like a seal, and I can’t look away. This shit’s better than TV.
Brannon Mikalski is the first guy I met at Bainbridge. We roomed together last year and decided to move into the hockey house together this year. Mickey’s…Mickey. He’s got more energy than he knows what to do with, and he never remembers to take his meds. Half the time, he purposely dodges them just to get into a hyper-focused headspace. It’s great while it lasts, but the crash is inevitable. Still, he’s as loyal as they come, and that’s a rare trait in my experience.
“This chair is fucking awesome,” he says with genuine enthusiasm. “I need a chair like this.”
The last thing Mickey needs is the dorm room equivalent of a Sit-and-Spin, but that’s not my call. Come to think of it… “I will trade you chairs if you let me go back to sleep.”
“Ollie would just drag your ass out,” he says, shrugging.
“Out where? And why the hell are you all wearing swim trunks if we’re not going swimming?”
Mickey tips the bag back and opens his mouth, letting the unpopped kernels fall in. He sucks the synthetic butter off them, then spits them back into the bag and tosses it into my trash can.
Jesus Fucking Christ.
All I want is a nap.
“There’s a beach party at Kappa. Hot girls. Bikinis. And all the lukewarm beer we can drink.”
“Pass,” I say, pulling a blanket over my head. It’s nearly ninety degrees out, and our air conditioner is mediocre at best, but maybe if they can’t see me, they’ll forget I live here and go on without me?
A guy can hope.
It’s not that I hate parties, and believe me, I have nothing against girls in bikinis. But my life consists of three things right now: eating, sleeping, and playing hockey. In a couple days, I’ll have to add taking classes into the mix, and that leaves no room for stale beer, frat parties, or, sadly, scantily clad college girls. I haven’t been a saint or anything, but atthis stage of my life, hockey comes first, followed closely by school. Sleep is a necessity I haven’t found an alternative to, but my left hand gets the job done just fine, so sex isn’t really a priority for me these days.
Mickey whips the blanket off of me and tosses it on the floor. “Come on, Sleeping Beauty. You haven’t gone out with us all summer. And classes start in a couple days. You’re ripped as fuck. Girls go nuts for that shit. Might as well get something out of all the time we spend in the gym and on the ice.”
I stand and fold my blanket before placing it at the edge of my bed. “Uh…we damn near got a national championship a few months ago. Pretty sure that beats the hell out of hooking up in a frat house basement.”
Mickey shakes his head. “They’ve got a nice basement. And I love hockey, but not near as much as I love pus?—”
“Roll call!” Ollie’s voice carries through our house. Hell, they can probably hear him all the way at the other end of Jock Block. “Frankie! Frankie! Frankie!”
“What the hell? Who’s Frankie?” I ask.
“The freshman. Well, one of them. Will Franconetti. It’s his first night at college. And his first party. We must pop his party cherry together. As a team.”
“That sounds so wrong in so many ways,” I sigh, giving in. I reach for my deodorant and slip my feet into slides. I grab my jammers off the bed and take the shot, arcing them into the air and, ultimately, into my gym bag. “Fine, I’ll go. But I’m staying for an hour, and I’m wearing what I’ve got on.” My BU basketball shorts are soft and worn, and if they kick me out for not wearing proper swim attire, well, I’ll just consider myself lucky.
“Yes!” Mickey pumps his fist into the air like getting me to go to a party is some kind of feat. And okay, it is. “Lemme grab a snack and then we’ll go.”
I laugh and follow him downstairs. The guy’s a bottomlesspit. But when he tosses me a protein bar, I tear off the wrapper, take a bite, and head for the door.
Ollie takes one look at my shorts and starts to open his mouth. But then he looks at my face and nods. “Fine,” he concedes. “But I’m taking ten points off for dress code violation.”
“Noted,” I say, chomping on the rest of my snack. I have no clue where the hell he’s getting these points from and what the hell they mean, so losing ten doesn’t feel like a big deal.
We’re all lined up at the door like we’re in goddamn kindergarten and about to venture off to the water fountain. Ollie’s clearly the Line Leader, and he’s doing inspections.
“Rosco, pick one: ball cap or shades. Wearing both makes you look douchey.”
Ryan Roscowitz stares Ollie down. “You are literally wearing a backwards cap and the same Oakleys I’ve got on.”
Ollie shrugs. “I look good. You look like a tool. Santos, ditch the shirt. Nobody wears a t-shirt to a pool party.”
“I don’t wanna get a sunburn,” Pete shrugs, laughing.
