Page 2 of Shots on Net

“That’s a fair offer,” he says, and I nod. It is fair, which is why I said it. But it’s also more than I was hoping to pay. I’d been expecting to rent a room in a shithole, not a nice place like this. “How about you just share utilities and we call it a day?”

Pushing away from the counter, he throws back the rest of the smoothie and places the cup in the sink. Flinging the refrigerator door wide, bottles clinking together alarmingly, he bends over and peers inside. Eventually, he emerges with a Tupperware, which he holds up to show me.

“You good with leftovers?” He asks, and then starts heating up a bowl before I have a second to answer. This guy is insane.

“Uh, Carter? Morgan?” What the hell do I call him?

“Jesus, one or the other.”

Right. “Carter, I don’t think I understand what you’re saying.”

“Venmo me half of the utilities every month and the room is yours.”

“You just told me my offer was fair, and you counter with an unfair offer?” I don’t know why I’m arguing, except for the fact that none of this encounter has gone the way I’d planned and it’s got me off-kilter. He pulls the bowl of soup from the microwave, drops a spoon in, and pushes it over to me.

“An unfair offer for me, maybe. But a good deal for you, I’d say,” he counters, crossing his arms and looking menacing. Inmate turned soup kitchen chef.

“Okay, but…” I make a disbelieving noise and shrug my shoulders. “I mean, I’ll take the room, obviously, but it doesn’t make sense.”

“My dad owns this house and everything in it, including me. He doesn’t need your money, ergo, I don’t either.”

“Oh.” There really isn’t an appropriate response to that, so I employ silence. Carter is a little intense, and I’m not entirely convinced I’m making the correct decision here. This is what happens when you are forced to make a decision based on need. “Well, okay, thank you. I’ll do more than my share of chores, to make up for it. I can do your laundry.”

The look Carter gives me is acidic enough to peel paint from walls. “You’re not my maid, dude, what the fuck. My laundry is rank, you don’t want anything to do with that, trust me. Eat your soup and I’ll give you a tour.”

The soup has done more to warm me up than the towel, and was so unexpectedly kind that I’m still grappling with it. Carter Morgan is a fucking weirdo, that much is clear. I finish the bowl in record time, stopping just short of licking it clean. It joins his smoothie glass in the sink and he waves me after him as he leaves the kitchen. Like earlier, he doesn’t wait to see if I follow. Keep up, or don’t, his long-legged strides seem to say, either way it means nothing to me.

He leads me down to the basement first, which is completely unfinished. Carter has taken it upon himself to build a gym: padded mats on the concrete floor, a heavy bag hanging from a chain, weights scattered about the space, and various machines pushed against the walls. It smells vaguely of sweat.

“Gym,” Carter tells me, unnecessarily. “Use whatever you want. I’m down here a lot, between classes and practice. But I can share.”

He does not, in any way, look like someone who knows how to share. I’ll take his word for it. “Practice?”

“Hockey,” he says, and his tone changes, marginally. He looks a fraction less angry.

“Oh, cool, I didn’t know you played hockey.” I know nothing about him at all, except that he lives on Walnut Ave. Hockey tracks, though. I’ve heard it’s a violent sport, and Carter looks like he might eat nails for breakfast. “What position do you play?”

“Net. Do you follow?”

“No, sorry. I’m not much of a sports guy.” Not much in this case meaning not at all. I couldn’t tell you anything about hockey except that sticks, pucks, and big men are involved. Carter grunts, expression tightening back into moodiness.

I follow him back upstairs. He points things out as we go, such as closets, bathrooms, and other shared spaces. When we get to the upper floor, he walks through an open doorway and I’m inside before I realize this is his bedroom. Halting, I retreat to the doorway and try not to stare at the pair of boxers flung on the bed.

“This is my room. If the door is open, feel free to come in.”

“Oh,” I say, because this is both a generous and strange offer. Obviously, Carter doesn’t care about privacy at all—I’ve been given free rein to his entire house, including, apparently, his bedroom.

He shows me to the spare room and the bathroom that will be mine. Both are larger and better equipped than any space I’ve ever called my own.

“This is great. Thank you.”

He shrugs my thanks off, and puts his hands into the pockets of his shorts. His shoulders have crept up toward his ears, and I wonder if he’s cold, in that sleeveless shirt.

“When should we get your stuff?” He asks, and correctly interprets my silence as confusion. “Your clothes, and shit. Do you want to move in now?”

“Yeah, today would be fine, but you’re not—."

He leaves the room. Oh boy. Sighing, I follow after him, pulling the damp towel off and folding it as I walk. I peek into Carter’s room, assuming this was where he went, and am treated to a half-dressed visual. He’s shirtless and curled over, abdomen clenched as he pulls off his athletic shorts. Slapping a hand over my eyes, I back up and hit the doorframe.

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