Page 48 of Shots on Net

“I wouldn’t mind if you were bad at kissing,” he muses, not letting go of my hand. “That just means we get to practice more.”

Carter

Despite Zeke’s declaration a month ago at Christmas, we haven’t had sex. Or kissed. Or really done anything more than hold hands. Sometimes, when we’re out on one of our weekend adventures, or sitting on the couch next to each other, I’ll look over and see him watching me in a way that feels like he’s undressing me. But he hasn’t yet done anything about it, and I can’t be the one to initiate it.

The waiting only seems to be getting harder, though, because now that he’s said the words, it’s all I can fucking think about. I want to run my fingers through his hair, and put a hand up inside his shirt. I’ve never even seen him with his shirt off, which seems grossly unfair somehow. One would think—with us living together—that I’d have seen him walking around half-naked by now, but no. He’s always infuriatingly clothed. Maybe this weekend, I think, as I pull my sweater over my head. Beside me, Vas is doing the same.

“I have question for you,” he says, quietly. I look over at him as I start to remove some of my padding. He’s got an odd expression on his face, something between trepidation and excitement.

“Shoot.”

“You are going to enter the NHL as a free agent, yes?”

I drop my elbow pad. Where the hell did that come from? Vas looks a little wary as he continues undressing, like he thinks I’m going to get angry at him for asking. Mostly, the question just makes me feel like crying.

“Uhm, no, I don’t think so. I can’t…” I shake my head to dispel the urge to throw something against the wall. I won’t be allowed to play hockey after college, not when my whole life from here has already been mapped out. “No, Vas. Short answer is no, I won’t be signing as a free agent. Nobody has even approached me, where did you get that idea?”

“Why not? You want to play, yes? You need to play,” he says, standing up and taking a step closer to me. His voice is quiet enough to almost be drowned out by the chatter in the locker room. “My brother is an agent, you know this, right?”

“Right,” I nod.

“He says you need to find agent to help you and enter NHL as a free agent. He says you could play for the NHL. He says you need to speak to Coach Mackenzie and that he will help you,” Vas nods, sharply, like the matter is decided. I have the sudden urge to laugh.

“Vas, I can’t. There’s no way.”

“You can. Have you not been listening?” He looks a little cross, like I’m being slow on purpose. “Coach Mackenzie will agree and he will help. Let us ask him.”

“Dude, no, we’re not going to ask him,” I say in exasperation. He looks confused and a little bit annoyed. Or as close to annoyed as Vasel ever gets. “Listen, my family won’t let me. I get four years of hockey and that’s it.”

He scrunches up his face as he thinks about this, carefully removing his chest guard and placing it in his stall. He’s nearly fully undressed by the time he speaks again.

“You are adult, Carter. I do not understand how your family can tell you how to…can tell you what to do,” he corrects himself. I can tell he’s exhausted after that game—he only makes English errors when he’s tired.

“Because…” I stop.

How can they tell me what to do? I’m twenty-fucking-one years old. Of course, the obvious answer to this is because if I don’t do what I’m told, I’ll be cut off. Just another rich boy whose parents will no longer fund his life until he stops straining at the lead. Vas is staring at me, waiting patiently for me to explain. Beside me, Max Kuemper is silently undressing. I wonder if he’s been listening in. As though he can feel my eyes on him, he looks up at me.

“Hey,” he says. He’s new this year, a transfer from some college in South Dakota. He’s already been drafted into the NHL, the bastard.

“Hello, Max,” Vas says cheerfully. Max smiles at him, but doesn’t say anything back. He’s quiet, but not quiet in the way I am—more like he’s shy, and isn’t quite sure how to belong.

“Did you have anything to add to the conversation?” I ask, and hear Vas sigh behind me. Max looks between us.

“Your stall is right next to mine,” he points out. “I can’t help it if you have private conversations where I can hear them.”

Before I can reply, Vas cuts in. “And you are in agreement, I assume?”

“Actually, yeah,” Max picks up a towel and goes to step around us. He looks at me. “You should consider going in as a free agent. You’re good enough to make it.”

Vas smiles, vindicated. He nods at me again, like Max’s opinion has settled the matter. The sophomore pulls his towel tighter around his hips and ducks his head, continuing toward the showers. He’s new enough that none of the guys have made an effort to get to know him yet. Vas widens his eyes and tips his head to the side. I roll my eyes.

“Hey, Max,” I call. He turns to look at me, fingers clutched tight on the towel covering him, like he expects someone to yank it away. “Good game tonight. I’m glad you play for us and I don’t have to be on the receiving end of that slap shot.”

He stares at me for so long I wonder if he’s even going to respond at all. Eventually, he reaches a hand up to cup the back of his neck—a nervous tick I’ve seen him do during pre- and post-game interviews.

“Thank you,” he says, sounding for all the world as though nobody has ever paid him a compliment before. I watch as he turns and walks into the showers. Vas beams at me like I’ve just completed a selfless act of community service.

“That was nice,” he tells me. I scowl at him and bend to take off my skates. “So, you talk to your Zeke about being a free agent, and then talk to Coach Mackenzie.”

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