Page 13 of Shots on Net

“Alright. Call me if you need anything.” Coach gives us a curt nod and steps carefully off of the ice. He looks tired; I’m glad I told him to leave.

“Have a nice evening,” Vas calls to him, and Coach raises a hand in acknowledgment.

“Kiss ass.” I whack him in the shins with my stick.

“Manners,” Vas corrects, whacking me back.

I skate back to the crease and wait for Vas to gather some pucks at center ice. We work through some of the single shooter drills we do at practice, the rink mostly silent other than the sound of our skates. It’s not until someone comes to Zamboni the ice that we realize we’ve been here far later than we had meant to be. Vas, looking guilty, apologizes to the man as I snatch up our pucks as quickly as I can. We help him pull the goals and then vacate, trudging to the locker room in silence.

“How is your roommate?” Vas asks, as we start stripping out of our practice gear.

“Good.”

“He is nice. It will be good for you, to have friend at home.”

Rolling my eyes, I scoff. “You sound like Coach Mackenzie.”

“Coach Mackenzie is always right.”

True. We continue stripping in silence, exhaustion settling over our shoulders like a blanket. It was a long day of classes, followed by a longer practice. I’m excited to go home, and though I’d never admit it out loud, part of that has to do with Zeke. Back when Dad had first bought me the house, Coach had recommended I get a roommate. I’d tried; I had an ad posted for a week of my freshman year and though several people answered it, nobody ever moved in. Frankly, I’d given up on the idea and hadn’t expected Zeke to pan out either. Yet here we are, almost three full weeks into living together, and it’s been fine. Good, in fact. He’s already become more than a roommate—he’s my friend.

When I pull up in front of the house later, there is light spilling from the living room window and illuminating the front lawn. Parking in the garage, I pause at the door and listen. I can hear noise coming from inside—low music and talking. Is Zeke talking to himself? I push inside, letting the door slam behind me. Immediately, Zeke calls out to me.

“Carter!”

“Hey.” I drop my pads by the door and head into the kitchen. I’m fucking starving.

The counter is covered with the evidence of cooking. A cutting board is laid out with a knife resting on top, and dishes are stacked in the sink. I raise an eyebrow at the mess, just as Zeke steps into the kitchen behind me.

“Hi, sorry, don’t worry I’ll clean that up. Are you hungry? We made lasagna.” He doesn’t wait for me to answer, but walks over to the oven and pulls out a half-full pan of lasagna. “I was keeping it warm for you. Have a seat.”

My legs are exhausted, so I do. Pushing some of the cooking shit away, I make room for the plate Zeke eventually sets in front of me. It looks like he gave me the rest of it. Reading my mind, he laughs and hands me a fork.

“Figured you’d be hungry. That’s three pieces, but I can leave the rest in the oven if you think you’ll need more.”

“This is good, thanks.” Uncomfortable, I glance behind me. “Who’s we?”

“Oh, my friend Jefferson. He came over to study and we got hungry.”

“So, you made lasagna?” The competency of this man is astounding and a little bit intimidating. “I would have just made a frozen pizza or something.”

“Well, we had a craving.” He laughs. “Do you want to eat in here? Or you could join us? You could meet Jefferson.”

“Uhm.” I put a bite of lasagna in my mouth to give myself a second before answering the question. I don’t really want to meet his friend and pretend to be nice. I want to eat, shower, and listen to Zeke talk about nerdy shit—preferably in that order. “Yeah, I guess I can.”

He beams at me. Resigned, I pick up my plate and follow him to the living room. There is a guy stretched out on the couch, textbook on his stomach and flashcards scattered on the floor. He sits up when we walk in the room, sliding off of the couch and standing. He’s taller than Zeke, but still a couple inches shorter than me. His blue eyes are lighter than Zeke’s, and half as pretty.

“Carter Morgan, nice to meet you. I’m Jefferson.” He shakes my hand and lets go quickly. I can’t bring myself to return the smile. I wish he wasn’t here.

“Hey.”

They both stare at me, waiting for more. Letting Jefferson and Zeke keep the couch, I sit down on the floor and put my back against the wall. Ducking my head, I start stuffing my face. The lasagna is delicious—I’m glad he gave me three large pieces. I could probably eat more, given how hungry I am.

“How was practice?” Zeke asks, and I glance up at him and shrug, mouth full. “Seemed like you were there kind of late.”

Swallowing with difficulty, I cough. “Stayed late with Vas. Did some single man shooting drills.”

“That’s impressive—that you can practice so much and still get all your classwork done,” Jefferson puts in, and I turn toward him, narrowing my eyes. It sounded sincere, but I don’t know him well enough to know when he’s being a dick. “I can barely get all my homework done and I don’t play a sport.”

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