Page 14 of Shots on Net

He’s relaxed back against the couch, legs outstretched in front of him. Beside him, Zeke is sitting crisscross-applesauce and watching me. When he catches my eye, he smiles.

“Uhm, yeah, it can be a lot, I guess.” If I was going to be honest with him, I’d tell him it’s really fucking hard. I’d probably be a decent student without the added stress of a sport, but with hockey I’m barely staying afloat. I’ve never been great at school, and now I’m damn near terrible. It’s hard to make myself care about anything but hockey.

“Zeke said you’re studying business. That sounds interesting.”

“Not really.” Jefferson laughs at this, nodding as though to say fair enough. Maybe he’s not so bad. “What about you?”

“Chemistry.”

“Sounds hard,” I say, honestly.

“Oh, but it’s fun.” He sits forward, balancing his elbows on his knees but still using his hands to gesture.

Pulling my knees up and balancing my plate on top, I listen in silence while I eat. Zeke is watching his friend wax poetic about chemistry with an amused look on his face; every now and then he glances over at me. Every time he catches my eye he smiles.

Zeke

Carter walks into the kitchen looking like he’s fresh off of a wild night. Pieces of his hair have fallen out of its bun and there is a little drool crusted on his cheek. I bite my lip to keep from smiling. When he notices me sitting at the counter with my homework spread out in front of me, he squints and scratches at his chest. The shirt he’s wearing has a stain on the stomach, leading me to believe he snatched it up off the floor instead of grabbing a clean one.

“Good morning,” I say, cheerfully, after checking the clock on the oven to ensure it is, in fact, still morning. Carter grunts, moving over toward the coffee pot. “How was your game?”

“We won,” he says, back toward me and voice scratchy with disuse.

I already knew this. In honor of my new roommate, I’d put the game’s livestream up on my laptop last night and watched as I studied. I had no idea what was happening half the time, but even a hockey-illiterate like myself could tell that Carter played well. The other team only scored twice on forty-three shots on goal. The announcer guys spent a lot of time talking about Carter’s draft prospects, whatever the hell that means. Apparently, they think they’ll be good.

“I saw. You played well.” He turns to look at me then, leaning back against the counter and wincing as he takes a drink of too hot coffee. Reaching a hand to his face, he discovers the dried drool and rubs at it, scowling.

“You watched?” He asks, with no small amount of incredulity.

“Of course. I tried to pay attention to the game, and not only you, but I had no clue what was happening half of the time. No offense to hockey or anything, but my interest in the sport starts and ends with you.”

Carter doesn’t look offended by this; if anything, he looks pleased—there is a small twist to his mouth, like he’s trying to remember how to smile. I lift the corners of my own lips, trying to coax one out of him.

“Ohio State is good,” he tells me, and I nod as though I had known this. “It’s a pretty big deal for us to beat them.”

“That’s great. You earned it.” Though I might not understand the specifics of the game, that much was clear. It was a fast-paced game, and at one point Carter saved a shot that was clocked at 78 mph. I felt inordinately proud, after he saved that; like I was the one who’d done it, and deserved to be cheered. I wanted to text all my friends and tell them what my roommate did.

He grunts again, and covers his embarrassment by taking another gulp of coffee. “What are you working on?”

“Ah.” I look down at the textbook and notebook in front of me. “Differential geometry.”

“Fun,” he says, skeptically.

“Probably not as much fun as your hockey game. But, safer.” Carter snorts, straightening and turning around to refill his coffee mug. I continue talking to his back. “What are you doing today?”

He stiffens, shoulders tightening visibly. He doesn’t turn around before answering. “Did you want to hang out, still? If not, that’s cool.”

His voice and posture are defensive—already braced to be let down. I hadn’t asked because I don’t want to hang out anymore; I’d asked in case he was too tired after the game last night to do anything.

“Of course, I do. I was just going to say we could do something here, if you were too tired to go out and do something. That hockey stuff looked hard.”

The shoulders don’t loosen, and he’s frowning when he turns back around. He doesn’t laugh at my joke. “Whatever you want.”

Closing my textbook, I rest my forearms on the counter. “I want to hang out.”

Carter nods, but doesn’t look convinced. I wonder what it would take to earn his trust. He glances at the clock on the oven, sipping his coffee. “You good to leave in an hour? I made a reservation.”

I raise an eyebrow at this. “Sure. What are we doing?”

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