Page 16 of Shots on Net

Pleased that he remembered, I turn to face forward in my seat. I smell faintly of sweat, and my arms really are starting to hurt. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that Carter chose an activity that had a more physical aspect to it. He probably expects me to choose more cerebral ones—I’ll have to think outside the box and keep him on his toes.

“Can I ask you something?” He asks, suddenly, bringing me out of my reverie.

“Sure.” I turn back toward him. He’s got both hands on the steering wheel and is resolutely avoiding my gaze.

“Why do you live with your grandma?” He glances over then, a quick, furtive look. Before I can answer, he gives a firm shake of his head and continues speaking. “No, never mind. Sorry. None of my business.”

He sounds mad, like he’s annoyed at himself for asking an intrusive question. “It’s alright, I don’t mind. We’re friends,” I remind him, and his fingers relax a degree on the steering wheel. “My parents died in a car accident when I was young. I don’t really remember them; it’s been Grandma and I for as long as I can remember.”

“Fuck,” Carter breathes, flexing his hands. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I shrug. “Like I said, I can hardly remember them. It’ll be worse when Grandma goes—she’s all I’ve got.”

Carter’s mouth twists into a grimace, and I wonder if I’ve overshared. But then, he reaches a hand across the center console and rests it on my knee, squeezing gently. His hand is big enough to cover a lot of surface area, the warmth from his palm seeping through my pants. It’s quick, his hand there and gone in the next second, but the phantom touch remains long after. It’s the first time he’s touched me like that.

“You’re still invited to Sunday dinner, by the way,” I remind him, very gently. I’ve picked up a rideshare to my grandma’s house every Sunday since moving in with him, not wanting to impose and ask him for a ride; not wanting to make him feel obligated to come with me.

“Maybe I can come next weekend,” he says, as we pull into the driveway and he waits for the garage door to open. He sounds a touch worried when he continues. “You don’t think she minds that I…”

Carter waves a hand at his face and down one of his arms, encompassing the half-shaved head, nose ring, and tattoos.

“Do I think she minds that you look like a hoodlum?” I fill in, helpfully. Parking the car, he shoots me a wry look.

“Yeah. That.”

“Nope. She’s a cool grandma.” Following him inside, I eye the long line of his back. I’ve become pretty adept at reading the many emotions of Carter’s back muscles. “Seriously, she liked you. You’re a lovely boy, remember? She doesn’t care what you look like, Carter, she cares that you’re kind. Which, by the way, you are. Even if you pretend not to be.”

This earns me a rather frightening scowl, thrown over his shoulder. I smile back, because I can also see that he’s faking it.

“Alright. Next weekend, then. After the zoo.” This last part is added under his breath, the tone hopeful and a little bit sad.

“That’s right,” I agree, watching him walk up the stairs toward his room. “After the zoo.”

Carter

Good luck tomorrow, kid. I’ll be watching, so you’d better win.

I stare down at the text message, fighting the urge to grin like a lunatic. I don’t grin. If I were to start, it might scare people. But it’s not every day that people get text messages from their heroes. I decide to add a smiley face emoji to the text as a compromise.

? Thanks, Tony. If I win, it’ll be for you.

I decide against adding a kissy-face emoji as well. Probably overkill. I slide my phone back into my pocket just as the professor walks into the room. He scans the rows of seated students, and I don’t think I’m imagining the way his eyes linger on me. I’m sure he remembers me; not many people fail English Lit II and have to retake it. I tell myself I’m also imagining the look of smugness on his face.

He starts class almost the exact same way he did last year: a speech meant to awe and frighten us. It’s a little less impressive hearing it the second time around. Not like I’d been mesmerized the first, either, but now it’s just embarrassing. Unfortunately, this is a required course to graduate, so I’ve nothing to do but pay attention. I have to pass this class.

He goes through the syllabus, gleefully outlining the books we’ll be studying this semester. Stomach sinking, I read through the list twice to make sure I’m understanding it right. It’s nearly double the reading list from last year. And I failed last year. Cold pricks of sweat break out on the back of my neck as I look at some of the titles on this list; even someone like me—who never reads unless they’re forced to—knows that most of these books are hundreds of pages. I’ll be lucky to finish a third of these.

By the time class ends and I head off to practice, I’m in a terrible mood. I’m glad I, at least, have hockey to look forward to. Sometimes I regret my decision to play net, and wish I was one of the forwards or d-men, if only because they get to hit people. Maybe Coach Mackenzie will let me try my hand at it one of these practices. He is, after all, always encouraging us to try new things. Feeling marginally better than before, I yank open the door to the practice rink and step inside my favorite place in the entire world.

???

I can hear the music all the way in the garage when I get home. It sounds like a mariachi band is in my living room. Shouldering my bag, I shove through the door and am immediately assaulted by the unmistakable smell of Mexican food. It smells like cilantro, and refried beans, and a thousand other things I can’t name. My stomach growls loud enough to be heard over the music. Dropping everything unceremoniously on the floor by the door, I follow my nose toward the kitchen.

Stopping in the doorway, I take a second to enjoy the view while my presence is yet unknown. Zeke has his back toward me, standing at the counter and chopping something on a cutting board. He’s got Spanish music blaring from his phone on the island and he’s swaying his hips in time to the beat. He’s trying to sing along, but can only muster one of every handful of words. It’s ridiculous, and unbearably cute. I watch the motion of his hips and decide that cute might not be the best description.

Zeke turns, sees me standing there and stops dead. He blushes a fierce red that travels all the way down his neck to the collar of his shirt. Even his ears are red. Jesus Christ, even that’s cute. I raise an eyebrow and lean nonchalantly against the wall, speaking to be heard over the music.

“Shakira, huh?”

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