Page 19 of Shots on Net

And I do. When the final buzzer sounds, SCU wins the game 5-0; even Coach Mackenzie is wearing a begrudging smile. The team lines up, knocking their helmets against mine and occasionally giving me the odd hug. This is my favorite part about being the goalie, though I’d never say it out loud. I’ve never made good friends with any of my teammates beyond Vas, but after a win any animosity is gone—they all treat me like we’re brothers no matter how little I’ve done to earn that.

As always, Vas waits until last and gives me the biggest hug of all, nearly knocking me off my feet. When he talks, he sounds so excited that the German accent is heavier than I’ve heard it.

“A shutout! Well done, my friend.”

We skate toward the bench. “You, too. Nice goal.”

He waves a gloved hand through the air as if to chase the compliment away. I give one last obnoxious wave to the crowd before we head down the chute. Coach Mackenzie pats my shoulder as I walk by, and my chest burns with pride. He looks proud; the way I’ve always wanted my father to look after watching one of my games. Of course, for my dad to be proud of me he’d actually have to watch one of my games.

Chasing away thoughts of my parents, I begin the process of removing my pads. Vas is beside me, both of us silent in the jubilant locker room. Every time one of my teammates passes by, they thump me on the chest or the arm. I fucking love winning. Coach isn’t big on speeches, but he gives one tonight. All of us listen, rapt; Coach Mackenzie is something of a god to us—universally loved and respected by every member of the team.

When we get to the team bus, Vas sits next to me like usual. Immediately, he pulls out a textbook and a reading light. Leaning over, I take a peek at the cover. It’s a math book, which naturally makes me think of Zeke. Pulling out my phone for the first time since the game ended, I see there isn’t a single text from my parents. Didn’t watch the game, then. Frowning, I pull out earbuds and am just about to put on some music when a message from Zeke comes through.

Zeke: Great game! You got a shootout!

I snort a laugh, and Vas looks over in surprise. I hold up my phone in answer.

Carter: Shutout.

Zeke: Whatever, same thing. You were very skilled at defending the crease. No puck breached your five-hole. Nobody was going to score a backdoor tonight, not in your kitchen.

Carter: Okay, that’s enough, get off of the internet.

Zeke: Hockey terms are fucking WEIRD.

Zeke: Seriously, though. Good game. That was fun to watch. The people in the crowd were kind of wild, though.

Carter: You mean the goalie chant?

Zeke: Yes! So mean! They should have been ejected for unsportsmanlike conduct.

Zeke: And yes, I googled that too.

Carter: It’s all good. The goalie always gets heckled. Just part of the game. We don’t get home until late tonight.

Zeke: I’ll wait up for you. Make sure you make it okay.

I stare down at my phone, warmth pooling in my stomach and diffusing through my body. I should respond with something flippant—make a joke or some snide comment. I’m not sure Zeke even realizes he sometimes acts like we’re in a relationship, and I wonder if I should enlighten him. Roommates don’t cook dinner for each other, or read to one another, or stay up until the early hours of the morning to make sure the other gets home okay. But I don’t want him to stop, and I’m selfish; if I tell him he acts like we’re boyfriends, he won’t do it anymore.

Carter: Sounds good. See you soon.

Zeke: Fly safe!

Looking up, I lock eyes with Vas. He’s watching me with a small smile on his face. Scowling at him, I queue up some music on my phone and lean back in my seat, closing my eyes.

Zeke

The sound of the garage door startles me awake. I jolt, sitting up and causing the book on my chest to slide to the floor with a thump. Disoriented, I scrub a hand over my eyes and try to locate my phone. It’s dark in the living room but for the single lamp I’d left on to read by. Finally, just as the garage door leading into the house opens, I find my phone in between the couch cushions. Tapping the screen, I check the time—3:52 a.m.

Carter walks into the room just as I stand up, and we eye each other across the dim room. He’s wearing sweats and an SCU hoodie; there is a heavy look to his eyes, as though he’s having trouble keeping them open. Stepping closer, he smiles the barest hint of a smile. It’s little more than a faint indentation of his cheeks at the corner of his mouth, but it does more to brighten the room than the lamp.

“You waited,” he says, surprised.

“I said I would.” I have to clear my throat to dispel the gravel. I must have been asleep longer than I thought. “Was the flight okay? And the drive? You look tired.”

“Both were fine. You do, too.”

I am tired. It feels ridiculous to complain, though, since all I did was homework. Carter is the one who did the traveling and played a hockey game. “Are you hungry? I could heat you up—."

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