Page 18 of Shots on Net

I think about that for a second. My normal response would be to tell whomever asked that to fuck right off, but this is Zeke. I don’t think he’d laugh at me, even if I told him I was illiterate. “I don’t know, it’s just fucking hard. I can’t concentrate. And the books we have to read for school suck ass.”

“Mm. Some are better than others.” He runs a palm over my bedspread, eyes on his fingers. “Have you tried audiobooks, instead?”

“No.” The idea hadn’t even occurred to me. “Should I?”

“Might help.” He looks at me, still trailing an idle hand over my comforter. “Want me to read some to you?”

“What, right now?” I ask, lifting my head and propping myself up on an elbow to look at him better. “Are you serious?”

“Sure.” He holds out a hand and waits for me to put the book into his palm. Sliding back until his back is more comfortable against the wall, he crosses his legs and flips to the first page. Laying back down, I rest my hands on my abdomen.

“This is so weird,” I tell him, and he chuckles.

“Feel like your mom is reading you a bedtime story?” He jokes, and I snort.

“My mom never read me a bedtime story. Also, don’t talk about my mom when we’re in bed. Gross.”

His chuckle turns into a full-on laugh at that. It takes him a second to compose himself; once he does, he starts reading in a steady, soothing voice. Closing my eyes, I listen hard to the words and try not to think about the way his slight weight is compressing my mattress. Soon enough, the irritation melts away and I find myself almost enjoying the experience. Zeke’s voice is musical; he reads each sentence with a smooth confidence, that I envy. If I’d been asked to read this book out loud, I’d be tripping over every other word.

By the time he stops reading, I’ve been lulled into a kind of trance. It takes a hand on my shoulder to jar me back to alertness, and I blink open my eyes to look up at him sheepishly. He leaves his hand on my shoulder, the long, fine-boned fingers curling over lightly on my skin. I’d like to ask him to keep reading; I have the sudden, nearly irresistible urge to ask him to stay.

“Did you fall asleep?” Zeke asks, smirking.

“Surprisingly, no. I was just listening. You…” Pausing, I try to decide what I want to say. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable. “You have a nice voice. And you were right—that worked. I feel like I actually retained some of that.”

He smiles. “That’s good. Want me to keep going?”

Boy do I. I hesitate, unsure whether this is the sort of thing platonic roommates would be doing and whether or not I care about the distinction. “If you don’t mind.”

Apparently, he doesn’t. He shifts beside me, settling in. The motion brings him closer to me and his hip nudges my shoulder where I’m sprawled out on the bed. He doesn’t shift away, so I don’t either. Closing my eyes once more, I enjoy the contact and the calming sound of his voice as he reads to me.

He stays—long past the time the pair of us should have gone to bed—and reads until his voice becomes scratchy with overuse. I sit up when he stops and swings his legs over the side of the bed, setting the book on my nightstand. Feeling suddenly awkward, like he’s a one-night stand I’m sending on their way, I cast about for something to say. Since what I really want to do is invite him to spend the night, I end up opting for silence.

“You better get some sleep,” Zeke says, turning to look at me. “Game tomorrow, right?”

“Right.” I clear my throat. “Thanks. For, you know, this.”

I wave toward the bed between us, like a fucking idiot. It sounds like I’m thanking him for a good lay. Apparently, Zeke’s mind is firmly outside of the gutter, though, because he doesn’t comment. He just smiles and stands up.

“You’re welcome. We can do more another time, maybe.”

I nod, watching as he walks out the door. He’s so small—bony shoulder blades and no hips. He always looks like he’s wearing clothes a size too large for him. Trying to remind myself that he’s not my type, I get up to strip and get ready for bed. When I come back to the bedroom, my eyes immediately track to the impression Zeke left on my bed. Off limits, I remind myself, sternly, as I shut off the light and crawl into bed.

Immediately, as though a projector was flipped on in my mind, my thoughts turn to Zeke and other things that might be done in this bed. I wonder how he kisses; probably gentle, and a little unsure. I can practically feel the phantom touch of soft fingertips on my skin, as I think about it. He’d probably be shy, uncertain where to touch and when. I wouldn’t mind teaching him.

But all this is just a fantasy. An enjoyable one, but an indulgence that borders on delusion. Zeke and I haven’t known each other long, and even if we were to form a close bond there is no guarantee that he would ever be sexually attracted to me. It’s not impossible, but it’s also not something I’d place money on. Someone like him doesn’t fall for someone like me; I’m a one-night stand, and that will never be something he is into.

Shutting down all thoughts of kissing and what Zeke looks like beneath those loose shirts, I tug the blanket over myself and roll over. I’ve got a game tomorrow—a game Tony is going to be watching—and the last thing I need is to be distracted by adorable nerds.

???

Lifting my helmet, I turn and grab the water bottle off of the back of the net and squirt a stream into my mouth. The fans behind my net are cheering; it’s some sort of goalie chant, which features heavily on telling me how much I suck. I raise a hand and curl my fingers in a let's hear it motion. Let them chant and heckle all they want—I’m about to end this game on a fucking shutout. Pulling my mask into place, I wait at the top of my crease for play to resume.

Penn State is good, but they’re also young. Their team is comprised of mainly freshman and sophomore students, whereas we have a pretty even spread of upper and lower class athletes. The division between team structures is showing tonight. Penn State came out of the gate playing hard in the first period but have quickly become sloppy with every goal we score and every shot I save.

Five minutes left in the third period and the puck is in our zone. I’m hugging the right post, staring at the puck so hard that my eyes are dry from not blinking. One of the Penn State forwards—fuck if I can tell who it is—fires a shot that I barely deflect with my shoulder. The puck wings over the net and I push to the other side in case any forwards are lurking outside my line of sight. Sweat trickles down my brow, stinging my eyes.

The crowd is still cheering but it’s a dull, wordless roar to me. The only thing I’m listening for is the call of my teammates. Penn State fires a bullet toward me and I glove it down but don’t hold it. Vas is off of my right shoulder, where I knew he’d be, and ready when I tip it to him. He takes off down the ice toward the opposing goal, but I stay vigilant. Too many times in the past I’ve let in goals I should have saved because I wasn’t expecting my team to turn it over. But not today, bitches. Today, I’m getting a shutout.

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