Page 26 of Shots on Net

“Uhm…yeah, you could wear my jersey, if you want.” My voice sounds husky, and I hasten to clear it. “But just so you know, that’s kind of a thing that people do when they’re together.”

“Oh. That makes sense.” He laughs, shaking his head at himself.

“But we could get you a shirt,” I say, quickly. “A SCU Hockey one. Or you could borrow one of my hoodies—I have dozens.”

I’m obsessed with the thought of him wearing my clothes. It’ll be huge on him, and nobody but the two of us will know it’s mine. Maybe it’ll smell like him when he gives it back.

“That’s perfect. Thanks! I’m excited. I’ll have to get a book from the library ahead of time. Hockey for Simpletons, or something.”

I laugh, climbing off the bed to go to my closet. I make sure to keep my face turned away from Zeke so he can’t see the flinch from the twinge of pain. Rifling through the hangers, I pull out the smallest hoodie I have; it’s from my freshman year, when I was two inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter. It’s soft and faded from use, but the logo is still clearly visible on the front. I hand it to Zeke, wordlessly. He lifts it to his face and inhales, causing my stomach to clench painfully. He needs to stop doing things like that—I don’t do unrequited crushes, and this is fast becoming one.

“Smells good, like you.” He eyes me, grinning. “Well, when you’re not sweaty, that is.”

“Wait until you smell me after a game. I’ll make sure not to shower in the locker room this weekend; give you the full experience.”

He wrinkles nose, adorably. “Please don’t. I think I’ll be okay without the full experience.”

Flopping back on the bed next to him, I stretch out and pillow my head on my arms. He’s looking down at me, hoodie still clutched in his hands. There is a pensive look on his face that has me narrowing my eyes.

“Zeke. We’re not talking about anal fissures any longer. Never again.”

He raises his eyebrows and looks away with a huff. “Okay! Okay. I won’t bring it up again, I promise.”

I’m staring at his face so I see the way his eyes bounce to me and away again. He sighs, chest rising and falling dramatically. Reaching a hand up, I pat him on his back, lightly.

“Thanks, though. For being my friend.” I can feel my face burn, slightly, as I say this—embarrassed, even though I mean it. I’ve not had a lot of solid friendships in my life, so I know a good one when I see it.

Another sigh, as Zeke reaches over to my bedside table and grabs the book. Regretfully, I drop my arm back down and rest it on my stomach. It would be weird, to keep touching him when there isn’t any reason. He opens up the book and pauses to reorient himself with our location. When he starts reading, I close my eyes and let myself enjoy it. It’s the only thing from the evening that doesn’t hurt.

Zeke

Jefferson’s eyes are wide as he looks around us. I can see his lips move as he says something to me, but I can’t hear his words over the music in the arena. I lean closer to him.

“What?” I shout.

“Is the whole game like this.” He waves his hands to encompass the flashing lights and blaring music. It feels like we’re at a rave.

“No, this is just the intro,” I assure him. I wish I had thought to bring a water bottle; I have a feeling I’m going to need it after tonight.

The music stops and the light returns to normal. The rink doesn’t get any quieter, though. If anything, the volume rises as the game begins; the people around us are all sporting SCU hockey gear and are screaming with the bloodthirstiness of Vikings as one of the opposing players is hit into the wall in front of us.

“Good lord,” Jefferson says, as the glass sways dangerously.

Leaning forward in my seat, I scoot all the way to the edge and point to the goal on the left side. “That’s Carter.”

“Yes, thank you, I was able to figure out which goalie was ours,” he says, dryly.

I keep my eyes on Carter while simultaneously stabbing an elbow into Jefferson’s ribs. He looks ridiculously large in his goalie pads, all puffed up like a Pillsbury dough boy. He’s also, I notice, remarkably flexible; a great deal of his goalie moves seem to involve doing the splits. I’d been impressed with his ability to do this when I’d watched his games online, but now I’m really impressed. It’s impossible to keep track of the puck, and I’ve got the benefit of a raised seat—I can’t imagine how hard Carter has to work to stay focused on that little rubber disc.

I clench my fingers on my knees as Carter somehow catches a shot from midair and slaps it down to the ice; the fans around us cheer, but I can hear a few boos speckled in as well. Jefferson turns around in his seat, affronted.

“Are people booing?” He asks.

“Yeah, probably the other team’s fans.”

“Well, that doesn’t seem very sportsmanlike.” He turns back around, and shakes his head in disappointment. Carter told me the heckling and booing was all part of the game, but I’m with Jefferson. I want our team to win, obviously, but I’m not going to verbally abuse the other side to get there. They’re working just as hard as our players.

“Good lord,” Jefferson mumbles again, as we watch Carter try to defend his net while the opposing team fires shots and skates too close to him for comfort. “This is rather nerve wracking, isn’t it? I realize they have pads, but Jesus. Did you hear that announcer? Fifty-seven miles per hour!”

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