Page 27 of Shots on Net

“I know,” I agree. My heart has been pounding since we got here and my fingers ache from clenching them too tightly.

It seems to me that everyone is getting far too close to Carter. I’d thought that the blue area painted by the goal was off-limits for anyone but the netminder, but apparently, I was wrong. The opposing team has skated through it multiple times, and during their last attempt on goal one guy was directly behind Carter—practically inside the net. I’d done enough research to know that the goalie wasn’t supposed to be interfered with, but my definition of that must be different than everyone else’s. If you ask me, there is a great deal of interfering going on.

When the period ends with the score tied at zero, the team skates toward a hallway that I assume takes them to the locker room. Carter is the last to get to the bench, where he joins Vasel, who’s waiting for him. Before he steps off the ice, he turns and looks in our direction. I raise a hand even though he can’t possibly see me from that far away. He turns away and follows his teammates to the locker room. Beside me, Jefferson chuckles. I look over at him and find him watching me with an amused expression on his face.

“What?” I ask, a little defensively.

“Nothing. I’m just surprised, is all. That you and Carter Morgan seem to get along so well.”

Immediately, I have an urge to protect Carter. “Why? Because Carter isn’t as friendly as everyone else? I’ve already told you, he’s really nice and a good guy.”

Jefferson’s eyebrows rise at my waspish tone. “Actually, no. I’m surprised that you have gotten friendly with him in such a short amount of time.”

I stare at my best friend in silence, confused and a little bit hurt. “What do you mean?”

“Zeke!” He says, turning toward me. “We met freshman year, first day of move-in, remember? I spent months—months—trying to get you to come out with me to a movie, or a party, or dinner, and you never would. And yet here you are, going on grand day-dates with Carter Morgan every weekend and then coming to watch him play a sport you have zero interest in. I’ve never seen you warm to somebody so fast, and I’m not just saying that because he looks like an ex-con. I’m saying that as your best friend who had to work very hard to earn that title.”

I look out at the ice, noting that there are still a few minutes left in the intermission. I hadn’t realized it before, but everything he’s saying is true. I’m usually a little more discerning with whom I spend my time with. I like to take things slow, get to know people bit by bit before I commit to more. It’s not that I want people to earn my friendship necessarily, but that I want to make sure they’re someone who’s going to stick around if I get attached. Too often, people give up and move on, preferring fast relationships to meaningful ones. With Carter, all of that seems to have gone out of the window.

“I don’t know, I just…he felt right, is all.” I blush as I say this, the tips of my ears burning. There’s no better way to explain it, though. Carter was inevitable.

“Do you even have anything in common? What do you talk about?”

The teams retake the ice, and I watch as Carter goes through some quick warm-ups. I twist my fingers together to keep from waving at him again. I really want him to know I’m here; he’d bought the tickets and left them at will-call, texting me to let me know it was okay if I didn’t make it, but there were tickets waiting if I did. He was giving me an out if I’d decided that I didn’t want to spend my Saturday evening at a hockey game. My stomach had twisted unpleasantly, and I’d hurried to text him back and confirm that I would be at the game no matter what. I hope he saw the message before he took to the ice.

The game has restarted and SCU has the puck. Carter is bent over, resting his forearms on his massive leg pads as he watches the action on the other side of the ice. I think about Jefferson’s question; do we have anything in common? No. The truth is we don’t have anything in common except living quarters. And yet, we never seem to run out of things to talk about.

“I guess we don’t, really. But we talk about a lot of stuff—everything. When we went to the zoo, I told him all sorts of animal facts.”

He smiles at that, knowing how much I love watching documentaries and learning about animals. “Sounds like fun.”

“It was fun. He’s a good listener.” I tuck my hands into the sleeves of Carter’s hoodie. I had to roll them back in order to use my hands. “I really like him.”

“Well, I’m glad. I’m happy it worked out for you.”

We’re interrupted, then, by someone from our team scoring. We climb to our feet and cheer with everyone else; the crowd barely has time to sit down before SCU scores again. This time, I cheer a little louder as Vasel skates down the bench, tapping the gloves of his teammates. Carter, on the other end of the ice, skates out of his goal and back again as though he’s stretching his legs.

The game gets a little more violent after that—the opposing team trying to fight their way back from a 0-2 deficit. I flinch every time someone is slammed into the wall; the glass shakes dangerously, like it’s one good hit away from shattering. I’m eternally grateful that nobody can hit Carter. I’m not sure my nerves could take it.

When the game ends with an SCU win, I stand up and cheer as loud as I can for Carter. He let in one goal, but as far as I’m concerned, he played perfectly. The rest of the team lines up and take turns congratulating him by his net—tapping their helmets against his, or giving him a hug. Once the entire team skates by him, he’s the last to head off toward the bench.

“Well, that’s oddly precious,” Jefferson notes, watching the procession of teammates hugging Carter. I nod, keeping my eyes on him until he’s out of sight and in the locker room. We join the queue of people walking up the stairs to exit the arena. I stick close to my friend, not wanting to be separated in the sea of bodies. Before he can head toward the nearest exit, I tug on the back of his shirt to get his attention.

“Do you think we could meet Carter?”

He stops abruptly and I bump into his back. People walk around us, shooting us disgruntled looks; he pulls me to the side to stand against a wall where we won’t be disrupting the flow of traffic.

“Sure, do you know where to go?” He asks, and both of us look around as though expecting Carter to coalesce from thin air.

“Uhm…maybe we should ask someone.” I eye an usher. Jefferson waves me forward. Sighing, I approach the man. He was the same usher who’d helped us find our seats earlier. Catching his eye, I smile in what I hope is a trustworthy way. “Hi. Uhm, I’m—well, we—are with one of the players? Carter Morgan?”

I try to sound confident, like I know what I’m doing, but each sentence comes out as a question. The man eyes me and smiles, kindly. I must look nonthreatening, because he places a hand on my shoulder and bends down to speak to me so he doesn’t have to shout. “Are you needing to know how to get to the locker rooms?”

“Yes,” I respond in relief.

Motioning for Jefferson to join us, the usher sets off at a fast pace. I’m practically jogging, trying to keep up with the man, and by the time we reach the locker rooms I’m out of breath. Before I can stop him, he bangs a fist on the door and sticks his head inside to call for Carter. Blushing furiously, I tuck my hands into the front pocket of his hoodie and wish I could will myself into invisibility. Beside me, Jefferson has an amused expression on his face.

“Alright, son, he’s on his way over.” The usher looks at me and smiles, kindly. I nod, managing a small squeak of thanks.

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