Page 3 of Shots on Net

“Sorry! I didn’t realize you were…the door was open, and you said—."

“Chill. I’m just changing.”

Peeking through my fingers, I see Carter shoot me a look and walk over to his closet. He’s wearing his boxers and nothing else. And yes, those tattoos do indeed climb up the back of his neck and crawl all the way down to his waistband. It’s hard not to stare. I can’t tell what the tattoos are, except for a large one on his shoulder which is a mask of some sort.

“Alright, let’s go.”

Ready for him this time as he leaves the room—fully clothed, thankfully—I follow close so as not to be left behind. He’s slipped on a pair of black sweatpants and a black, long-sleeved shirt. It’s tight enough to show the muscled arms beneath. Covering up the tattoos has done nothing to make him less frightening-looking—now he only looks like a burglar. I speed up to walk beside him, my shorter legs already burning in the effort it takes to keep up with him.

“You don’t have to take me to get my things. Really, it’s completely unnecessary.”

“You don’t have a car, you said.”

“I don’t. I was going to rent one.”

“That’s stupid.” He flings open the door to the garage, and the handle bounces off the wall. Not once today has he opened a door with an appropriate level of force. I’m surprised the walls of this place aren’t riddled with holes. “Just get in the car.”

Feeling that it would be both childish and foolish to disagree, I climb into the passenger seat. He drives some sort of SUV, and when I peek behind me, I see the back seats are already folded down as though he was expecting to move furniture today. There is a faint stale odor that I can’t place, and no less than five air fresheners hanging from the ceiling handles and rearview mirror.

“Sorry if it stinks,” Carter says, sounding not an iota sorry, “my pads and shit can get pretty disgusting.”

“Oh, you have a lot of pads?”

“No, I just block pucks naked and hope for the best.”

Okay, Carter, no need for snark. “It’s possible that I’ve never seen a hockey game before in my life. Or football. Or baseball.”

“Coming to SCU home games is a requirement of living with me. We’ll get that cherry popped.”

“Oh boy.” I’m picturing an entire team of Carter Morgans. Thugs on ice.

“What’s your name, anyway?” He asks, and my jaw actually drops.

“Zeke Cassidy, I already told you that,” I remind him, a little bit hurt that he’s already forgotten.

“No, like what’s your full name.” He looks over at me, a flash of blue between shockingly dark lashes. “I remember your fucking name, I’m not an idiot. But that’s a nickname, right? Zeke?”

“Oh. No, that’s my name.”

“Weird.”

“Whatever you say, Your Majesty, Carter Morgan the Third, Baron of Walnut Ave and King of the Hockey Court.”

Carter makes a choking noise that I tentatively identify as a laugh. I’ve never seen anyone laugh without smiling before. It’s a little impressive.

“You’re a smartass,” he says, not sounding mad about it. “Zeke. I like it. Better than Carter, anyway. Fucking white bread name.”

It would be rude to agree, since we’ve only just met. But he’s right. Carter Morgan III is the most posh name I’ve ever heard. And totally unfit for him. I wonder if he did that on purpose—modeled his aesthetic around what people expect him not to be.

I direct him as we drive. These streets are as familiar to me as the back of my hand; I didn’t go far from home when I left for college, but it was just far enough to make me feel independent. And close enough that I was only an Uber away if my grandma needed me. The closer we get, the more nervous I become. I hadn’t thought through the fact that if my new roommate helped collect my things, he’d also be seeing where I was collecting them from. I have a feeling Carter is about to see a side of South Carolina he hasn’t seen before.

“Number 14C,” I tell him, and am ashamed of how small my voice is. I shouldn’t be embarrassed. Lots of people live in trailer parks, and it’s nothing to be humiliated about. He doesn’t say anything, but turns the vehicle around so he can back carefully into the space beside my grandma’s car. Resigned, I push open my door and meet him at the back of the car.

“Want me to wait out here?” He asks. He’d rolled the sleeves of his shirt up while he drove, and the tattoos look stark against his skin in the outdoor light. We’re being treated to a lucky break in the rain, which probably means we need to hurry and load up the car before it starts up again.

“Nah, you can come in. It’s just my grandma here.”

I knock three times, pause, and knock twice more in quick succession. Using my key, I push the door open and call out. As I knew it would, my grandma’s voice calls back from her sitting room. Holding the door open for Carter, he makes a production of wiping his shoes off on the mat and tugging his sleeves down. He looks uncomfortable.

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