Page 5 of Shots on Net

He almost gets me on that one—I can feel my mouth try to smile but bite it back. “Less talking, more packing.”

Finally, finally, he looks away from me and goes back to packing. I snoop around his room as much as I can from where I’m seated. There are band posters on the wall for groups I’ve never heard of, and a well-used chess set on top of a bookshelf. Squinting, I try to make out the titles of the books. I don’t recognize anything except for The Hobbit, which is probably embarrassing.

His room is as threadbare as the rest of the house, but also has a lot of character. It’s the sort of bedroom that speaks of someone who knows what they like and are comfortable displaying it. It’s as unlike my own bedroom, in my parents’ house, as it’s possible to be. This is the room of someone allowed to be themself; mine is a room bland enough to be used for guests.

“Do you play chess?” Zeke asks, zipping up his suitcase. He crouches down in front of the bookcase, pulling out a few books and tucking them carefully into his backpack. He glances over at me when I don’t immediately answer.

“No.” Do I look like someone who plays chess?

“Maybe I could teach you! We can play together.” He says this with the air of Father Christmas pulling an enormous toy out of his sack. “You can teach me hockey, and I’ll teach you chess.”

He acts like it’s a foregone conclusion that we’ll be hanging out together. I give him a solid week before he starts avoiding me. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

“Cool.” He smiles at me, before carefully tucking the chess pieces away and adding the set to his backpack. He casts an appraising eye around his room, hands on hips. “Well, I think that’s everything I need.”

“I can always bring you back if you forgot something.” I stand, pushing the desk chair back into place. He has the skinniest arms I’ve ever seen on an adult, so I reach over and sling his backpack over my shoulder. When I reach for the handle of the suitcase, he stops me.

“I can get it.”

I knock his hand out of the way and grab the suitcase, pulling it off the bed. It’s heavy; if he picked this up he’d probably topple over. Without waiting for him to lead the way, I fling open his bedroom door and head down the hallway. He mutters something incoherent behind me, before calling out for his grandma. I step outside, meaning to load the car and then wait for him there. I’ve barely got his stuff in the back, however, before Zeke and his grandma step out behind me. Cursing under my breath, I make sure my sleeves are pulled down over my tattoos and go over to them.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” Zeke says, leaning down to hug her. “Love you.”

Embarrassed, I take a step back and clear my throat, trying to give them the semblance of privacy.

“Love you more,” she tells him, before turning to me. I take another automatic step back, but she smiles at me. “Next time we have family dinner you can come along, Carter. You can tell me how you got all these muscles.”

Zeke grins manically as she steps up to me and pats my bicep, chuckling at her own joke. I offer my own weak laugh in return and jolt when she wraps an arm around my waist in a half hug. She’s got a surprisingly strong grip. I flounder, trying to decide how to reciprocate; eventually, I settle for gentle pats on her upper back. Judging by Zeke’s face, this looks as awkward as it feels.

“Drive safe now.” We’re waved off—literally—by Zeke’s grandma, who stands outside her door waving until I can no longer see her in the rearview. Zeke, in the passenger seat, bends over to adjust the plastic shopping bag at his feet.

“What’s that?”

“Food,” he says, smiling at me. “Nobody ever leaves Grandma’s house empty-handed. It’s pretty much a rule.”

“Right.” I wouldn’t know. Both of my grandmas were as cold and distant as my parents; they would have looked down at Zeke’s grandma’s house with disdain and not bothered to hide their sneers.

“Thank you for driving me and carrying my stuff,” Zeke says, and I grunt, hoping he’ll stop talking. He doesn’t. “You really should come to dinner with us sometime. She’s a great cook.”

“You’re welcome,” I mutter, uncomfortable. Usually, people get the hint and stop talking, but Zeke seems to take my short answers as impetus to fill the silence.

“So, I know you’re a hockey player. What are you studying? Maybe we’ll have some of the same classes this semester.”

“Business.” I glance over at him. He’s turned sideways in his seat facing me, with one leg bent up at an angle. There is a politely questioning look on his face; his mouth is pulled up in a small smile, and he looks like he’d love nothing more than to hear what I have to say. Turning away, I scowl at the road, unsure what to make of him.

“That’s cool. What sort of thing are you hoping to do with it? That’s such an open-ended degree, you’ll have so many possibilities.”

He sounds so sincere, like he’s congratulating me on making a smart choice for my future when the opposite is true. I never had a choice at all. “My dad wants me to work for him.”

“Wow. What sort of company does your dad own?”

“Listen, can we talk about something else?” I say, sharply. My fingers are clenched around the steering wheel and out of the corner of my eye I see Zeke startle at the volume of my voice. “Tell me what you’re going to school for.”

I don’t much give a shit what’s he’s going to school for, but I don’t want to talk about myself. I glance at him again. The tops of his ears are red with an embarrassed flush and his eyes are wide. Probably, not many people have ever yelled at him before. I make a mental note to try and not do that again in the future.

“Uhm, well, I’m working toward a dual degree in physics and mathematics. And I’m also going to be applying for the Master’s program.”

Jesus Christ. Physics and mathematics and I can’t even pass a basic English class without help. “Oh. That sounds like a lot.”

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