Page 6 of Shots on Net

“It is. But it also means I’ll save money, because I’m working toward two diplomas at the same time, you know? Instead of doing two separate Bachelor’s degrees. And I like it, it’s fun!”

Shifting in my seat, I resist the urge to look over at him again. Now I’m the one embarrassed. He’s obviously a lot smarter than I am.

“I bet you’re good at math, too,” he says, so confidently that I do end up peeking at him again.

“No, I’m not.”

“Isn’t being a goalie all about angles and velocity, though? I bet you’re using math all the time and never even realized it.”

I feel strangely pleased by this, like he’s just bestowed a grand compliment on me. Congratulations, Carter, you are good at math and never realized it. It’s ridiculous. Scowling, I tap my fingers against the steering wheel. Somehow, he’s worked the conversation so we’re talking about me again, and not him.

“That’s not me doing math, that’s just…” Intuition? Spidey senses? “It’s just practice and being able to read the opposing forward. It’s not like I’m sitting there working through sine and cosine.”

Zeke laughs, a snorting sort of laugh that is exactly the kind of laugh I would have expected him to have. “I know that. Math isn’t just equations on a piece of paper; there are practical applications too. Your brain might be performing mathematical gymnastics during a hockey match, and you don’t even notice because it’s second nature. Ergo, you’re good at math!”

“Hockey game,” I correct. “And okay, you win. I’m a mathematical genius. I can’t imagine why it’s taken somebody this long to notice.”

I say this sarcastically, and probably a little bit mean. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, because he laughs again. I’m relieved when we pull up to the house; the confines of the car had started to feel stifling. Just me, Zeke, and all his questions. I grab his bags for him again and don’t bother waiting for him before I walk inside and up the stairs. Depositing his stuff on the floor of his room, I come downstairs just as he’s putting the food from his grandma into the refrigerator.

“Your shit’s upstairs,” I tell him. “I’m going to go back downstairs and work out a little more.”

He opens his mouth and for a second, I think he’s going to ask if he can join me. “Sounds good. I guess I’ll go unpack.”

Turning, I head downstairs. I hadn’t actually planned on doing another workout today, I just didn’t want to do the whole awkwardly-trying-to-figure-out-how-to-live-together thing with Zeke. I don’t even have my damn earbuds. Annoyed with myself and, unfairly, with my new roommate, I jump on the bike and prop my phone up. I’ll just watch YouTube videos instead of listen to music.

???

Later, I walk silently up the stairs and listen for Zeke. The main living area and the kitchen are both empty, but I can’t hear anything from his room, either. His door is shut, so I’m able to sneak past and into my own room without drawing him out. I don’t bother closing my own door, but strip down and head into my bathroom to shower. Later, when I come out with a towel wrapped around my waist, I can hear vague movements down the hall that alert me to Zeke’s presence.

“Carter?” He calls.

“What?” I call back, grabbing boxers from my dresser.

“Can I come in? Are you decent?”

“Morally?” I ask, and he pauses. “Door’s open.”

After so many years of playing hockey, being naked in front of other people is a complete nonissue for me. The same cannot be said for Zeke, who inches around my doorframe with his eyes squinted like he’s ready to close them at a moment’s notice. I raise my eyebrows at him. He looks at the boxers clutched in my hand and the towel around my waist.

“I’ll let you get dressed.”

“Jesus, it’s fine. What do you want?” Bending, I step into the boxers and pull them up underneath the towel so as not to offend his delicate sensibilities. Pulling the towel off, I quickly tug on a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt. Zeke is hovering awkwardly at my door; he’s watching me, but there is nothing sexual in his gaze. It’s a clinical look, not an interested one. I suppose that answers one question about my new roommate.

“I wanted to see if you’d like to watch a movie,” he says. He’s changed into ratty pajama pants, strings fraying from the ends of the too-long cuffs. The shirt he’s wearing is at least two sizes too big, and gives the impression of a kid wearing his dad’s clothing.

“Sure.” He probably wants to watch a documentary or some equally boring shit.

“Great! I like your tattoos.” He points at my now covered arms, like I might have forgotten where my tattoos are located.

“Thanks.”

He waits, and I wait, but neither of us can seem to think of anything else to say. Less than a day with my new roommate and I’ve already exhausted my conversational bank. Sighing, I sit down on the end of my bed.

“Listen, you don’t have to hang out with me just because you’re living here. If you want to do your own thing, that’s fine,” I tell him. I know exactly how desirous my company is.

“Oh.” His face falls. “I mean…we don’t have to. I just figured it would be nice to get to know one another. Since we’re, you know, living together.”

Scooting back on my bed until my back hits the wall, I stretch my legs out and cross my arms. “Okay, let’s get to know one another. Twenty questions.”

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