Page 53 of Shots on Net

“Hello!” I say, as cheerfully as I can.

“Max is new in this school year,” Vasel tells me. “We are lucky to have him. He is a very talented hockey player.”

I look over at Max, who has a hand cupped over the back of his neck and is looking embarrassed. There is something distinctly vulnerable in his posture—an innate sense of unease that makes me wonder about him. Carter starts the blender and nothing more is said for a few minutes.

“Well, welcome,” I tell him, once the blender is turned back off and Carter is busy passing around smoothies. “I hope you’re enjoying it here.”

“Yeah. My best friend transferred here to play baseball, actually. That’s why I came. SCU has a better baseball and hockey team than the school we were at,” he grimaces as he says this, sounding apologetic. “And I like it here fine, thank you.”

There’s something stiff about the way he says this, as though it might not be truthful. Carter looks at him and narrows his eyes, evidently picking up on the tone as well. He comes over to lean a hip against the counter next to me, brushing his fingers down my arm as he does. I see Max’s eyes track the movement; when he catches me watching him, he smiles gently.

Later, after everyone leaves, I trail after Carter as he goes up to his room. “Your friend Max seems nice.” He also seems sad, but I’m not sure that’s something Carter would have picked up on.

“He’s insane,” Carter says, in a tone that makes it clear this is a compliment. “He can move the puck like nobody else. And don’t even get me started on his slap shot.”

I make a mental note not to get him started on Max’s slap shot. “He seems pretty shy. It must have been hard, to switch schools and teams, and have to start over.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t say much. Did you get everything done that you wanted to do at the library?” He turns to look at me as he grasps the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head. I’ve touched that, my brain supplies, helpfully, as I stare at his abs.

“Uhm…yeah, sort of. Jefferson came and hung out with me.”

“You good?” He asks, squinting at me as he pauses undressing.

“Of course!” I’m great, except for the fact that I’m freaking about the fact that we’re going to have sex at some point. “Uhm, so, what’s the plan for tomorrow? You don’t have a game, do you?”

“Nope! It’s a free Sunday. Do you already have plans? Or, I thought, maybe we could do something?”

He sounds so hopeful. As always, there is that barely discernable worry underlying his words, as though he’s expecting me to dash all his hopes away. I smile at him reassuringly and he relaxes.

“No plans. I was hoping you didn’t have any, either. I thought maybe we could do something here. Set up on the couch and binge watch some movies.”

“Eat junk food,” Carter says, and his eyes light up at the prospect. He does well, usually, eating clean, but I’ve also seen him wolf down enough Mexican food to feed a family of four.

“Exactly!”

“Sounds great to me. You can pick the movies, since you know better than I do what’s good and what isn’t. I don’t watch a lot of movies.”

None, actually. Since I’ve lived here, I’ve seen Carter use the TV in the living for watching NHL games and playing video games—nothing else. Sitting down on the end of his bed, I watch the back of him as he strides over to his closet and starts getting dressed. It seems incredible to me that only a few months ago I was warning Carter that I might never become sexually attracted to him. Ha! And look at me now, pondering the intricacies of anal sex.

“Zeke?”

Oh Jesus, he was talking to me. “Yes, no, sorry. What did you say? Sorry.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? You look a little…off,” Carter says, peering at me and frowning. “Are you sick?”

“I’m fine. Really, I’m totally fine. What were you saying?”

“I was just saying that maybe we should watch some of your nature documentaries during our living room campout tomorrow. Since that’s your favorite thing to watch,” he explains, looking down at his chest as he buttons up his collared shirt.

“Oh, sure. I mean, we can. But do you like documentaries?” I, too, am looking at his chest as I speak. I’m barely recognizable to myself right now—I’ve become one of those people who salivates over men’s chests.

“I don’t know, probably. I don’t think I’ve ever watched one.”

This effectively distracts me from admiring the way his shirt stretches over his shoulders. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Never,” he says, smirking at the no doubt incredulous expression on my face. “I wasn’t a TV kid, growing up. I was the run around outside and get muddy, kid. And now I just watch hockey.”

“Oh, you poor, sweet, innocent boy. Alright, we’re going to watch Planet Earth. You’re going to love it.”

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