Page 7 of Shots on Net

Zeke’s eyebrows rise, and half of his mouth pulls up into a smile. He still hasn’t moved more than a foot into my room. “Okay.”

“Have a seat.” I nod toward the bed, and after a moment’s hesitation he crawls onto the end and sits cross-legged. “Hit me.”

“What’s your favorite color?” He asks, immediately.

The quick question nearly startles a laugh out of me. I try to think of a color to give him. Do I even have a favorite color?

“Hard question?” Zeke asks, lightly, noting my hesitation. I scowl at him and he smiles. “I’ll go first. Green.”

“Fine. Black.”

He rolls his eyes, like my favorite color has disappointed him. The neck of his shirt is stretched out and hanging low enough that I can see the prominent line of his collarbone. Every part of him seems comprised of sharp angles; he’s sort of cute, in a mousy, scrawny sort of way. I like his eyes: silvery blue and so large on his narrow face that he looks like a character from an anime cartoon. He looks like a man who’s been stranded in adolescence, held hostage by his small frame and boyish face.

Zeke

Carter is staring at me. Like, really staring at me. Of course, because it’s paired with a scowl, it might better be described as glaring.

“It’s your turn to ask a question,” I remind him. I’d started by giving him an easy one, but something tells me he probably won’t be so accommodating.

“What do you do for fun?” He asks, catching me by surprise. I’d expected him to go right for the jugular—ask why I live with my grandmother and not my parents.

“Oh. Well, I like to read. Play chess.” I cast about, trying to come up with something that doesn’t sound hopelessly nerdy. “Uhm, go to movies. Oh! And sometimes I go to the zoo.”

“The zoo?” He says, eyebrows rising. He’s still got his arms crossed over his chest, but I don’t think he’s as defensive as the posture might suggest. I sort of wish he wasn’t wearing a shirt with sleeves—I’d like to get a closer look at those tattoos.

“Yeah. I like the tree frogs.”

Carter is staring at me as though I told him I like to make furniture out of human skin. I give him a moment to work through his thoughts.

“You like the tree frogs?” He says, and I nod. “That’s like…I don’t know, the weirdest part of the zoo. Who even goes into the Amphibian House?”

“Let me guess, your favorite part of the zoo is the Big Cats?”

“Ha! Nope. Lemurs.” He looks smug; satisfied with himself that he was able to fool me with his favorite zoo exhibit.

“That’s a good one.” I grin at him, and his scowl loosens enough that I count it as a smile. I tap my fingers together, idly, trying to come up with another question to ask him. I’m no longer interested in putting a movie on—this is a far more enjoyable pastime. “Okay…how about this: what’s your favorite tattoo?”

Sitting up, he moves over the bed toward me. Turning, he grasps the neck of his shirt and pulls it up so that his back is bared. It takes him a second to get his right arm out of the sleeve, but when he does, he points to a large piece high up on his shoulder. “This one.”

I lean forward to look closer. It’s a stylized black-and-white tattoo of a mask. Because I’m above average intelligence, I’m able to infer that this is some sort of goalie mask. There is a number on the temple of the mask; I point to it. “77. Is that your number?”

“Yeah.” Before I can look at the rest of the tattoos, he’s putting his shirt back on.

“It’s beautiful. The tattoo, that is.” He shrugs, moving back to sit against the wall once more. It is beautiful, though, the way many tattoos are little works of art. “I don’t have any tattoos.”

“Shocker.” He’s not scowling, anymore, so I take this as good-natured ribbing, and not him being nasty. “Are you seeing anyone?”

I’m not surprised this question is in the lineup, even though I hate having to explain my answer to people. I suppose it’s fair of him to ask, though, since we’ll be living together. He’s probably wondering if I’ll be regularly sharing my room with another person, like most people my age. Like him, most likely.

“No. I don’t date, really. You don’t have to worry about me bringing people home,” I tell him. And then, because I am a little bit curious: “What about you?”

“No.”

We stare at each other. I don’t know him well, but I get the impression that he’s got more to say on this subject. I wait him out, running my fingers over his bedspread gently. It’s ridiculously soft, like it was made from angel wings. Flattening my hand, I stroke it with my palm. I wonder how much it cost.

“I don’t mind if you bring people here,” Carter tells me as his face hardens into something obstinate and suspicious. “I don’t do it all the time, but sometimes I’ll bring girls over. Or guys.”

He glares at me as he says this, like he’s picking a fight and expecting me to rise to the occasion. I try not to let my facial expression betray my feelings, but I’ve never been very good at subterfuge. I’m surprised, and a little ashamed of being so. I had expected him to be cut from the same jock cloth as the rest of the athletes on campus: hell bent on sleeping their way through the female population.

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