Page 65 of Shots on Net

He waggles his eyebrows at me, making sure I understand what he’s really suggesting. I peek into the bathroom and look at the massive, walk-in shower. Neither of our bathrooms at home have a shower big enough for two to fit comfortably; we’ve tried.

“Mm. Something for later, perhaps.”

“God knows I’ll need something to look forward to in order to get through dinner,” he says, yanking off his pants and dropping them to the floor.

There’s soft music playing when we get back to the main house. I nearly ask if there is a pianist who lives here, but Carter points a finger at the ceiling and mutters speakers before I can. The dining room is far more inviting now than it had been earlier, during the tour: there is a fire going in the fireplace and candles on the table. Only half of the table is set, meaning we’ll all be seated together. I’m grateful—I hadn’t been looking forward to shouting down the length of the table to speak to Carter’s parents.

His mom is the first to arrive, and she looks almost exactly the way I’d pictured her: shoulder-length blonde hair, Carter’s eyes, and a smooth, Botox-ed face. She’s slim and shorter than Carter, but she makes up for it by wearing painful looking heels. She is also—as he warned me she would be—wearing a form-fitting cocktail dress, and a full face of makeup. When she greets Carter, she gives him a light kiss on his cheek and a small smile.

“Hey, Mom,” he says, and for some reason my heart breaks a little bit. I greet Jefferson with more warmth than his mother just afforded him. “This is my boyfriend, Zeke.”

“Hi, Mrs. Morgan,” I hold out a hand to her and she grasps it, smiling benignly at me. If she’s surprised by the word boyfriend, she doesn’t show it. Perhaps nothing about Carter could surprise her anymore. “I like your house; the grounds are beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she says, and then adds: “I’ve recently taken up gardening. Unfortunately, I mostly end up making a mess of it all and the real gardeners have to come and fix it. Did you happen to make it down to the tennis court?”

“Yes, I got the full tour.” Her smile grows a little wider. Beside her, Carter is standing back on his heels, hands shoved into his pockets as he listens.

“I planted those rose bushes along the north side of the court. They were tiny little things at the beginning,” she cups her perfectly manicured hands to show me, “but are growing quite nicely, now.”

“They’re beautiful,” I tell her, even though I can’t remember even seeing rose bushes. It had been hard to care about anything other than Carter’s warm hand around mine, and the way his laugh would echo across the grounds when I teased it out of him.

She waves this away. “Oh, thank you, but it’s just a little hobby. Let’s have a seat, your father will be here shortly.”

This last is directed at Carter. He scowls, but shrugs and moves toward the table to pull out a chair. He looks over at me, patting it. As I move to sit down, I notice his mom is watching us. When she catches me staring at her, she gives me another of her small smiles. She hands them out more freely than her son, although they seem less genuine. Carter flops down in the chair next to mine, scooting it close enough that we won’t be able to maneuver silverware without bumping elbows.

“He’s never brought somebody home to meet us,” she confides to me.

“Nope,” Carter confirms.

I’m saved from answering by the appearance of Carter’s dad. At least, I’m assuming it’s his dad since I doubt any member of the staff would be wearing a suit that fancy. Again, I applaud myself on my ability to correctly guess what Carter’s parents look like. His dad is the same height as his son, but a good deal less bulky. He fills out the suit, but most certainly isn’t hiding any hockey muscles underneath it. His hair is a darker blonde and his eyes a slate blue behind wire glasses; there is almost nothing of Carter in his face, beyond the shape of his jaw.

“Dad,” Carter says, not bothering to stand up. “This is my boyfriend, Zeke Cassidy.”

I do stand up, because I’m meeting his parents and I want to make a good impression. His dad sighs at Carter’s introduction, but shakes my hand with both of his. The look he gives me is kinder than the one he sends Carter’s way.

“Nice to meet you, Zeke Cassidy. How was the drive? It can be rough this time of year.” As he sits down, he unbuttons his suit jacket in a practiced motion. As though summoned, a man appears in the doorway wearing a crisp white shirt and black slacks.

“I’ll bring in dinner then, Mr. Morgan?” He asks, and Carter’s dad nods but doesn’t look over at him.

“It was fine,” Carter answers, shrugging. He’s slouched down in his seat as though he’d like nothing more than to slide beneath the table and disappear. If he did, I’d join him.

“Good, good,” Mr. Morgan says, and then pauses as the man from before starts putting food down in front of us.

I look over at Carter, uncomfortable. It’s a strange feeling, being in what is obviously someone’s home but being served like it’s a five-star restaurant. I miss the casualness and comfort of our home back at SCU; we might not have a gourmet chef cooking and serving our food, but I’d take anything over this. He grimaces at me, correctly reading my expression. When a plate is set down in front of him, he looks up.

“Thank you,” he says, and I do the same. The man nods but says nothing as he leaves. Jesus Christ, this is so awkward.

“So, kids, how are classes? Having a good semester?” Mr. Morgan says. I feel Carter stiffen beside me; I wonder if calling him a kid was done to purposely rile him up.

“Fine,” I answer, quietly, as I cut into my food. I have no idea what it is. Probably duck, or whatever sort of meat rich people eat for dinner. Beside me, Carter hasn’t done anything more than fidget with his fork; he makes no move to start eating.

“Classes suck, I hate them,” he says, baldly. “But that’s not why I’m…we’re…here. I need to talk to you about something.”

I glance at him. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised—Carter isn’t exactly known for his subtlety. His mom, who also hasn’t touched her food, smiles at him. His dad doesn’t even look up from his plate; there’s no acknowledgment that Carter spoke to him at all.

“What’s that?” His mom asks, politely curious.

“Coach Mackenzie helped put me in touch with an agent, and I’m going to pursue a career in the NHL,” he says, in a clear, ringing voice that fills the mostly empty room. His dad looks up at him, dabbing idly at his lips with a cloth napkin. He looks amused.

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