Page 72 of Shots on Net

“Hey, Coach,” I respond, blithely. Sliding an arm underneath him, I pull Zeke toward me until his head is pillowed on my shoulder.

“Thank you for calling me back. I’m glad to see that you didn’t get into a car accident on the way back to campus.” He sounds pissed, even though it’s clear he was worried about me.

“Yeah, sorry. The drive took a lot longer than expected and then I was getting laid.” There is a sputter of indignation from Zeke, and a hard poke in the ribs. On the other end of the line, I hear Coach muttering something about needing a new job.

“How did it go with your family?” He asks.

“It was shit. Went exactly how I thought it would go. Dad won’t pay my tuition if I plan on moving forward with hockey.” Scowling up at the ceiling, I try to keep an even tone. It’s not Coach’s fault my dad is an asshole. “I won’t qualify for any sort of aid, so unless I get picked up by a team this summer, I’d have to find a job and make enough money to pay my tuition for next year out-of-pocket and I’ve never had a job in my life, so I—."

“Carter,” he interrupts, and I snap my jaw shut. He sounds less angry than before. “Let’s take this one step at a time. Your parents phone numbers are the same as you gave me your freshman year, correct?”

“Yeah,” I say, confused. Weird fucking question.

“Okay. I’ll call them. Now, when you come to the gym tomorrow morning, stop by my office first. Anthony had some good suggestions about—."

“You’re going to call them?” I hiss, interrupting him midsentence. He’s silent for a moment and when he continues it’s in the same tone one might use to calm a startled animal.

“Yes, Carter, I am going to call them. I think perhaps I might be able to offer some insight that they’ll appreciate.”

It won’t work. Nothing Coach Mackenzie has to say will sway my father, who’s hated my love for hockey since the day it was born. I tip my head sideways so that my cheek can rest on the top of Zeke’s hair.

“Okay.” My voice sounds small, even to my own ears. This whole situation is so ridiculous; I’m disgusted with myself.

“Okay,” Coach echoes. “My office, tomorrow morning. Have a good evening.”

Hanging up, I let my arm flop down onto the mattress. I wish life wasn’t so complicated, and I could just play hockey and have sex with my boyfriend for the rest of all time.

“Coach is going to call Dad,” I tell him, and feel his head bob in a nod.

“Good.”

“It won’t work.”

“It might, you never know. And if not, we’ll figure something else out. Maybe your dad is bluffing,” he adds, hopefully.

“He’s not. This is so stupid. I should just get a job and figure out how to pay my own way. God, if only I could quit school and just play for the team, that would be perfect. I don’t even want this stupid degree.”

“Mm. But even if you do play in the NHL, it would be nice to have the degree as a backup. Or for when you aren’t playing anymore, right? It would be a terrible loss to quit now, after you’ve come so far. And while, yes, you could get a job over the summer and save up some money, I’m not sure the kind of job you’d qualify for would be enough. You’d have to cover tuition but also basic needs like food and gas and things. And during the season the hours you’d be able to work would be drastically affected by class, practice, and game schedules…”

“You do it, though. You have a job and a heavier class schedule than I do,” I point out. He sighs, tracing a finger along my collarbone and down my arm.

“Yes, but I’m a tutor, which means I have an unusual amount of control over my schedule. And sure, I have more classes than you, but hockey is a huge drain on your time. You’re gone for entire weekends at a time, on some occasions. It’s just…it would be a lot for you to take on, that’s all I’m saying. And I’d hate to see your play suffer because you’re trying to pull yourself in a dozen different directions.”

“We’d see each other less, too,” I realize, and my stomach clenches in pain.

“Sure,” he says, not sounding as though this is a big obstacle, “but that wouldn’t change anything. I’ll still like you the same, even if I see you less. If you got signed by an NHL team, you’d be gone a lot, right? Or, even in another state?”

“Right.” My skin prickles with unease; cold sweat dotting my upper lip. I’d hoped to have another year. Another full year playing hockey at SCU and living with Zeke, before I joined the league. But I’m not going to have a choice of when or who picks me up—I’m going to have to take whatever I can get. Which means Zeke and I are now living on borrowed time.

“But we’re not going to break up. Distance would be hard, but it would be harder to not be together at all, right?”

“Right.”

“Carter,” he huffs, sitting up so he can look me in the eye. “You’re stressing out about this now, aren’t you? I’m trying to make you feel better, not worse.”

“I’m not stressed out,” I lie, scowling.

“Yes, you are! You’re not going to break up with me, are you? If you get signed by…I don’t know, Colorado or something, and have to leave?”

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