Page 73 of Shots on Net

“No,” I say, vehemently, “of course not.”

“Well! Then everything will be fine. You’ll have your hockey, I’ll have my math, and we’ll have each other. Simple.” He settles back down against me, completely at ease. Simple, he says. I try to think about it in a way that makes it so.

“We could fly to meet each other when I’ve got a couple days off in a row,” I say, slowly, thinking it through as I speak. “And over the summer I could come back here.”

“Sure, exactly. And every day in-between we will talk on the phone. But you know we’re getting a little ahead of things. Maybe South Carolina will need a new goalie and they’ll sign you.”

“You bite your tongue,” I admonish, gently pinching his butt. “Tony is the goalie for South Carolina. I don’t want him to get hurt, or something.”

Zeke huffs. “Well, there’s more than one, isn’t there? He needs a backup, right? That could be you!”

In a perfect world, I muse, but quickly smother the warm feeling that burns in my chest at the thought. Best not to get my hopes up for that eventuality. I’ll only be setting myself up for disappointment.

“Or somewhere near here,” I add, because that’s really the best we can wish for.

“Either way, we don’t really need to be worrying about this right now. One problem at a time. Let’s figure out what you’re going to do for next year, before we get ourselves worked up about a long-distance relationship that may never happen.”

“Yeah. No, you’re right. Sorry.” I shake my head and reach over to put my phone on the nightstand.

I stay on my side, back to Zeke, who burrows against me. When he slides an arm over my middle, I tangle our fingers and use our linked hands to bring his chest flush against my back. The way he tucks his face into my neck sends shivers skittering down my spine; my skin feels like it’s on fire where his mouth is resting. Pulling his hand up to my lips, I kiss his palm.

“Goodnight, big spoon.” There is a flurry of warm air against my neck when he laughs.

“Oh my god,” he mumbles, shifting and pressing his face deeper into my shoulder.

It takes me a long time to fall asleep. Zeke’s snoring softly, his arm lying limp across me and held in place largely because I’ve still got ahold of his hand. Eventually, it’s the thought of having an entire week to spend with Zeke that chases away the worries about the future and finally allows me to fall asleep.

Zeke

I pull Carter’s SCU Hockey hoodie over my head and give my hair a cursory pat to put it back into place. Downstairs, Jefferson is in the kitchen singing nonsensically and clattering around the kitchen. I check my phone, making sure there aren’t any messages from Carter, as I jog downstairs to join my friend. He turns when I enter the room; he’s wearing his own, brand new SCU Hockey sweater, which was purchased in honor of all the games we go to now.

“You ready to go?” He asks, checking the time on his watch. It’s the first home game after spring break, and Carter told me that the game sold out.

“Yeah, I—." A brisk knock on the front door interrupts me. Jefferson and I both look in the direction of the front door, bewildered. “Uhm. Should I answer that?”

Even though I live here, I don’t feel like I live here in the way that entitles me to answer the door. Another knock sounds, a quick three beat staccato. Jefferson’s car is parked out front—we’ll have to leave through the front door, which means there’s no way to sneak around whomever is standing out there knocking. I look at Jefferson.

“Well, I’m not going to answer it,” he says, fairly.

Sighing, I walk toward the front door and reach it just as another trio of knocks come. Peeking through the peephole, I gasp. Jefferson, who followed me over, looks as well.

“What? Who is it?” He whispers, clearly not recognizing the woman on the other side of the door. Shaking my head, I motion for him to step back so I can open the door.

Carter’s mom stands on the threshold, looking like she just stepped off of a Hollywood movie set. She’s wearing a long, camel colored peacoat that’s belted across her slim waist, and heels that make my feet hurt just looking at them. Her hair shines gold in the sunlight, exactly the way Carter’s does. Jefferson lets out a low whistle behind me, and I bite back the urge to try and surreptitiously stomp on his foot.

“Hi, Mrs. Morgan.” It takes me a full thirty seconds and a throat clearing from Jefferson to remind me of my manners. “Uhm, do you want to come inside?”

“Hello again, Zeke. Yes, thank you.” She takes a step inside, but doesn’t move far from the door. She gazes around the room with a vaguely interested air, her purse dangling between both of her hands. “This is very nice.”

“Oh, uhm, yes. Have you not been here?” I ask, and there is another throat clearing behind me. I flush. “Oh, and this is my friend, Jefferson.”

“Hello,” Mrs. Morgan says, shaking his hand politely before returning her fingers to the purse strap. “No, I haven’t been here. I try to give Carter his independence, and I doubt he would have appreciated his mother coming and decorating his house.”

She smiles at me and I do my best to return it even though I think she’s wrong. I think Carter would have grabbed ahold of any overture from his mom and held on tight with both hands.

“Did you want something to drink, Mrs. Morgan?” Jefferson asks, and I throw him a grateful look.

“Oh, no, thank you.” She stares at me, eyes skimming over the ill-fitting hoodie. “Are you going to Carter’s game?”

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