Page 9 of Ricochet

Fuck. Why am I letting him get under my skin like this?

I take a beat, a deep breath, and try again.

I finally get them inside, then manage to squeeze in one of my smaller sketch pads alongside them. Slinging the bag over my shoulder, I exit my room at the same time the door to the other bedroom opens.

Jesse, my roommate, steps out in his wrinkled pajama pants and golden brown hair sticking up in every direction. He yawns, scratching at his bare chest on his way into the kitchen.

“Morning,” he mumbles through a second yawn as he moves straight for the coffee maker.

“So what subject were you up studying late last night?” I ask as I come to stand on the other side of the counter.

A sleepy grin lifts one corner of his mouth. “Mmm. Brunette. Hella curvy.”

I snort. “Pig.”

“I believe the correct term is sex positive.” His grin widens as he shows his teeth.

Jesse isverysex positive. And pansexual. He has a theory that I might be aroace considering I’ve never had any kind of relationship since I’ve known him. Well, literallynever. And maybe I am. Any sexual attraction to others I’ve felt has been few and far between. And romance? Well, I’ve never felt romantic attraction to anyone in my life.

Then again, I rarely get close enough to people to feel much of anything.

Jesse likes to remind me that it’s completely normal to constantly question one’s orientation. He’s pretty open about his journey with his own.

But the truth is I don’t care enough to figure mine out. I have my doubts that the reasons for why I am the way I am have anything to do with orientation.

Jesse’s been my friend since I transferred to high school here in Connecticut. I stayed over at his place a lot to ease the burden on my aunt and uncle. When we both received athletic scholarships to Lynwood—he’s on the school’s basketball team—his parents got us this apartment, and we use what little off-campus housing funds we receive to help pay for it. It’s a small two-bedroom close to campus, which is perfect since I don’t have a car.

“You know I’m just joking. You do you, man. I gotta get to class.”

“See you in government later,” he says as he pours himself a cup of coffee.

“Yeah. Later.”

I leave the apartment and start the half-mile walk to Lynwood’s science building for my biology class. I’m dreading both it and government. If I’m lucky, the morning will go by quickly so I can get to my first art class of the year.

However, I fear whatever pleasure I’ll get out of it will be ruined by hockey practice later.

Just as I’m approaching the building, I hear someone call my name.

“Callum!”

I turn to see Nate jogging toward me, so I stop for him to catch up. “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to make sure you’re going to be at practice later.”

“Of course.” I start walking again with Nate falling in step beside me. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Dude, you can cut the tension between you and Wakefield with a knife.”

“You’re grasping at straws,” I say, countering his cliché with one of my own.

He looks at me with narrowed eyes, and when I can’t control the grin twitching at my lips, he shoves me in the arm. We’re both laughing as we stop outside the door to the science building.

“Look, Cal, I did you a favor and convinced Coach to have you run drills with the second and third lines yesterday. I didn’t ask questions when you said you didn’t want to practice with our new center on his first day. But you know Coach is going to want you with Wakefield the rest of the week. I just want to make sure you’re not going to bring whatever shit you have with him onto the ice.”

Nate has a point, of course. We can’t afford to have hostility between anyone on the team.

Unfortunately, I have a lot toward a certain first-line center.

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