Page 29 of The Goal

Pity yourself later. It’s time to pay the bills.

God. The last thing I want to do right now is leave one place of shame and go to another one, but I don’t have much of a choice. My shift at Boots & Chutes starts in an hour.

I force myself to my feet and grab the booty shorts and bra that serve as my uniform. I’m only going to have to do this for ten more months, I remind myself as I shimmy into my outfit and then apply my makeup. I slip on my six-inch platform stripper shoes, throw on my tattered wool coat, and head for the strip club. Which, sadly, is the one place where I really do fit in.

I’m trashy. I live with trashy people. I belong in a trashy place.

The question is, will I ever be able to rub off the stench of my past to belong at Harvard? I thought I could.

But tonight, I honestly don’t know.

8

TUCKER

“We suck,” Hollis gripes.

“We’re not great,” I acknowledge.

Today’s practice was another disaster, which doesn’t bode well for tomorrow’s game against Yale. I was hoping the road trip to Boston would distract us from how badly we’re playing, but we’ve been sitting in this bar for almost an hour, and so far all we’ve talked about is hockey. The Bruins game flashing on multiple screens all around us isn’t helping matters—watching a good team play good hockey is just the icing on the shit cake.

I peer at my empty beer bottle and then wave it in the air to signal the waitress. I’m going to need about five more of these if I want to snap out of this sour mood.

Hollis is still grumbling beside me. “If we don’t start playing some defense, we can kiss our chances at another Frozen Four goodbye.”

“It’s a long season. Let’s not throw in the towel yet,” Fitzy says from across the booth. He’s sipping on a Coke because he’s our DD tonight.

“Are you guys going to talk hockey all night?” Hollis’s brother, Brody, complains. He’s twenty-five, but looks way younger with his clean-shaven face and backwards Red Sox cap.

“What else are we gonna talk about? This place is a sausage fest.” Hollis tosses a napkin at his brother.

He’s not wrong. There are only two women in this bar. They’re around our age, hot as fuck, and they also happen to be making out with eachother in a corner booth. Ninety-five percent of the men here—myself included—have already snuck glances at the lip-locked chicks. The other five percent are busy lip-locking each other.

“Fine, you losers.” Brody heaves out an exaggerated sigh. “You don’t like this place? Let’s go.”

“Where?” his little brother asks.

“Where there’s girls.”

“Done and done.”

Three minutes later, we’re climbing into Fitzy’s car and following Brody’s Audi across town.

“Nice wheels,” I remark, gesturing to the shiny silver car ahead of us.

“He leases it,” Hollis informs me. “He likes to act like a big shot, but he’s really not.”

“Gee,” Fitzy drawls from the driver’s seat. “Sound like anyone you know?”

That gets him a middle finger from our teammate. “Dude. I’m more of a big shot thanyourpansy ass. You didn’t even get laid on your birthday this week.”

“I wasn’t looking to get laid. Trust me, if I was, you wouldn’t have seen me at all that night.”

“We barely saw you, anyway! You went home early to play video games!”

“To demo the game I designed,” the other guy corrects. “I don’t seeyoudoing anything productive with your time.”

“Actually using my dick isveryproductive, thank you very much.”

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