Page 55 of Unlovable Player

Of course.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“You didn’t apply to Princeton? They have a great athletics program.”

“You sound like a college administrator.”

He laughs.

“I didn’t apply for anywhere, I got scouted.”

Seb pokes me in the ribs.

“Ow, fuck, what was that for?”

“Being a show off.”

“Fuck you.”

He gets quiet and I’m about to tell him I was kidding when he says, “you always knew what you wanted to do with your life huh?”

I shrug. For some reason, it feels like an accusation. “Yeah, I guess.”

“That must be nice.”

“You know, you could play professional hockey. You’re good enough. You’d just need to show the league you’re serious. You could try out for the ECHL or try and get an agent-”

“You just want to lose in a face-off against me again, don’t you? Not that you’ll be playing minor league hockey, but, you never know, I could move up.”

I hadn’t thought about him playing against me again, but yeah, I guess he would be if we both played pro. There’s a possibility I’ll have to start out in the minors to prove myself, if that’s what Boston want…ifthey still want me.

“I know your M.O now, so you’re screwed.” My face gets hot, but he’s not looking at me. I catch his grin in the rear-view and automatically smile.

“You only just figured out my M.O is ‘asshole who’ll ram you before he even goes for the puck,’” he tuts. “I expected better of a prodigy.”

I make a weird noise I didn’t know I was going to make. “I amnota prodigy. If I were a prodigy, I’d have be playing in the NHL by now.”

“They just want to fatten you up first on all that good college food.”

“Yeah right.”

I have to give him directions when we get off the highway and start driving through residential areas. I’ve never been embarrassed about where I grew up before. It took me a long time to even become conscious of it. But even as we drive through the neighborhood with the bigger houses, I look at Seb in his chinos that I’m pretty sure had a Ralph Lauren logo stitched inside last time I saw them on his bedroom floor. And I think I am embarrassed. Especially when he turns onto our street. With the rusted pick-up trucks and floppy flags.

The houses are all well-cared for by houseproud, working-class people. Mostly rented, but some of them owned. My ma knows nearly all the neighbors. The couple with all the tiny flags planted in the yard like flowers still send me book tokens every Christmas to help with college. The old lady in the dark-blue house with the pretty lawn her grandson mows every Sunday tries to set Ma up with insurance salesmen and tells her she’s too pretty to be single. But Seb won’t see any of this. He’ll just see some tiny, single-level houses with crappy cars parked outside and a penchant for patriotism.

“That one,” I say. “The yellow house.”

My ma wanted to be home when we got here, but it looks like she’s stuck at work, because her Honda isn’t parked outside.

Our house has a second floor with an extra bedroom, but the Gardeners on the right had an extension and a white picket fence put in, which somehow makes our house look that little bit smaller and shabbier. Even with their chicken coop.

I wait for Seb to say something patronizing, like, “this is cute/quaint/cozy,” but he doesn’t even seem to notice as he helps me unload the bags from his BMW. It looks out of place on this street, but he doesn’t seem to notice that either.

“Ma must still be at work,” I speak with my back to him as I open the front door.

My face feels hot, and the second I see how meticulously clean and tidy the house is, I’m more than embarrassed, I’m ashamed.

So what if Seb thinks our house is small? Ma must have spent ages cleaning and tidying before starting a long shift on her feet all day, and she did this for my friend, so she wouldn’t embarrass me. After everything she’s done and I’m worried about what some rich guy will think?

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