Page 6 of Can't Kiss the Chef

Next Year In Havana

Bright Side

The Right Move

Some were added more recently. Others show their wear as a badge of honor, but once they are tucked into their temporary home, I finally feel free to relax. I jump on my bed and grab my phone off the top of my nightstand, pulling up Instagram to see that I have a new follow request. I don’t recognize the name, but when I click the profile, I remember the face. It’s the hot hockey player I met in a bar in downtown Philly this summer.

And no, I don’t have a type.

He was working at a camp there all summer while training for this upcoming season. I scroll through his public profile, and when I see his jersey I think I have an inkling on why he followed me.

He goes to Hamilton University, which is only a thirty-minute drive from here.

I accept the follow request and send him a message. If I have to go to the hockey house tonight, I might as well get in the mood with a bit of harmless flirting.

2

Byron

I powder my hands with flour before taking the pizza dough that has been rising on the counter for the last two hours and ripping it in half. Pressing it down onto the pizza pan I work the dough from the center out. When it reaches the edge of the pan I fold the ends to make the best-tasting crust my roommates will ever have.

With the rest of the dough, I rip off little pieces, making a bunch of different individual pizzas with all the toppings my housemates requested.

Marcus– who stayed and used his fifth year of eligibility after he was forced to redshirt due to an ACL tear his sophomore year– wants pepperoni, sausage, and onions.

Aaron- our star senior defenseman– wants mushrooms, peppers and onions.

Our newest roommate, Josiah Ramsey, wants a Hawaiian pizza, which is absolutely revolting, but I’m not going to be the one to ostracize our new roommate. He’s the best wide receiver our football program has seen in a decade, and even though he is a good friend, he is not someone I would want to piss off.

But I want it noted, Jalen would never have eaten pizza with pineapple on it.

When all the pizzas are on pans and prepared to be baked, I wash my hands and start scrolling through Instagram as I wait for the oven to preheat. I rush past ads and posts from people I haven’t spoken to since we graduated high school. Stopping at Dalton Powell’s carousel of his summer break. The last picture has me pulling up my text thread with Jalen. This round of pictures is the most pretentious yet. That’s until I notice the little profile picture and username displayed before the number of likes.

Lolaspics and 744 others liked Dpowell’s photo.

How the fuck does Lola know this asshole?

Dalton Powell is the type of hockey player that gives our sport a bad name. Jalen and I grew up playing against Dalton. He and all his rich, entitled teammates loved talking shit about the poor kids from the otherside of the Brooklyn Bridge. Their favorite jab being that we only played hockey because of a program that helped kids who wouldn’t be able to afford it otherwise.

They really hated losing to us, like having money somehow made them better athletes. The real kicker was when he signed to play college hockey at Hamilton University, Westvale’sbiggest rival. I enjoy putting him into the boards every time we play, or if I’m lucky, we drop the gloves and just go at it.

Suddenly it feels like there is an elephant sitting on my chest. Dalton has had everything handed to him. The private schools and fancy cars. Money he could throw around at clubs or parties just to make everyone think he was the man. I knew it was all a façade he used to mask his shitty personality.

A high pitched ding brings me back to reality, I slide the first tray of individual pizzas into the oven so everyone will have some of what they asked for when we sit down together. Marcus walks through the door just as I’m closing the oven.

“Dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes,” I tell him. After he gives me a nod, I ask, “Where have you been all day?”

“I was at Indy’s place. The girls bought a new coffee table, so they needed help moving things around.”

“I would have helped.” And I would have. Ulterior motives or not.

I might look like a dumb jock, shaggy blonde hair, tattoos, the occasional black eye, but I’m a really smart guy. It bothers me to no end that I can’t tell you what happened to Lola and I over the summer. The weekend Lola came down to the city for the draft we had so much fun that Lola was going to stay in New York for a few extra days. I was going to show her where I grew up. I wanted her to meet my mom.

That was going to be the first time I’d seen her since school ended and I couldn’t wait to get her all to myself in that hotel room. She was finishing her makeup when she got a call from her parents. Her mom was berating her for taking so many days off of work. I know doctors have crazy work schedules but I don’t think Lola taking a few days off means she doesn’t work damn hard to be exceptional.

I think her parents just like having control over her. Lola told me that she is the black sheep of her family. Her sister followedthe path that was carefully laid out for her. When they say jump she asks how high. Her brother does the same.

You ask Lola to jump, she is going to sit.

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