Page 67 of Scoring Chance
Before anyone can respond, the door opens and a couple of guys filter in. We all throw a hand up to say hi, but I stop suddenly when I realize one of the guys hasn’t been in this locker room in a long time.
Rosco’s back.
Cheers are heard around the locker room, and back slaps are given. Of course, it’s good to have him here. Anytime somebody’s coming back from an injury like his, it’s a relief to all of us when they’re healed and well enough to play. But Coach hasn’t said anything, so I’m a little surprised to see him.
“Good to see you back, man,” Booker says. “You sticking around for a bit?”
“Stickin’ around? Yeah, Book, you could say that. I cleared my physical, so I’m back to play.”
We all sort of stop at that pronouncement until Coach saunters in. “Ryan Roscowitz, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Just got the call from Dr. Briggs. You’re cleared to practice, but I want you to take it easy out there, okay. I know you’re itching to get back on the ice, but pace yourself. You just got off the DL; you sure as hell don’t want to go right back on. Talk to Coach Anderson—he’s working on an adjusted schedule for you.”
Rosco nods obediently, and says, “Sure thing, Coach,” but we all know he’s dying to play in real time.
Everyone finishes suiting up, and I’m not surprised when Rosco makes his way over to my locker. “You’ve been tearing up the ice while I was out, Franconetti. I’ve been at the past couple home games, and you guys are killing it out there.”
“Yeah, we’ve been doing all right,” I say, nodding, though we both know the team’s been on fire since the season started.
“You’ve been doing a hell of a lot more than all right. Just wanted you to know I appreciate you holding down the fort, but once I’m cleared, I’m taking my spot back.”
His words aren’t a threat, just a statement. And I’ve been on enough teams and in enough locker rooms to know how these things go. He’s a senior who should be having the season of his career, and instead he’s been in rehab and riding the bench. There’s no doubt Rosco is itching to get his spot back. Problem is, I don’t wanna give it up.
Coach Anderson calls for him, and Rosco heads into the office, leaving me to stew.
Because not only is my spot on the first line about to be challenged, but my girlfriend’s ghosting me.
Ok, ghosting is a strong word, and yeah, I saw her two days ago, at the chili cook-off, which my mom insisted we go to. And honestly, she didn’t have to twist my arm. I was more than happy to spend some extra time with Mel. I didn’t even mind sticking around for clean-up duty. It felt like a very boyfriend thing to do, but it also felt right, natural. That’s how all of this is beginning to feel, like we’re doing it because we want to and not because we have to. At least, it feels that way to me.
It might not be the same for Mel, which would definitely explain why I haven’t talked to her in two days.
My parents left yesterday, and I texted her before I fell asleep last night, but Mel didn’t respond. And she hasn’t texted back all day. I know she’s busy, but what the hell? We usually text back and forth all freaking day long, and we almost always make arrangements to meet up in the dining hall or at Drip, or for me to head to her place in the evening.
So, when I finally leave practice and see a text from Mel asking me to come over, I’m fucking ecstatic. I’ve missed my girl. I head right to her place. It’s like the universe has taken pity on me because there’s a spot right out in front of her house, and I parallel park like a fucking champ, for once. Thanks, college.
I take the steps three at a time, then hit the buzzer for her to let me up. Seconds later I hear the snick of the door unlocking. I practically fly up two flights of steps, but when I get to 3C, I don’t see Mel standing there with open arms, waiting for me the way I’ve been waiting for her.
She’s wearing her favorite gray joggers. She told me once that she’s had them since high school, and they’re soft as fuck, though based on all the holes, she might not have them for much longer. Her feet are bare, and her toes are painted a bright purple with some kind of silver sparkle on top. She’s got another bra-top on—this one is pale blue—and she’s wearing acream-colored cardigan that is so oversized it would probably fit me. Her hair is up in one of those big-ass claw clips, and her face is bare. She's not wearing any of the silver jewelry she usually has on, except for a locket I know she got from Ian on her last birthday.
She looks beautiful, like she always does.
But her arms are crossed, her hip is cocked, and she’s staring at the floor.
Something’s obviously off. I have no clue what it is, but her body language tells me that either I’ve fucked up or something bad has happened. Either way, my girl is not ok, and I need to do something about that.Always put your partner first, that’s what Mel said, and it’s easy advice to follow.
“Hey,” I say gently, smiling my best smile.
“Come on in,” she answers, stepping back.
She’s immune to the smile? She’s never immune to the smile. This is worse than I thought.
I walk inside, and like always, I’m struck by how homey and nice her place is. And not just because the house I’m living in is literally falling apart and my roommates are like feral cats. I’ve been to other houses and dorms, and some of them are pretty freaking sweet (the guys weren’t kidding about Kappa—that place is fucking awesome). But Mel’s apartment is still nicer. It’s warm and cozy. The place isn’t huge, but it’s not lacking anything. There’s an overstuffed couch—which my girlfriend is currently occupying the entirety of—and a reclining chair. There are more pillows in here than I’ve seen in some department stores, and everything matches. Okay, it’s not matchy matchy…more like, it all goes together. She’s always got a candle burning and a blanket close by, and she can even keep plants alive.
I sit in the recliner, my elbows propped on my knees. “What’s up?” I ask, smile still in place. That’s one thing hockey has taught me: Never show your weakness. Am I scared shitless on the inside? Hell yes. Am I half certain the ax is about to fall and Mel’s gonna dump my ass? Yep. But I’m not showing my fear.
“We need to talk,” she says, and I nod like a fucking stoic.
“Cool. I love talking to you. About what?” I settle deeper into the chair, trying like hell to relax. If I’m calm on the outside, I’ll be calm on the inside, right?
She just stares at me and I can tell I’ve caught her off guard. Good. Fair’s fair and all that.
