Page 60

“Okay, see you at home.”
I tellmyself I’ll be asleep by the time he gets home, but after dropping the donations off at the refugee center and riding the subway back to the apartment, I’m wired.
I find myself watching one of those house flipping shows – Stef left the app where he streams them from open on the TV. But I’m spiraling. Seeing Stef perform at the restaurant, and his family’s reaction to him doing what he loves. Then talking to his grandpa about hockey. It’s ignited something inside me I push down every day. That desire to do something that excites me. I know I’ll never be good enough at playing hockey again to make any real money from it. But what if I could still be around it?
I open my laptop and search for finance internships in the NHL. A few things come up. One that stands out right away in Vancouver. Vancouver’s a long way away from my family, but it’s an eight week program and it could open doors. If it didn’t work out and I didn’t get a permanent position from it, it would still be good experience. I could still apply for jobs in banks. Though it might be a little tougher if I don’t start applying before graduation. I don’t even like to think about how many Ivy League graduates will be applying for those very same jobs.
But the thought’s in my mind now, and I can’t push it away without at least doingsomethingabout it.
I’ll apply. What harm can come from applying? They might reject me anyway.
I find another one working for the Nashville Predators and apply for that too.
I already have my resume and my personal statement all written out from when I was applying for the bank internships. I just have to tweak them a little to talk about my love for hockey, but writing about what I love about hockey is so much easier than bullshitting about wanting to work in a bank.
By the time Stef gets back, I’m still wired, but in a nice way. Working my way through an entire season of his favorite house flipping show.
The sound of him putting his key in the door has my heart pounding in my ears.
He looks so casual as he lets himself in, carrying his violin in its case. His hair still tied back off his face.
“Hey, you’re up.” He says. “Oh and you’re watching my favorite show.”
I know my face is burning, but there’s not much I can do about that.
When he puts his violin case down, takes his shoes off and sits next to me on the couch, I can’t take it anymore. The proximity. The fact his skin somehow smells like how I imagine the fucking sun to smell.
“You want some vodka?”
I feel his gaze on the side of my face, but I can’t even look at him.
“I know you’ve got classes tomorrow but… I’ve got some really good stuff, proper Russian standard-”
“Sure, I’ll have one, if you’re having one.”
I jump up like someone lit a fire under my ass. Any excuse to put a bit of distance between us and numb myself a little.
My hands are shaking as I pour out two glasses in the kitchen. I take a sip before refilling my glass and bringing them in.
“Yiamas!” He says before clinking his glass to mine.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s like saying cheers, it means to your health.”
I raise my glass and touch it to his. “Yiamas.”
I can’t help it, I watch him take a sip of the vodka. The liquid bobbing down his smooth throat. His tongue brushing his lips as he licks them after.
“Oh my God, this isn’t gross at all!”
When I laugh, my whole body lights up. “That’s because it’s not nasty vodka.”
“I didn’t have you pegged as a vodka drinker.”
“Why not?”
He shrugs. “Because you’re a jock, thought you’d just drink beer from the keg.”