Page 11

Play is currently in our defensive zone, which means Micky is under fire.

He’s been playing well tonight, but the moment that momentum shifts, we’ll be fucked.

My friend is his own worst enemy, and it takes almost nothing to nudge him into a downward spiral.

The crowd cheers when a Notre Dame player fires a slapshot at our net—already sure that it’s going in—but Micky manages to catch it, gloving it down and holding it on the ice.

“Nice,” Max whispers, before popping his mouthguard back in and getting ready to climb over the boards.

When my turn on the ice comes again, Vas skates up to me before face-off. His face is flushed and sweaty, and I can see curls of wet, brown hair sticking out through the ear holes of his helmet. Cute, my brain screams at me, which makes me flush.

“They are knowing Max is our best offensive weapon,” he says in a low, accented voice. “Take a couple shots from the blue line, yes?”

“Hell yes.” I hold out my glove and he bumps it with his own. I always feel like such a badass when I score a goal. I definitely don’t need to be told twice to take more shots .

Unfortunately, despite seven attempts, I don’t score a goal.

Although my defensive line partner, Vaughn, does, which is nearly as good.

The best part of the game, though, comes in the form of Micky.

Tonight was probably the best game he’s ever had, and against a team we are pretty well matched with.

When I sit next to him on the bus, I grab his shoulder and shake the shit out of him.

“Stop it, Nate,” he grumbles, pulling away and trying like hell not to smile.

“My little baby goalie is all grown up.” I pretend to wipe a tear from my eye. “Please remember me when you’re giving soundbites and signing autographs.”

The blush is immediate and intense, and Micky looks like he wishes he could throw himself out the bus window. I smile at him. He’s so damn predictable—give the man a compliment and he’ll wish he never heard it.

“I didn’t play that good.”

“Yes, you did,” I tell him firmly. “And you know you did, so own it.”

Instead of answering, he just shakes his head and leans against my shoulder in the close confines of the bus seats. Facing forward, I watch the tall form of Coach Mackenzie board the bus. Everyone falls silent, waiting for him to speak.

“Nice game tonight, boys.” He holds up a piece of paper. “A few changes to the usual room assignments. Max, you’re with McIntire. Basset, you’re with Vas.”

Micky, face hot enough to fry an egg on, nods at Coach and slides down a bit in his seat, as though hoping nobody is looking at him. He and I always room together.

“What, Coach? I didn’t do anything!” I protest, which elicits several snorts from my surrounding teammates. Coach Mackenzie squints his eyes, and fixes me with a stern look .

“On our last road trip you ate seventy-two saltine crackers as fast as you could and spent the night before a game throwing up,” he responds dryly.

Laughter rises up from the bus, and I open my mouth to argue.

Except, I did do a saltine dare at our last away game.

I close my mouth and Coach continues. “So, since you apparently need a babysitter, you’ll be rooming with Vas. ”

“Oh, goodness,” Vas says, eliciting more laughs.

“I’ll behave,” I promise, giving Coach a syrupy-sweet smile. He doesn’t look impressed.

“Good. If not, next time you’ll be rooming with me.”

I join in on the laughter that time, and I catch a small smile from Coach Mackenzie as he sits down. Beside me, Micky is slouched so low in the seat that only the top of his head would be visible to anyone behind us. He looks mortified at being singled out.

“What’s wrong?” I ask him.

“Doesn’t that bother you?” He gestures vaguely toward the back of the bus. “That they’re laughing at you?”

“No,” I reply honestly, shrugging. “They’re not laughing at me, Mick. We’re all friends, and I did something stupid. They’re just giving me a hard time. I was laughing, too.”

“I wish I was more like you.”

I frown. “Cut that out. I hate it when you do that. I like your big, awkward ass just the way it is.”

He laughs, straightening up a little as he apparently deems the bus a safe enough space once more. When he glances over at where Max Kuemper is seated with Vas, though, his face once more devolves into worry.

“I don’t know Kuemper well,” he says. “You’re my only friend on the team.”

“We’re a team , Micky, all of us are friends. And Max is great. You’ll probably be happier rooming with him, honestly. He’s going to be quieter, and I’ll bet he’s cleaner, as well. You’re not going to miss me at all.”

“Maybe.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “I wish I could just stay with you, though. I’m so bad at making friends.”

“Max seems a little shy, too. You guys can just sit on your beds silently, and go to sleep early,” I joke, which earns me a shove hard enough to have me sprawling half into the aisle between the seats. Grinning, I sit back up and bump his shoulder with mine.

“At least I’m not the one who had to be assigned a babysitter,” he jokes.

“Poor Vas.” I sigh, leaning my head back against the seat and closing my eyes.

“Poor Vas” seems to have been an accurate prediction on my part.

When we get to the room, I shed my clothes and drop them into a pile on the floor near my bed, before heading into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face.

When I come back out, my dress clothes are tidily folded and lying on top of the dresser next to the TV.

My shoes are neatly lined up against the wall, and there is a bottle of water placed on the nightstand between our beds.

Vas is sitting on the end of his mattress, still fully dressed, and hands resting on his thighs.

“Vas, my man, when Coach said you were my babysitter, he didn’t mean that you had to clean up after me. He meant that you were supposed to stop me from ingesting anything that might make me sick.”

Throwing myself down on the bed, dressed only in my underwear, I reach for my phone.

“I do not mind,” he responds. “Are you finished at the sink? ”

“Bathroom is all yours, buddy.”

I watch as he carefully extracts pajamas from his bag, and heads into the bathroom to change.

Checking my phone, I try not to feel too disappointed at the three texts waiting for me from some girls I’ve been chatting with.

It’s not their fault they aren’t Marcos.

Sighing, I roll on to my back and hold my phone over my head to reply.

It feels like a chore more than anything else, and when I get two immediate responses, hinting at wanting to get together this weekend, I feel not an ounce of temptation.

Vas comes back into the main room, and carefully repacks his bathroom bag into his duffel. He’s wearing a pair of sweatpants, and a light blue SCU hockey shirt that shows off the breadth of his shoulders and arms. I bite my lip as I look at him, realizing that my buddy is kind of hot.

“Vas, you’re kind of a babe,” I tell him, rolling onto my side and propping myself up on an elbow to look at him. He shoots me an exasperated look as he climbs onto his bed and scoots back to the headboard.

“You are quite ridiculous, my friend. Would you like to watch television?”

He holds the remote out to me, but I shake my head. “I have a deck of cards in my bag. Do you want to do that, instead? My hyperactive ass can’t sit and watch TV. I might do something crazy like try and eat a sleeve of saltines in thirty seconds.”

Vas chuckles, setting down the remote and nodding. “Sure, yes, let us play cards instead. You will have to explain the rules. I am not a card person.”

Deciding to go easy on him, I give him the quick and dirty on how to play Go Fish. We sit cross-legged on my bed, cards held up between us, and are well into our third game when a knock comes at the door. Vas lays his cards down, and slides off the bed to answer it.

“Oh, hello, Coach Mackenzie,” he says, opening the door. “Would you like to come in?”

“No need, I’m just here for bed check. Is the inmate there?”

Snorting, I lean back far enough for Coach to see me and smile at him. “I’m here, Coach. Kicking ass at Go Fish, but mostly because I’ve been cheating.”

“Nate!” The look of shock on Vas’ face is funny enough to have even Coach Mackenzie smiling.

“I’m kidding!” I assure him, waving a hand.

“All right,” Coach intervenes, shaking his head at us. “I’m down the hall if you need anything. Have a good night, and don’t make it too late.”

“No, sir. We shall get some sleep,” Vas promises swiftly, before closing the door softly behind Coach’s retreating back. He joins me on the bed, eyes narrowed down at his cards lying facedown on the comforter. “Did you peek?”

“Nope. Although,” I muse, “that’s what I would say if I did peek.”

He makes an aggrieved noise, but smiles when I nudge his knee with my foot.

“All right. We shall finish this game, and I will remain vigilant for cheating,” he warns.

Vas and I play another couple of rounds, before he tells me that it’s time to go to bed. I argue a little bit, mainly because he expects me to, but don’t give it too much effort. Before he clicks off the light, I shoot a quick text to Micky to make sure he’s doing okay with Max.

Nate

All good over there, Micky Mouse?

Micky

You were right, Max is nice. He said I should call him by his first name, though, and now I feel bad because I’ve always called him Kuemper.

I sigh, unable to imagine how hard it must be to live in Micky’s head, with his brain constantly trying to convince him he’s doing wrong.

Nate

Don’t feel bad. We all go by our last names in the locker room, so it was a safe assumption to make.

Micky

I guess. I should have asked though.

Nate

Well, now we know. Stop worrying—I can feel the anxiety from here.

Micky

How’s it going with Vas? Oh my god, ask him if it’s okay if we call him by his last name. I can’t stop thinking about this now.

“Vas,” I say into the darkness, rolling over to face him across the space between our beds.

“Yes?”

“Micky is stressed-the-fuck-out because Max told him he can call him Max. I have been charged with asking you whether you prefer to go by Henri, Vasel, Vas, or something else hitherto unknown.”

He’s quiet for a moment, apparently thinking. “I am unsure what hitherto is meaning, but I would be happy for you to call me whatever you please. Vas is nice, because a nickname is how people let you know they are fond of you.”

Smiling into the dark, I report back to Micky.

Nate

Call off the anxiety attack, Vas likes being called Vas because it means we like him.

Micky

Of course we like him. Why wouldn’t we like him?

Nate

Oh my god, STOP WORRYING AND GO TO BED.

Micky

Sorry. Max says he’s not tired, so we might watch a movie. I might ask if he wants to watch anime.

Or maybe not.

He might think that’s weird.

Nate

Ask him and find out. My babysitter tucked me into bed, so we’re off to sleep over here. Enjoy your anime.

Turning my phone on silent, I lean over and plug it in. Vas is nothing more than a lump beneath the blankets, the dark in the room near absolute.

“Goodnight, Vas,” I whisper.

“Goodnight, my friend,” he whispers back.

Not quite tired enough to fall asleep, I listen to the soft sound of Vas breathing and think about summer.

With less than a month of school left, the year is winding to a close and I feel a little bummed about it.

I like my family’s place in Wyoming, and really love visiting my uncle in Montana, but I also love it here.

I love my friends and my roommates, and I especially love my hockey team.

Going home always feels like a culture shock—taking me days to recalibrate to a way of living that’s at complete odds to what I get used to here.

If only I could bring Micky back with me, then maybe it wouldn’t feel so strange.

I smile into the pillow, thinking of quiet, nervous Micky being introduced to the organized chaos that is farm living.

Marcos would look good on a horse.

The thought is as abrupt and startling as a slap to the face.

This level of lust is madness. I barely know the man, and certainly not well enough to be planning grand vacations to my family home.

I need to pull myself together. It was a fling—an enjoyable one, and one I’d repeat again in a heartbeat if he asked me to—but a fling nonetheless.

It’s time to move on and forget about it.

Marcos wants to be friends, which means I need to stop obsessing over the man.

It’s not his fault I’ve developed an alarming and unexplained attachment to him.

I can do friends. I can . And maybe the distance between South Carolina and home will help curb all these feelings.

Probably, by next year, everything that happened between me and Marcos will be nothing more than an enjoyable college memory.

Sometimes, seventeen minutes is all you get.