Page 14

Nicko, October 25th

You need to go to creative writing class today

Mr. Fiore is kinda strict about attendance

OH?! You know who could’ve attended his own classes if he hadn’t attagonized Kappa Nu?

Antagonized

Literally what I wrote

Sorry I wasn’t letting them spew shit about your roommate

Oh btw, you’re banned from Kappa Nu parties now

For the rest of your life

Devestating

DevAstating!

Kappa Nu might not have managed to kill my brother, but I definitely will by the end of this week. I truly don’t know what has gotten into my laid-back twin, but his course load is insane. After today’s morning run with the team, I have raced from one class to the next, all the while lugging my duffel bag around, since there won’t be enough time to return to the dorms before training. Last week, I got to skip a few of Nate’s classes in favor of catching up on my own course work, but this time I’m not so lucky.

The door is already closing when I slide into the room at the last second, my breath still coming out in rough wheezes from sprinting up all those ridiculous winding stairs. St. Bernard’s needs to work on their obsession with the wizardry vibes; it’s getting a bit embarrassing.

“Mr. Van der Hoff, glad you decided to join us today.”

I come to an abrupt halt in front of the class as I am faced with the most attractive professor I have ever encountered. When I heard that Nate had signed up for a creative writing class, I pictured Professor Fiore as a quirky man in his mid-sixties who probably liked to wear different colored socks and speckled glasses—or whatever the theater kids look like when they grow old. Instead, I’m blinking at a guy in his late thirties with high cheekbones and tanned skin. Warm amber eyes are examining me with curious amusement. I feel like the proverbial mouse that ran into a cat.

“Do you plan on picking a seat or would you rather keep standing there?”

“I, uh…I’ll sit. Sorry, Sir!” I hurry down the aisle to find a free chair at the back of the room. While doing so I almost knock a few pencil cases off the desks with my huge duffel, apologizing with flushed cheeks as the eyes of the whole class follow me to my seat.

From my new viewpoint, I notice that all the girls have suspiciously flocked to the front seats of the room, now eagerly raising their hands as Fiore asks one of them to recap last week’s class just for me .

Everything the small blonde sums up goes right over my head. Whatever creative genes our parents managed to come up with must have gone straight into my twin.

“Very well done. Thank you, Miss Rosenberg,” Fiore cuts the monologue short just before my ears start bleeding. Taking one of the markers he writes three words on the board. “Today we’ll talk about: Motivation. Goal. Conflict,” he reads out loud, lightly tapping each of them with the capped end of his marker. “Something every good character should have. Something every human should have.”

His dark eyes roam the rows before zeroing in on me. I hold my breath as I reach for Nate’s pencil case, pretending to search for a pen.

Please don’t ask me anything, please don’t ask me anything , I silently chant, just to have my hopes shattered a moment later.

“Mr. Van der Hoff, why don’t you tell us about your goals?”

I carefully release the air from my lungs as my fingers close around a pen, starting to fiddle with it just to have something to do. Okay, this isn’t so bad—I don’t even have to think about it.

“Making it to the NHL?” I don’t know why I phrase my answer like a question when it is as clear as day. Making it big, playing with the best of the best, has been Nate’s and my shared dream since we were old enough to watch our parents play on TV.

I’m not sure who formulated the idea first—probably Nate, since he’s the talker between us—but it has always been there, on the forefront of our minds. Playing hockey, and playing hockey together.

“Of course,” Mr. Fiore sighs and rolls his eyes, like I just picked the most boring answer he has ever heard.

A few of the students around me snicker. The jock with the huge-ass duffel bag picking professional sports as his life goal. Apparently, that’s totally embarrassing.

“So, what motivates you?” he continues, and I come up short for the first time.

“What…what motivates me to play hockey?” I echo, my fingers grabbing the pen with more force now.

“No. You said your goal is not to just play hockey, but to specifically play in the NHL, yes? So, again, what motivates you to train every day—go to the gym before classes and get beaten up on the ice on the weekends. Restrict your diet. Cut back on parties. Why all of that?”

“I love hockey.” It’s the best I can come up with.

The heads of the other students have swirled around, regarding me with silent curiosity. My throat feels scratchy and dry as I become aware of their shared attention.

“Okay,” Fiore raises a brow at that. He wanders in front of his desk, leaning against it with crossed arms.

My eyes dart to his shoulders for a moment, the way his biceps stretch the sleeves of his shirt.

“But if you love hockey, why not stick to playing in your free time for fun? What is it that motivates you to put up with a grueling schedule? To face the prospect of being separated from your family by hundreds of miles, of missing out on important occasions, of facing staggering divorce rates, of running your body into the ground and probably getting yourself diagnosed with CTE later in life?” Fiore counts the points off on his fingers like he’s reciting his grocery list for me.

With every downside he names, my ribcage grows tighter, stealing my breath bit by bit.

“It’s worth it,” I say, my voice shaking on the last syllable, so I jut my chin out to make up for it with defiance. I don’t know what’s up with this guy. Maybe a hockey dude stole his girlfriend while he was busy stacking books in his office—or whatever a creative writing professor does to get arms like that.

“Is it worth it? Because of the fame and the fans that will have forgotten you after a career-crippling injury? Because of the money that will be drained from your bank account after your divorce is smeared all over the tabloids?”

I press my lips together in a thin line as my thoughts jump directly to the hit I took last year. The months of physical therapy race by before me, like a personal highlight show of every moment of frustration on my way back here.

“I can’t explain it,” I tell him, desperate to be let off the hook. I’m not good at this—which is why I should be sitting in my biology class instead.

I must have dropped the pen at one point in this interrogation, because my fingers are now rubbing over my bad knee. I trace the outline of the kinesiology tape I applied after my fall last week.

“Why not?” Fiore cocks his head to the side, regarding me with interest, like I’m a rare curiosity that stumbled into his classroom.

I want to growl out in frustration.

“Because it’s not...it’s nothing you can earn or touch or have , okay? It’s playing with the absolute best of the best while knowing there’s only so many people who will ever get to skate on that ice or wear that jersey.” I’m raking both hands through my hair now as I search for words to describe the indescribable.

“Have you ever been to a hockey game?” I ask but don’t wait for his answer since I suspect it already. “Everything there is electric. Heightened! When you lose, it’s the worst feeling in the world, but when you win you feel invincible! I mean, you actually skate on these sharp blades to slap a rubber disk into this tiny net at breakneck speed and it…it does something to your heart. It’s like ants all over your body. And you can actually play with the biggest assholes on a line, but when you click on the ice, none of it matters. It doesn’t matter where you are from or who you are because you’re one team, all wanting the same thing. It’s just not anything you can experience in the beer league on the weekend.”

I slump back into my chair, exhausted. My cheeks burn as I realize that this must be the most I have talked in a class all semester. Clearing my throat, I drop my gaze to the lined notepad in front of me, but it’s not enough to block out the stares of my classmates.

So apparently no one here can relate. Good to know.

Fiore lets us sit in this awkward silence until I’m about to crawl out of my skin before he releases us all with a slow clap of his hands.

“Passion. I like it! Reminds me of modern gladiators, only with slightly less deadly stakes and more clothing,” he tells us, giving me a wink before standing up and sauntering back to his white board.

“Now we need some conflict. What could go wrong on Van der Hoff’s journey to the NHL?”

I grind my teeth as the hands in the rows before me fly up again.

“Nathaniel, wait a minute!”

I’m almost out of the door when I realize Professor Fiore is talking to me. Being called by my brother’s name is something I have gotten used to even before the switch, but it’s rare someone actually uses either of our full names.

“Uh?” I frown as I backtrack. I’m still ruffled from the earlier exchange.

He waits until everyone has left the room before handing me an essay with Nate’s name on it.

“Everything okay?” he asks as I glance at the grade on top of the paper.

A–. That nerd.

“Yeah, I just…didn’t feel too well last week,” I murmur, thinking that he must be hinting at the skipped class.

“Stomach bug, I heard.” He nods, then vaguely motions at my face. “I couldn’t help but notice it came with a little makeover.”

I cringe at that, pushing the thickly rimmed glasses up my nose. Nate’s teammates have all ribbed me about my sudden loss of style over the past few days, but I just can’t with those nice sweaters and chinos. I attempted the gel, but my hair ended up looking like a bird’s nest, so I abandoned that too.

“My eyes were itching from the contacts,” I mumble, deciding to ignore the fact that my brother wouldn’t be caught dead wearing sweats to class.

Fiore narrows his eyes at me, his nose actually scrunching up, and for a moment I’m sure he’s about to call me on my bullshit.

“Be kind to yourself,” he tells me instead, and I blink in confusion at those unexpected words. “Making it to the NHL doesn’t have to be your only goal. Some things just aren’t worth the pain.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I give a curt nod, relieved when the door opens and the next group of students pours in.

I take those ridiculous winding steps two at a time, not stopping until I’m outside.

The weekend’s snow has long melted away, but the air is still crisp. A mild breeze is tousling my hair, carrying the smell of pine trees and lake water. I take three deep breaths before my shaking fingers unzip the duffel to put the essay away.

Just as I’m about to fold it in half my eyes catch on the title: A Goal Beyond Goals—My Motivation on the Way to Publishing.

***

“Do you have a life goal?”

I try to sound casual as I work the shampoo into my hair. The foam is trailing over my chest and abs, all the way down to my knee, where it’s soaking the blue tape that is conveniently hiding my surgery scars. I thankfully didn’t suffer any repercussions from my fall last week, but it was a welcome opportunity to cover them up. Now I don’t have to loiter until everyone is out of the showers.

“Hm?” Hart hums from the stall next to me, and I tear my gaze off the water pooling at my feet. The stalls at St. Bernard’s are divided by only chest high barriers and milky glass doors to preserve some privacy.

Hart has continuously picked the one in the corner, a choice I can understand. I don’t feel like the Bats are behaving differently around him, but I have noticed he tends to avert his gaze every time he changes, even when his attitude seems relaxed.

“Do you have a life goal?” I repeat myself, a bit louder now, so he can hear me over the running water.

Hart leans his head back under the spray to wash out his black hair. The citrus smell of his shampoo fills the air, and I wonder if he will keep buying that cheap store brand when playing for the Rebels next year.

“A life goal?” he echoes, tearing me out of my thoughts. “Where’s that coming from now?”

“Creative writing,” I mutter, gesturing vaguely as I duck back under the spray.

Hart’s brows furrow as he thinks about my question. I’ve noticed him doing that a lot over the past days. He always pauses and frowns before giving an answer. It’s like he silently double-checks all of his words, because God forbid the social media poster boy speaks his unfiltered mind.

I hope it will give him early wrinkles.

“Probably buy a house somewhere nice? A reasonably big one with several bedrooms and a garden?”

“Buy a house?” I sputter and turn fully toward him. I definitely counted on hearing about the Stanley Cup from him, so this is unexpected.

For a moment, Hart looks at me in surprise, drawing my attention to those ridiculously long lashes that frame his eyes. Up close it seems like he put mascara on. I huff at my own thoughts, but I can’t look away at the same time. Tiny water droplets are sticking to them. They reflect the light every time he blinks.

“Do I have something on my face?” he asks, raising both hands to rub over his cheeks and nose. It’s enough to have my ears burn from the embarrassment of getting caught, so I quickly adjust my gaze.

“No, no, I was just surprised it’s not hockey related,” I explain, my words rushing out. I’m staring at a point somewhere above his broad shoulders now. While I’m of average height, Hart beats me by a good three inches and several pounds. Colliding with him on the ice isn’t a whole lot of fun, which I’ve experienced first-hand in the past.

“Uhm. Well, you said life goal,” he points out with a shrug. “I mean, sure, winning a Stanley Cup is a huge goal. Getting to play at the Allstar’s Weekend, making MVP, going to Olympia,” he counts off my own set of goals, and I find myself nodding along.

“But after that...I dunno. I’d like to settle down somewhere with my moms and a…”

“Puppy?” I supply helpfully when he pauses, thinking back on yesterday’s visit to the dog pound.

“I meant to say partner,” he laughs, and for the first time since I have known this guy, there’s a hint of bashfulness in his voice. “But sure, a puppy would be great. And a pool maybe?” He phrases that last part like he’s not sure if he will be able to afford a goddamn pool after a career in pro hockey.

This guy!

“If you find someone who puts up with you.” It’s meant as a joke, since I don’t doubt he has guys lining up for him and his pretty eyelashes all around campus.

Every once in a while, just to torture myself, I read through the comment section of his “good boy activism” posts on Instagram. I’m sure he deletes a lot of bigotry and harmful crap, but there are also tons of eggplant and peach emojis.

“Yeah,” he sighs, and I roll my eyes.

“Oh come on, like you will have any problem picking out a trophy husband.”

“I don’t want a trophy husband. And divorce rates among professional athletes are significantly higher compared to the rest of the population,” Hart tells me, and I huff. Somehow this seems to be a known fact around this campus.

“That’s why you need to get that puppy,” I inform him as I grab my towel from the hook to wrap it around my hip. For a moment it feels like his eyes follow my movements, but when I look up again, he has turned away.

“So, what’s your life goal?” Hart asks me when we’re back in the dorms. I spill some of the hot water that I’m pouring over a bowl of ramen noodles. My stomach will be a mess once I’m allowed to get back to my own eating habits. I don’t know how the two of them survive on this crap.

I open my mouth to give the obvious answer, the one thing my whole life has been revolving around for years, the dream I always knew Nate would share. But then I remember the crumpled essay in my duffel and my heart squeezes in my chest.

“Uhm. Write a book?”

I hold my breath, waiting for Hart to protest and tell me that I’m obviously crazy, maybe even laugh at what must have clearly been a joke on my brother’s part.

But all he does is nod as he takes his own ramen bowl off the counter.

Like he already knew.