Page 9 of Him
“No idea. Don’t remember.”
“What?” yelps Cassel. “I thought this story had a punchline.”
“Not so much.” Huh. I didn’t realize until right this second the gift inside wasn’t that important. It was the act of sending it. I’d been just like every teenage kid going through the grind of school and practice and homework, communicating only by email and text and grunts. When that box showed up unannounced it was like Christmas, but better. My friend had thought about me and gone to the trouble.
As we got older, the jokes got even more ridiculous. Fake poop. Whoopie cushions. A sign that prohibited farting. Stress balls shaped like boobs. The gift wasn’t nearly as important as the fact that something was given.
Now Betsy Ross is back with a gift box that’s roughly the right size, even if it doesn’t flip open at the top like our box used to. “That will do,” I say, even though I’m disappointed.
“So…” Cassel looks around the store, bored now. “You’re sending him this one?”
“Yeah. Our old one is probably at my house somewhere.” If I weren’t an asshole, I’d know where. “I broke the chain a few years ago. So this’ll have to do.”
“I’m gonna text the manager and see if he’s got hotel keys for us yet,” Cassel says.
“You do that.” I’m watching Betsy Ross wrap the kitty boxers in some tissue paper, then tuck them in the box.
“Need a card?” she asks, flashing me a smile and a better view of her cleavage.
Those don’t work on me, sweetheart. “Please.”
She passes me a sturdy square of cardstock and a pen. I write exactly one word on it and drop it into the box. There. I’ll send this gift to Jamie’s room in the hotel as soon as we get back.
Then, when I can pull him aside somewhere quiet, I’ll apologize. There’s no way to undo the wreckage I’d wrought four years ago. I can’t take back that ridiculous bet I’d forced on him or the very awkward result. If I could go back in time and restrain my stupid eighteen-year-old self from pulling that bullshit, I would do it in a heartbeat.
But I can’t. I can only man up and shake his hand and tell him it’s good to see him. I can look into those brown eyes that always killed me and apologize for being such a dick. And then I can buy him a drink and try to go back to sports and smack-talk. Safe topics.
The fact that he’d been the first guy I ever loved and the one who made me face some terrifying things about myself…well, all that will go unsaid.
And then my team will kill his in the final. But that’s just the way it is.
4
Jamie
We’re looking at a quiet night in the hotel—a fact I’m sure half my teammates are extremely unhappy about. Particularly the freshmen and sophomore players, who are at the Frozen Four for the first time and were expecting to party like crazy this weekend. Coach squashed that notion pretty quick, though.
He laid down the law before anyone could even pick up their menus at the team dinner—ten o’clock curfew, no alcohol, no drugs, no shenanigans.
The upperclassmen know the drill, so none of us are especially bummed as we ride the elevator up to our block of rooms on the third floor. Tomorrow is game day. That means tonight is about taking it easy and getting some sleep.
Terry and I were assigned room 343 near the stairwell, so we’re the last ones in the hallway as we head for our door.
The moment we reach it, we freeze.
There’s a box on the carpet. Pale blue. No wrapping except for a white notecard stuck to the top reading Jamie Canning in flowery cursive.
What the shit?
My first thought is that my mom shipped something from California, but if she had, there’d be an address, postage, her handwriting.
“Um…” Terry shuffles before planting his hands on his hips. “You think it’s a bomb?”
I snicker. “I don’t know. Go put your ear on it and tell me if you hear ticking.”
He snickers back. “Uh-huh, I see how it is. Such a great friend, Canning, putting me in the line of fire. Well, forget it. That’s your name on the fucking thing.”
We both stare at the package again. It’s no bigger than a shoebox.
