Page 31 of Body Check
It doesn’t take long for me to lather up and rinse off, and the other guys are just as quick. A few minutes later, I’m in a fresh pair of grey sweats and a white tee, walking back to the hockey house with Leo Santos. I refuse to call him Baby Santos for several reasons, not the least of which is that he’s not a baby. The other reasons are that I think nicknames in general are stupid, and that he hates it. I don’t usually pay too much attention to other people’s feelings, but I hate it when people try to call me Sparky, so I’m not pulling that kinda bullshit on him.
Plus, the man respects silence, so I respect the hell out of him. It’s about a five-minute walk from the Wolf’s Den to the edge of campus where our house sits, and Leo hasn’t said a damn word.
Blue better watch himself, or I might just pick a new best friend.
When we make it to the house, Leo gives me a nod before going in search of the other freshmen. I head straight for the kitchen so I can make a smoothie with Blue’s fancy-ass blender. And his bougie protein powder. And the frozen peaches he hid in the back of the freezer. And no, I don’t ask permission. It’s bestie privilege. If he gets to call me Sparky, I get to mooch his stuff.
While I’m washing my dishes—because, again, I’m an asshole, not a dick, despite any nickname Mickey might havebestowed upon me—I see my housemates through the sliding glass doors. They’re gathered around the pool, relaxing, and talking shit.
I should join them. I really should. I could take the seat next to Blue and chime in with insults every ten minutes or so. They’d fire back at me for sure, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. Even if I hang out for a half hour or so, that’s something. Baby steps are still progress, right?
I'm going to join them. As soon as I can get my feet to move.
When the sliding glass door opens and Ollie bursts through, I know I’m cooked. He’s the self-appointed cruise director of this ship, and he makes it his personal mission to get everyone to join in the fun.
“Sparky! Come out by the pool and hang out with us,” he crows, looking too damn happy to see me. He’s got some crazy idea in his head that if he can smooth things over between Mickey and me, and get everyone to get along, we’ll all play better hockey and win a championship.
I don’t buy that particular brand of bullshit, but Ollie eats it for breakfast. “Uh…”
“Don’t even start with that antisocial bullshit. You’ve been less of an asshole lately. I think we’re finally rubbing off on you, aren’t we? Admit it, you like us.”
I rub the back of my neck. My teammates are definitely the source of my improved mood, but I’m not bringing that up..
“Dude, you’re just in time. We’re ordering wings from Wolfie’s. Are you a garlic-parm fan?” He squints, as though he’s reading my irises to unlock the secret of my favorite chicken wing flavor.
I hope to hell he really can’t read the secrets I’m hiding, like the knowledge of how fucking incredible Bridgette sounds when she breaks apart and comes all over my face.
“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “That’s too mild for you. Lemme guess, you like them as hot as Satan’s asshole?”
Jesus. Is that really a wing flavor? I’m no marketing genius, but that doesn’t sound appetizing at all. And I don’t need my wings to come with a warning label. I’m a honey barbecue guy, but before I can surrender to the inevitable social gathering and give Ollie my food order, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
The only people who call me are my parents, my cousin Nick, and people who want to talk to me about my car’s extended warranty.
When I see Nick’s message, I tap on it and wave my phone in Ollie’s direction.
Ollie gives me a thumbs up. “I’ll get your wing order from Blue. But come on out when you’re done. We’re setting up a volleyball net so we can play in the pool.”
I give a noncommittal wave as I grab my smoothie and head for the stairs. I’ll go join them after I talk to Nick. But I’m not playing volleyball.
Unless they force me.
And then I’ll crush them. In the friendliest way possible, of course.
Nick’s message said to give him a call when I had a minute, and now seems as good a time as any. By the time I’m sprawled out on the sofa in my room, the phone’s ringing.
I’m not a big fan of talking on the phone. In my opinion, it’s a necessary evil that should be reserved for emergency phone calls to the fire department or 911.
But Nick’s a yapper, so he loves to call. I humor him because I actually like the guy, but I draw the line at video chats. I don’t like him that much. Hell, I don’t think I like anyone that much.
“Dutton!” he says, like he’s both surprised and thrilled to hear from me, even though he literally told me to call him less than a minute ago. “How’s college life? I talked to your momtoday, and she said your season starts soon. I’ll have to catch some more games, since you’re so close.”
“Yeah, we play Brentwood at home on October eighth. I can leave tickets for you, unless my mom already got some.” Nick’s a few years older than I am, but we’ve always been close. I grew up watching him play hockey, and I followed in his footsteps. He played all through high school and junior college, but he never had any dreams of going pro or even playing for a school with a competitive program. He’ll probably take over the dealership from my uncles in the next few years, and that’s fine by me. I’m proud of my family and the business they’ve built, but that doesn’t mean I ever want to work there. And if I had to, I’d be in the shop with my dad instead of the front office with my uncles and cousin.
“Cool. I’ll try to make it. I stopped by to see your folks today, and I was really sorry to see Uncle Russ still struggling.”
The line goes quiet as I process his words. “He’s gonna be just fine,” I say, feeling suddenly defensive of my dad. The doc said the post-concussion syndrome could linger for weeks, but hopefully it won’t be that long. I bet my folks will make it to the first game, and you know Ma, she’ll have a whole cheering section set up.”
“Yeah, you might just be right,” he says, the words sounding hollow.
