Page 6 of Sweet Boys Love Christmas
Sometimes I wish I could be more like the guys on my team who hook up regularly and don’t want to be tied down. Sure, I’ve had one-night stands here and there—Bertie was one, after all—but Iwanta girlfriend. And I want more than just sex. I want a deep connection. To eat dinners with my girl. Cuddle on the couch. Talk about the mundane shit.
If the guys knew, they’d roast me for the rest of my life.
I worry about making it into the NHL and only attracting women who want me for my money. I want someone to loveme, not what might be in my bank account.
When the water is warm, I strip out of my jeans and briefs, then step inside. It’s routine now, to duck as I do, since I’m inches taller than the height of the shower nozzle. I showered after practice, but there’s no way I can relax until I do it again when I get home.
I was diagnosed with OCD in high school. It doesn’t always manifest in ways the world thinks it does. For me, it’s things like having to shower when I get home from practice, even if my hair is still damp from my post-practice shower. It was my high school hockey coach who first suspected something. I’m not even sure what clued him in, but since he has OCD, too, it probably made it easier for him to put two and two together. He spoke with my mom and me about it, and while I know it was an added stress for her, she got me to the right doctors.
My compulsions aren’t as bad as they used to be—back then, there were days they would downright consume me—but they’re still there, and they get worse if I’m stressed.
After the shower, I change into a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. Then I pad into my room, unsurprised to find a plate of dinner covered in foil waiting for me.
My chest tightens. Dammit. I hate that my mom worries so much about me.
She believes it’s her job to worry about me and not the other way around, but all I want is to ease her stress. Her hovering doesn’t bother me in the way she probably thinks it does. It doesn’t annoy me, but it does make me feel guilty. It’s hard not to hate that even after raising me on her own for eighteen years, she still feels the need to look out for me.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I pick up the plate. I take a few bites, then set it down again. It’s all I can manage.
After I’ve put my plate in the fridge, thankfully avoiding my mom and her concern, I lock myself in my room and reply to the group text with my team. Then, lying back on the bed, I scroll through my text messages until I come across Bertie.
After she told me she wasn’t interested in a relationship, and I told her I wasn’t interested in just being a hookup, it didn’t feel right to text her, even though I genuinely like her as a person, so I stopped. I worried she might think I was hoping to get her to change her mind and date me.
She said no, and I respect that.
But I am worried about her after running into her in the dining hall today. The moment she came in, she was on my radar. I’m hyperaware of that girl. It’s like the air shifts when she’s around me and Iknowshe’s there. All it took was a single look to know she was upset. Then her douchebag ex had to go and make things worse.
With a sigh, I grab my book off the table beside my bed. Reading is one of the things that helps my OCD most. Though it might’ve become a bit of a compulsion, too. Often, I losemyself in working to see how quickly I can finish a book or in considering how many I can read in a week, a month, a year.
Right now, though, it isn’t enough to distract me from my phone, which continues to taunt me from beside me on the bed. Finally, when I can’t take it anymore, I set the book down and text her.
Me: Hey, I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re okay.
I hold my breath, waiting for a response. A minute passes. Two. Each time the screen darkens, I swipe to wake it again.
Finally, those little bubbles that tell me she’s replying appear.
Bertie: Define okay.
I’m considering how to respond when another message pops up.
Bertie: If okay means eating an entire bag of Doritos while watching One Tree Hill, then I’m doing fan-fucking-tastic.
Heart aching for her, I go with a simple response.
Me: That bad, huh?
Those dots appear, disappear, and appear again.
Bertie: I’m just being whiny. I should’ve expected them to ditch me.
I hold my phone, thumbs positioned over the display, contemplating how best to word what I say. I don’t want to make her feel even shittier than she already does.
Sayingyou deserve better parentsorsounds like they fucking suckwon’t help.
Me: Maybe it’s a sign that better things are coming to you for the break.
Bertie: Like what? A deal on delivery pizza and my vibrator magically possessing the ability to never need a charge?
