Page 78 of Shots on Net
“We aren’t going to take away your tuition. Even with a long, full hockey career you are going to need something to fall back on. A business degree will do that for you, even if you aren’t using it for the purpose we had originally intended.” She sighs, brushing her hair out of her face and softening her tone. “Carter, you’re twenty-one years old. Your father has spent every one of those years living under the assumption that you and he would one day be working together. I won’t lie, this isn’t the future he wants for you, but neither will he—we—actively do anything to jeopardize it. You’re going to finish school and you’re going to play hockey; you’ll probably still butt heads with your father, but we love you all the same.”
I look over at Carter, who’d probably be less surprised if she pulled a gun from her purse and shot him. He opens his mouth, closes it, shakes his head and looks at me. He stares at me for a long, silent moment, before looking back at his mom.
“Thank you,” he says, and then in a halting, uncomfortable tone: “I love you, too.”
She’s not quick enough to hide the look of surprise that crosses her face. It makes me wonder if this is the first time those words have been shared between them in a long while. No wonder Carter acts like he’s getting teeth pulled whenever I try to have an emotional conversation with him, the poor guy hasn’t had any practice.
“Well,” she says, brusquely, “I’ll talk to your dad when I get home tomorrow. And I’ll let you know next time I come for a game, shall I?”
“Okay,” he says in a strangled voice.
“I’ll get going then.” She smiles and turns toward the front door. Carter trails after her, uncertainly, looking at me over his shoulder before reaching around her to open the front door.
“You’re sure you don’t want to stay here?” He asks, nervously.
“Positive. You boys have a good night.” She brushes a hand across his and then she’s gone.
Carter stands in the open doorway, watching as her headlights sweep out of the driveway. Once she’s gone, he slams the door and turns to look at me, one hand rubbing at the shaved side of his head.
“Okay, what the actual fuck,” he says, sounding flummoxed. I laugh, helplessly.
“Did she really just stroll in here and solve all of your problems?”
“I mean…fuck me, I guess. I don’t know!” He flops down on a kitchen stool, fingers still dancing over his skull nervously. I reach out and grab his hand. “I can’t believe Coach got her to come. Seriously, I can’t fucking believe it. I stopped asking my freshman year because I figured I’d never get them here.”
I grimace, heart twinging with pity at these words. “Yeah, he really pulled a fast one on you, didn’t he? Even got Anthony Lawson involved.”
“Goddamn Tony,” Carter mumbles. “They swung it for me, for sure.”
He blows out a hard breath and brings our linked hands upward to kiss the back of mine in a mindless gesture of affection. I tug, pulling him to his feet and heading toward the stairs. He follows without complaint, letting go of my hand in favor of an arm around my waist. He’s been doing this a lot more, of late: touching me or pulling me to him whenever we’re together, as though he craves contact. When we reach his bedroom, he drops his arm and flops onto the bed, one leg dangling over the side.
“I’m so freaking tired,” he groans, “but I also feel like I’ve got a vat of caffeine flowing through my veins.”
I laugh, pulling his hoodie off before laying down next to him. He turns his head to look at me, lifting a hand to trail his knuckles down my bare arm.
“Me, too. That was nice of you to invite Max over.”
“What? Oh, right.” He shrugs. “No big deal. He’s pretty chill.”
“Mm.” I rest my palm on his chest. I’m pretty sure the invitation was a big deal to Max. “So, lots of pent-up energy that needs to be expelled, huh?”
“Yeah. Might have to go downstairs and tire myself out on the treadmill.” He sighs, gustily. “It’s too bad there aren’t any other ways of getting spent and sweaty, you know?”
“Yes,” I say, seriously, and run my hand down to his abdomen, “I wish there was a way I could help you with this particular conundrum.”
The words are barely out of my mouth before he’s on top of me, mouth against mine as he catches my laugh with his teeth and kisses it away.
Carter
Zeke is at the motherfucking library, which makes no damn sense. Who goes to the library on the last day of class? Sighing, I peek out the front window again, hoping to see his familiar figure walking down the sidewalk. No luck. Annoyed, I turn around and continue pacing a hole into the floor. The piece of paper I’ve got tucked into the pocket of my basketball shorts burns like it’s on fire. If he takes any longer to get home, I’m going to have talked myself out of this.
I’ve been going around and around for weeks, writing down what I want to say before scratching it out again. I’ve convinced myself this is stupid and I should keep it to myself, only to turn right back around and convince myself of the opposite. I worked myself into such a frenzy one night, I had to go into the bathroom and hover over the toilet, uncertain whether I was going to puke or not.
I pull out my phone to text him—see if he wants me to pick him up—when I glance out the window again and spot him.
“Fucking finally,” I mutter, tossing my phone down on the couch and throwing open the front door. It bangs satisfyingly against the wall and bounces back toward me; I catch it with my foot and lean against the doorframe with a casualness that I do not feel. I watch as Zeke meanders down the sidewalk, kicking nonchalantly at rocks and totally unaware that I’ve been in a tailspin, waiting for him. When he catches sight of me in the doorway, he beams.
“Carter,” he calls, and picks up his pace. I raise a hand back to him in greeting. He’s wearing the same thing he always wears—old, faded jeans, and a plain black shirt—but still my mouth feels dry and my stomach clenches at the sight of him. I don’t know how anyone could possibly be that cute and get away with it.