Chapter 13
What’s the difference between a hockey player and a one year old baby?
The baby would have more teeth. Noah ‘Dad Joke’ Petterson, told me that one, and never has the comparison between my teammates and infants felt more apt.
Teeth, it seems, aren’t the only things babies come out on top in. They’re infinitely more mature, too.
Although O’Reilly’s was nothing more than clinking glasses, familiar voices and blurred shadows for the first twenty minutes or so, the boys were in fine form, a little too flirty with my sister, but other than that, everything was going well.
But as soon as I tried to drink from the ketchup bottle, and Cherry hounded me into wearing my glasses, it started.
Four-eyes, poindexter, Stuart Little, Chicken Little, the taunts were harmless enough, and of course I sat there, taking it all in good humor as I have been trained to do all my life.
But for a guy who is one hundred percent faking it ‘til he makes it, busting his ass to earn the respect of his team, all the mockery does is reaffirm my belief that the real me has no place in the hockey world.
Luckily, sex, AKA the hypnotic twitch of James Plum’s furry top lip, and the frequent licking of his red wine-stained bottom one, served as a distraction.
At school, he made it pretty clear nothing would happen between us, but the eye-fucking across the room, even as his hands roamed all over the guy who licked his ear, the same one who’s taking him home, says different.
I’ve never taken such risks, been so obviously, overtly and publicly flirty as I am with him, but the rush I get when he’s all flustered—mumbling about fish for instance—is addictive. Even in the dimly lit parking lot, I could see his blush. He was horrified.
Speaking of which.
“Ugh, most of your team are horrific and so immature to pick on you because of your glasses. You’re not much better.
” My sister complains, as I pull out into the still-busy traffic.
I remind her that, technically, they aren’t my friends, but that’s disregarded with a huff.
“You ignore me half the night. Drag me away from Quinn, Brady and that hottie Sam—the one decent guy there—just so you can follow some other guy and his date, then creepily refer to me as a sweetheart to make him jealous. I’m not your ‘sweetheart.’ I’m your sister. ”
“I did nothing of the sort.” I one hundred percent did. “Sam isn’t hot.” Sam is hot. “And you are sweet, and my friend. Probably my best friend.” Sadly, that is truer than I would like it to be. It also plays to my sister’s one true weakness. Herself.
“Aww, you’re my bestie, too. And I am pretty sweet.” She reaches over the center console, to hug me. Real safe.
“Driving here, sis.”
“Oh, right, sorry.” After a tiny squeeze, she slides back to her seat but doesn’t shut up. “Now that you’ve declared your brotherly love for me, tell me in great detail who that slab of beef you wanna pound is.”
Now there’s a mental image. “That was James Plum, the Bear’s new physio, the mountain I’m busting to climb, the quest I’m planning to conquer, the beast to my beauty.
“Plum.” Cherry scoffs. “That was no plum, that was a peach. Did you see his ass?”
“Did I see?” I snort so hard I set myself into a coughing fit. “Did I … No, baby girl, I didn’t see the plumpest ass in the greater Boston area. I’m gay you twit, of course I saw.”
Determined to kill us, Cherry whacks my arm, almost sending the car veering into the wrong lane. “Some way to speak to your bestie, the one who stopped you making an even bigger fool of yourself than you already had. You wouldn’t have seen shit if I didn’t bring your glasses.”
“Yes, well some of us are blessed with beauty, some with brains. Guess which one you are.”
“We’re twins, idiot. We’re both hot, vibrant and young. You know who didn’t look young? The astonishing-ass guy. He’s a bit old for you. And what’s with that mustache?”
Ahh, the mustache. “Hey, leave the ‘stache out of it. That thing’s hot as fuck, just like the rest of him. And he’s not old, he’s not even thirty, plus with age comes experience, and with experience comes me … frequently and substantially.”
Slapping her hand over her mouth, Cherry makes an exaggerated gag. “Ugh, you are proof that homosexuality is not a choice. I’d be a lesbian so hard if it meant never dealing with disgusting, slutty men.”
“Hey, for a dork like me, slutty is a life goal. I choose to take that as a compliment.”
“Yeah, well maybe you should choose to take my advice. I’m serious about Old Man Plum. Playing Hide the Cubby may seem like all shits and giggles, but fun for you could mean trouble for him.”
“Please, I am nothing if not discreet.” I don’t have to look at Cherry to know she’s rolling her eyes. “Not that there’s an immediate need for discretion, Mr. Plum seems to have all the company he desires right now.”
“That’s a great thing, Cory. Trust me. No good has ever come from a student-teacher relationship.”
“Not a teacher.” I remind her. “And something good will come of it–”
Cherry folds herself into her sweater like a turtle. “Please don’t say it.”
“Me.”
It’s after eleven when Cherry and I stumble into the house, stilling almost immediately.
“It’s quiet,” she whispers. “Why is it quiet?” Many homes would be at this time of night, but in this house, a relaxed noise-free evening means trouble. Mom and Pop—who comes over for dinner every day—are night owls, their games of Crazy Eights often lasting ‘til the wee hours.
Linking arms, we leave the darkness of the lounge and shuffle our way towards the soft light emanating from the dining room where hushed conversation can be heard.
There we find Mom and Pop, sitting at the dining table.
Paperwork covers a good portion of its surface, frowns mar their faces, turning two of the most un-serious people I know, solemn.
A dread-flavored lump forms in my throat, the Plum-fueled high I was riding instantly evaporates.
Pop’s chronic kidney condition had him in the hospital for two weeks last month, and I fear this is a result of that.
If it is a money thing, Cherry and I need to be delicate.
Mom’s as proud as she is loud. The slightest sign of us interfering in potential financial problems will see her deny, deny, deny.
Relying on our twin tuition to explain just that, I give Cherry a wink and drop into the empty seat beside Mom, eyes discreetly scanning.
“No cards tonight, Pops? Did you finally concede that your daughter is a superior card shark?” What starts as a laugh turns into a wet, rolling cough that rattles his lungs, and my nerves.
“Never. Your mom and I were—” Before he can finish, Mom jumps to her feet, hands swiping the paperwork into a pile.
“Just heading to bed. Night, kids. See you tomorrow, Dad.” Cherry and I exchange glances, one waiting for the other to speak but neither doing so. Pops remains seated, looking so glum it hurts to witness.
“What’s going on?” Cherry asks the second Mom is out of earshot. Pops leans back in his chair, squinting into the dark lounge to make sure she’s not hiding.
“It’s not my place to say, but …” He scratches his chin, then exhales. “Cory, I know you have a pretty tight schedule with school and practice, but do you think you might be able to pick up a few hours work here and there? Maybe something to do with hockey, or in a store or—” Right. So it is money.
“Absolutely I can, if … if I have to, yeah. I’ll start asking around tomorrow.” With a faint smile, he rustles my hair before pushing off the table and saying good night.
Internally panicking and suddenly exhausted I slide down in my chair, waiting for Pops’ shuffled steps to fade and Cherry’s opinion.
“What the hell, Cory! How—”
As I do what I do, I know she’s going to lick my palm. I know it. Regardless, I raise my hand and slap it over her mouth. “I don’t know, okay,” is all I can get out before her tongue makes its first pass. “You can lick it all you like, but the hand stays until you promise to shut up.”
“Prwomise,” she mumbles, licks again then says something so muffled it’s unrecognizable as English.
As tempted as I am to smother her, I yank my hand free.
Surprisingly, Cherry sticks to her word, saying nothing verbally, but everything with her eyes that are wider than I’ve ever seen and boring holes into my forehead.
“If Mom can work and help you with Billie, run the household and care for us, I can manage a few hours work on top of hockey.” There’s not a single, tiny, teeny, weenie spec of me that knows how, but I will.
I have too. “Lotte and Brady are running some skate and hockey programs over at Green Line Ice, maybe I can see if they need some help.”
“Brady has a boyfriend and a girlfriend. I don’t think he needs the kind of help you want to give him.”
“And I don’t think it’s fair of you to accuse me of wanting every man with a dick, but here we are.
” It’s hard to keep a straight face as I say this, because while it’s true, I’m not attracted to all men the same that she’s not, Brady Basse is a delicious piece of ass, and I absolutely would go there should he be single and interested.
Since he’s not, Cherry doesn’t need to know how on the money she is.
“I’m a hockey player. He’s running a camp. That’s it.”
“Keep your wig on, Bro. I’m just kidding. I think it’s a great idea, the kids will love having you there. You can teach them everything you know, and give them the chance to be taller than someone.”
Again with the gags. Puffing out my cheeks, I exhale slowly, rise to my feet and say, “Fuck you and good night.”