Chapter 7
TRICK
Idon’t go home. I’m too tired to drive. Instead, I jog down the street through a residential neighborhood for about a mile to Bog’s place, cursing myself for not driving. At least the jog warms me up. It’s not late, so Bog’s probably not home yet, but I know where the key is.
When I get to the house he shares with a couple of guys from the team, I find they’re all home, chowing down in the kitchen on some cookies that look suspiciously homemade.
“Look who stopped by to freeload again,” Vaughn says.
“Where’d you get the cookies, Van?” I join them in the kitchen and reach for the half-empty Tupperware container. I call him Van because he calls me Patrick instead of Trick. He’s a transfer student with a chip on his shoulder, but he’s okay.
“We always share the cookies,” Bog says. “Your sister is a saint for sending them.”
“Kind of makes up for your free-loading,” Sully says.
I snag a cookie.
“Hey,” Vaughn pulls the container away too late. “You can get cookies any time you want.”
Addressing Bog, I say, “I’m staying over.”
“You’re welcome, Trick. My house is your house.”
I slap him on the back as I walk past him to his room. “You’re a good man.”
“Hey, aren’t you sleeping on the couch?” he calls after me as I walk into his room and close the door. He has two beds in his room, a twin and a queen. It’s the largest bedroom in the house and conveniently located on the first floor. The two upstairs rooms are smaller and have slanted ceilings.
I’m not sure what kind of deal Bog cut to get the prime bedroom, but I’m eternally grateful he did.
Sweeping the mess of clothes and books covering the spare bed to the floor, I flop down on the undersized mattress and close my eyes, not even bothering to undress.
But I don’t fall asleep. Fifi appears behind my lids, and my mind tortures me with a replay of our evening’s activities on an endless loop until I groan, wishing I was anywhere else because there’s no way I can get away with taking care of business with my dick here with the guys all listening from the next room.
Fishing my phone out of my pocket, I tap in her name to text her because I’m a glutton for punishment. Apparently, I don’t do things halfway, even when it’s going to hurt me.
Me: Stat class will be a circus. Where do you want to meet?
Fifi: You’re home already?
Me: No, I’m on the side of the road jerking off.
Shit, I can’t joke about that. She’ll freak out and feel guilty.
Me: I’m in bed and lonely.
Fifi: Me too.
A few dots pop up and then disappear. I wait for more, hoping for some consolation phone sex, but there’s nothing, and I’m not sure where to go with this. Looks like I missed the opportunity. There’s no way I’m going to be the one to initiate phone sex. Not yet.
Me: About class—where do you want to meet?
Fifi: Let’s get there early and meet at the front of the room to get first row seats if we can.
Me: Are you shitting me?
I probably shouldn’t, but I hit send. She needs to know I’m not a first row kind of guy.
Fifi: Lol. I’m serious. The first row is the best. We get the prof’s full attention
I shake my head and laugh. It’s like we’re from different planets, ones never invented before. She’s from planet nerdy-hot & sexy-girl, and I’m from planet cool-sports-guy. And our planets may be in different universes with hers ruled by Leo, the evil tyrant.
Me: Whatever you say.
I know, I know. I truly am easy when it comes to Fifi.
Fifi: Great! Let’s get there ten minutes early.
Me: I’ll be the guy in the dark glasses and trench coat. You can call me Mr. Incognito.
Fifi: LMAO! I think I love your sense of humor even more than your muscles.
And there it is. The reason the nerdy sexy-hot girl wins every time.
Me: My muscles are crying now. I’ll have to take them for a quick workout before I go to sleep.
Fifi: If I were there, I’d kiss every one of your muscles good-night.
Me: If you were here, there’d be no sleeping and we’d lose track of all the kisses. They’d be endless—and cover all kinds of body parts.
Fifi: Good-night, Trick. ILYF
Wait—what? ILYF? Shit. Did she just use the L word? Nah, not seriously. She probably signs off on all her texts that way, an automatic signature, probably auto-filled. Has to be.
Fuck. Am I in trouble? Or… am I crazy because I’m a little excited about falling to my doom?
Me: Night.
My finger hovers over the send arrow for a second, my heart banging against my chest like I’m doing something wrong, but I can’t make myself give her anything more than the kiss emoji. Not even a heart emoji.
Maybe I’m heartless. But no, the relentless banging in my chest says my heart is alive and well, and I have no idea what all the wild beating means.
I’m sure there’s a message in there somewhere, but I don’t speak the language of Cupid.
So far, all my heart’s been good for is pumping copious amounts of blood when I need it, mostly when I’m skating like hell down the ice, beating everyone to the puck.
Fucking A. I need to focus on hockey. Fifi and her plan to get up-close and intimate are throwing me off my plan to play my heart out and make it to the NHL. This is my year.
A few dots bubble, and I stiffen, not even taking a breath while I wait to see if she’s going to call me out on the wimpy kiss emoji.
One, two, then three seconds go by, and nothing. I exhale and relax.
First thing in the bright frigid morning, I drive home. Crashing through the back door into the kitchen, the first person I see is Kathleen, wearing an apron and leaning on one crutch, with the kind of smile that would make you swear the sun was shining in the middle of the night.
I give her a hug and kiss her rosy cheek. “Thanks for sending the cookies to Bog and company.” Moving past her into the small office off the kitchen that used to be my bedroom, I hoist my backpack onto the chair and leave it. The smell of bacon lures me back into the kitchen.
Kathleen pats my cheek as I take a seat at the table. “It’s the least we can do for the boys for letting you stay over now and then, and cheaper than rent.”
Mom nods in agreement as she walks in, giving me a one-armed hug and tousling my hair. She’s holding a spatula in the other hand, and I keep an eye on it since she’s been known to use it for violent acts against my rear end.
She says, “Bogdan is a very nice young man. Did you go out last night? Meet a special girl?” She quirks one brow.
“Wow. That’s aggressive, even for you, Mom.”
“What’s her name?”
“What are you talking about?” I’m starting to feel uneasy while her spatula flutters nearby because she’s not usually this pushy. I sit and fill my mouth with a forkful of eggs straight from the serving platter, avoiding her direct stare like she’s going to turn me to stone.
“I just have this feeling you have someone special.”
I scoff, shaking my head and filling my mouth with more eggs.
“Now that you mention it, Mom,” Kathleen says, “I think I see it too. He looks more…”
“Happy because we won last night?” I say.
“No. Self-satisfied,” Kathleen says.
Liam walks in, pulls out the chair opposite me at the table, and snorts. “Impossible.”
I dart my hand out across the table and flick him in the head. He should know better. Having the table between us isn’t enough to protect him from me. He keeps going, giving me a useless glare, but no complaint.
Mom continues to stare at me as she places a platter of food in the center of the table and takes a seat at the head. Not sure what she’s seeing, I look away from her.
“Not exactly self-satisfied. More like… vulnerable—and happy.”
“Trick?” Daniel says, pulling out the chair next to me. “He ought to feel vulnerable with that game against BC coming up.
“Shit. I’m trying to eat here. You’re all giving me indigestion with your gossip. You know you’re supposed to have this kind of discussion behind my back, right?”
“I’m sorry, honey,” Mom says, ruffling my hair and then bending towards me, giving me a kiss on the cheek and squeezing a shoulder. “Eat up so you can help at the market while I cook Sunday dinner.”
“Can’t argue with that deal.” I could argue, but I’m not going to because Mom deserves a break and Kathleen too.
I can do homework later. Sleep? I can’t possibly get a worse night’s sleep than I did last night.
Not that I didn’t sleep well, but it wasn’t nearly long enough after I spent too long remembering every last detail about how Fifi looked and sounded when I—.
Dad comes into the room, followed by Rory.
Dad takes the seat at the head of the table opposite Mom, and Rory sits next to Liam.
Kathleen finally joins us, slowly making her way on one crutch with her leg stiff and her grimace under control.
But I see the flush rise to her neck with the enormous effort she makes every time she moves, and I white-knuckle my fork, resisting my urge to jump up and help her.
Daniel watches her, though he keeps eating, and I relax. He’s a good kid and protective of her, and the only reason I feel comfortable staying over at UNH so often when I’m supposed to be living at home.
“Good morning, Patrick.” Dad doesn’t usually call me Patrick unless he has something on his mind. Everyone stops eating at once and looks at him expectantly. Shit.
“Morning,” I say, looking him straight in the eye because there’s no other acceptable way to deal with him.
“Spent another night at school, did you?”
“Yes, sir.” I give no explanation because the last thing I want to do is lie, and there’s no way I’m explaining about spending time with Fifi.
“Hockey season is getting to the thick of it,” he says.
“We have a few key games coming up too.” He nods, and a swell of guilt hits me for not asking about his season.
Coaching the RHS Devils takes up more of his time than the family’s fishing business every winter when it slows down.
The market stays open, but we don’t fish in the coldest months.
“How are the Devils doing?”
He gives me a look that I can’t read, as usual. “You don’t get the news at UNH?”
“Last I heard, you were leading the division—”
“Still are. Your Wildcats are doing well. I’ll be sorry to miss the game against B.C. coming up. Give ‘em hell for me.” He smiles.
“I will.”
Kathleen covers my hand. “Don’t worry, the rest of us will be there. Even Pops.”
“He wouldn’t miss the chance to see you beat the snot out of Vincent Rossi,” Liam says.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Dad says, “I’ll be there in spirit. And I’ll watch the game the next morning. Say hello to Coach Winnick for me and thank him again for sending the game film.”
I nod. We both know it’s not the same thing. When he’s at the game, he’ll give me pointers and encouragement—always encouragement. I miss the days when he was my coach, but high school is a distant speck in the rearview mirror of my life.
A grin pops onto my face since I’m aware of how crazy that is. My life has been short in the scheme of lifespans. To prove my meandering mind’s point, Pops ambles into the room, grunting his usual hello.
“Good game last night, Trick.” By the time he gets to his seat, Mom has poured him a cup of coffee and placed it on the table, and Rory has dished some bacon and eggs onto his plate from the platter.
“Thanks. That win was for you.”
“And here I thought it was for your dear mother,” Mom says, hand over her heart and a twinkle in her eye.
“You’re both wrong,” Liam says. “It was for his new girlfriend.”
Dad turns his sharp-eyed look on me and raises a brow in question.
He doesn’t have to say a thing—not now after the lecture he gave me at the beginning of the season.
I know exactly how he feels about where my priorities should be and not be.
Let’s just say he thinks I should pretend I’m a monk for the season.
It’s best to avoid the complications and energy drain that associations with females can bring. His words, not mine.
I glare at Liam. “You’re full of shit.”
“Then why’d you stay on campus last night?”
“I stayed on campus with Bog and the boys. Don’t listen to clowns who gossip like—”
“You calling Mom and Kathleen clowns?” Liam can’t help himself. He’s a natural-born troublemaker, taking after Pops. And Pops is the only one who can control him.
“Nonsense.” Pops puts down his fork and eyes me with an unspoken threat. “Trick knows better than that.” He resumes eating as if the matter is settled, but my overtaxed heart doesn’t relax.
I rise from my chair. “I need to get some homework done if I’m going to help at the market today.”
“You can study after the market closes,” Dad says as he fills his plate, confident that his word is final and it’s no big deal.
“I’m putting in some time at the rink to work on my shot with the guys. Meeting them at seven.”
“I take it you won’t be staying home tonight then?” Mom says.
Dad eyes me, holding a fork of eggs midway to his mouth.
“Right. We have a morning skate at six a.m.”
Dad nods. “Good. Make sure you get some good sleep in that spare bed at Bog’s place.”
“It’s not like home, but it works.”
“Maybe we should rent out your bed here since you’re never in it.” Kathleen elbows me. “Either way, it looks like I’ll be doing some baking tonight.”
Leaving the breakfast table shouldn’t feel like I’m escaping an interrogation, but it does. Only a departing pat on my cheek from Kathleen settles my uneasiness.