Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
I’m not sure what’s giving me more of a headache, the harsh lighting in this grocery store or having to run macros in my head every time I pick something off the shelf.
I know fat content isn’t the enemy, but I would like to eat something other than hummus and carrots for the next three months without second guessing it.
While I’m sizing up a box of cereal bars, my cell buzzes, the contact ‘worst roommate ever’ across my phone screen. “Hey,” I say to Terrence over the line. “I’m at the grocery store.”
“Word. Can you pick up some beer?”
I snort, shoving the cereal bars back onto the shelf. “No.”
“Come on man. I’ll pay you back, you know I’m good for it.”
“I know for a fact you’re not.” I meander into the next aisle. “You still owe me ten bucks for a Phi Rho cover charge freshman year. That party sucked, by the way.”
“Dude, how do you even remember that?”
“Because I don’t have CTE from slamming into flesh-mountains on skates.”
I get the feeling someone is watching me, and sure enough, Christos is halfway down the aisle, his tight lips telling me he’s heard this whole conversation. Or at least the funny parts.
I tell Terrence, “I’ll call you back,” and hang up right as he starts begging.
Christos and I meet halfway.
“Terrence?” he asks with an amused, quirked brow.
“He’s soooo needy.” I roll my eyes with exaggeration.
He grins. “He mentioned you two have been roommates since Freshman year.”
“Yeah,” I shrug. “Guess I’m a bit needy too.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” He clears his throat. “Do you, uh, know which aisle has the protein?”
“Unfortunately, I do. Come on.” I lead him to the second to last aisle of the store, the protein powders right across from the paper towels. Probably because they taste the same.
“Thanks,” he says while examining the store’s pitiful offerings.
“There’s a supplement store in the mall.”
He pulls his eyes away from a bottle of strawberry powder and down to me. “We have a mall?”
“No, it’s like an hour away. But since it’s the only mall around, we just call it the mall.”
“Right. Makes sense.”
He grabs the strawberry powder and puts it in his shopping cart. That should be the end of it. We should part ways and continue our respective shopping, but neither of us move from the other’s side.
“When did you dye your hair?”
My hands fly to my crown to cover my obvious roots.
He chuckles. “Sorry—”
“You’re so not.”
His smile spreads. I look away from his face, noticing his thin white tail wagging. Not like a dog’s, it’s more fluid, reminding me of ribbon dancing. “Kind of hard not to notice from where I’m standing.”
“Pointing out my roots and calling me short? Charming as always, Christos.”
“When was the last time you dyed it?”
My hands fall to my sides. “Back in July. I haven’t found someone to do a touchup yet.”
I should find a salon. I can’t look unkempt at my next competition.
He opens his mouth, but shuts it without saying a word.
“You do hair?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. But I did bleach a bunch of my teammate’s heads in high school. Old tradition. All the freshman guys had to bleach it. Including me.” He rubs the tuft of snow-white hair between his horns. “Not that you could tell.”
“Did they have to keep it blond for the whole season?”
“A lot of guys shaved it off after the first game of the season. One guy tried to dye it black with some box he got at the drug store and ended up with blue hair.”
I run my fingers through my bangs. “I want to do pink.”
“Like…” He picks up the jug of strawberry protein. “Strawberry pink?”
“Hot pink.”
He smiles so wide I can almost hear him say that would look nice. Instead, he asks, “Why don’t you?”
“You remember my final scores from qualifiers?"
An awkward noise builds at the back of his throat. “I remember you had a high score. I mean, obviously, you got gold so, that would be a high score.”
I swallow down a laugh, worried he’ll think I’m laughing at him. Which I sort of am, but not in a malicious way. It’s funny, seeing such a big guy get so awkward the second he’s out of his element.
“Part of my score is program components, so choreography, costuming, overall presentation. I’d lose points.”
He furrows his brows. “Seriously?”
“Sometimes the difference between first and second place comes down to the judge’s taste.”
I’m downplaying it. Everyone knows judges used to pick favorites. There have been changes; a complete rework of the points system and more transparency. Even so, strong, skilfull athletes still get picked over in favor of petite darlings.
“Well, the blond is nice. You look good with your natural hair too.” I let that statement linger. More muddled, awkward sounds escape his mouth before he finally composes himself. “There were some old photos online—”
“You researched me?”
“I wanted to make a good argument to the Dean to get you a rink key. I’m a professional like that.”
I start to laugh, but then it dawns on me how much of my awkward teenager years are memorialized from competition photos. “How far back did you research?”
“I stuck to recent events…” He’s trying to hide a smile, I know it. “But, one exhibition skate kept popping up.”
I know the one. An homage to an eighties glam rocker group my dad is obsessed with.
“Oh my god.” I cover my eyes as if that will make the memory go away. Honestly the tight leather and glitz work with figure skating aesthetics. The huge, back-combed wig I wore? Not so much. “I want it on record, that was not my idea.”
“I figured, the eighties aren’t really your era.”
“Closer to your prime?”
“You have got to stop calling me old. I wasn’t even a twinkle in my dad’s eye in the eighties.”
“Promise me you’ll never bring up that exhibition skate again and I’ll stop calling you old. Deal?” I offer him my hand.
“Deal.” We shake. “I was planning on keeping that gem to myself anyway.” He winks.
I wonder if he notices when my palm starts to sweat.
“I should let you get back to your shopping.” My hand slips out of his and I leave without a proper goodbye. Not that it matters since we keep finding each other again, catching glimpses of one another between the aisles and standing by the fridges.
I grab my phone with the intent to double-check an ingredient but end up searching for Christos instead. It takes a bit of scrolling but I do find him on an old roster list for a team I’ve never even heard of.
Here I thought I’d gotten pretty good at reading hockey stats from hanging out with Terrence and the team for so long but his player page reads like a budgeting spreadsheet. I scroll back to the top of the page.
Christos Samaras.
Position: F
6-5 / 250 lbs
Shoots: L
Birthday: January 2nd
Birth Place: Riverton, New Jersey
A lot of this feels like something I should have found out by talking to him. An old photo of him with a neutral expression looks back at me. The hair between his horns is long, his bangs threatening to cover his eyes. I like his hair the way he wears it now. Short with a little extra on the top.
Would I have liked Christos in college? I like him now—in a totally professional way.
He’s supportive and nice and gives the Dingbats some much-needed discipline.
All of this suggests maturity. Would I have gotten butterflies in my stomach if we met at some frat party?
I can picture Terrence introducing me to his buddy Chris, a bit of beer foam in the fur around his lips, and shaking his hand like we’re about to make a business deal.
Maybe his bangs would have prevented me from noticing his pretty eyes, or he would have still been in the closet and rebuffed my advances.
But it’s also possible we would have connected, kissed on the back porch of Phi Rho and then gone back to grind on some shitty mattress in the dorms. The pinnacle of college romance.
Finished up that statement. Emailed it to you
I’ll give it a look. I’m sure it rocks ??
Don’t push it, old timer.