Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
“You can’t even have a beer? Seriously?”
There's a clattering of pool balls behind us. It’s Friday night and a bunch of the junior year hockey players are celebrating the season starting next week.
Terrence convinced me we should celebrate my recent gold while we’re at it.
The bar floor is sticky with cheap beer, and the air is heavy with smoke.
Leroy loves this place for its atmosphere.
Most nights I actually like the cheap beer, and Terrence is always up for a few rounds of pinball.
“Alcohol makes me puffy,” I whine.
Leroy slides between us, engulfing us both in his arms while his tail is wrapped around a pool cue. “You boys better behave tonight! Coach is coming by later.”
“What?” I seem to be the only one upset by this.
Terrence is practically bouncing in his seat. “Sick.”
“Isn’t that kind of lame?”
They stare at me like I’m speaking in another language.
“He is faculty, remember?”
Leroy shrugs. “Everyone here is legal.” He nudges Terrence. “Can’t pass off an opportunity to hustle the guy.”
“You’re such a shark man,” Terrence shakes his head. “Remind me to never take you to Vegas.”
“What if I shared my winnings with you?”
“You’d stiff me on my cut.” Terrence moves to take a sip of his beer, but Leroy grabs his face between his thumb and forefinger.
“I would never cheat on you.” He squishes Terrence cheeks while making exaggerated kissing sounds.
I’ve never been in the locker room with the Dingbats team but, I get plenty of glimpses into the homoeroticism of the brotherhood.
Terrence tears his face from Leroy’s grip. “Buy me a drink first, heartbreaker.”
“Round of pool? Loser buys a round?”
Terrence snaps his fingers and points to an empty pool table. “You’re on.”
I stay at the bar, watching the team from a distance.
Outside of Terrence and Leroy, I’ve never gotten close to the rest of the team.
They’ve all got their buddies, and I think some of the guys are at a loss when it comes to making conversation with me.
I don’t play hockey or like women, and tonight I can’t even binge drink.
Maybe the team has some emotional depths I haven’t explored yet.
I shouldn’t assume none of these guys enjoy Russian literature or late Romantic Classical music.
I came all the way out here to have a good time and let myself forget about my competition in a few days.
A few rounds of pool and the night will fly by.
I get up to join them, standing right on the edge of a group of four guys in deep conversation. “I’d care more about women’s hockey if they put in some effort you know? They dress and talk like dudes.”
One of the guys nods. “Wicked butterfaces.”
Nope. Fuck this. Fuck these guys. I’m going home to watch YouTube video essays on my phone till I pass out. I try to wave goodbye to Terrence and Leroy, but they’re too engrossed in their game to notice. I bail, ready to text Terrence that I’ll see him back at the dorm.
I’ve made it maybe two steps outside when a familiar voice asks, “You’re leaving?” I look up from my phone and see who else but Christos, dressed in a windbreaker like he’s just gotten back from a run.
“Can’t keep up with the guys.” I shrug. “Plus, I need my beauty sleep.” I notice the name written in thick yellow letters on the breast of the windbreaker. “Werecats… That was your old team, right?”
His mouth opens. Then shuts. Finally a bemused smile settles on his face. “You researched me?”
“Can’t say I had as good a reason as you.”
“I dunno. I think curiosity is a good enough reason. What else did you learn about me?”
I shake my head like I’m trying hard to remember, like those little factoids didn’t imprint on my brain the moment I read them. “You’re 6’5 and 250 pounds.”
He mutters under his breath. “I haven’t been two-fifty for a while...”
“You’re a Capricorn–”
“I am?”
“You never had your star sign explained? Not by a boyfriend? Or… girlfriend?”
He purses his lips, but I catch a glimpse of his goofy grin. “Guess the people I date aren't really into that stuff.”
Now that I've started, I can't stop. “You played forward and you were born in New Jersey.”
He shrugs. “I consider myself more of an all-arounder than a forward.”
I huff, running a hand down my face. “I feel bad.”
“Why?”
“Because I got it off a webpage when I could have just talked to you.”
He steps up onto the curb, and I step aside, expecting him to walk right into the bar. Instead, he walks right up to me. I have to tilt my head so I can see his face.
He rolls his shoulders back, like he's gearing up to make some big important statement. “I've been getting into bird watching.”
I'm not proud, but I respond with a harsh, “Seriously?”
He shrugs. “Well, I'm in my 30s, I don't exactly make enough money to get into sports betting—and sports is my job so it doesn't make for a good hobby. I've never been into cars. Can't drink like I used to without getting a two-day hangover…”
“So… birdwatching?”
“It's nice.” There's a sing-song lilt in his voice that makes me instantly believe him. “I’ve always liked hiking. Birdwatching forces me to be more observant, more patient.”
“I don't have time for hobbies,” I admit. “The one thing that could have been a hobby I made my major.”
“Do you have a favorite book?”
My heart swells, which has less to do with Christos and everything to do with my answer. “To Frost the Thaw.”
Every person has their book. Even people who don’t like reading have one book they could present, favorably or otherwise.
My book happens to be a tome of Russian literature following an Arctic expedition from the perspective of the most fatalistic man in Europe.
It’s about a lot more than that—but just because I could give a presentation on it, doesn’t mean he is interested in hearing it.
“Maybe I’ll check it out.” He smiles. “There, now we both know something the internet doesn't.”
We stand there, half illuminated by the nearby streetlight and the bar’s neon haze.
There’s so much more I want to know. Christos stays with me instead of joining the rest of the team inside.
Is he waiting for me to ask him another question?
Maybe he is dying to know why, of all the books in the world, To Frost the Thaw is my favorite.
In the end, he breaks the silence. “You sure you don’t want to join us?”
I shake my head before a stray, sure, can escape. “A night in will do me good. Or, maybe I’ll see if there’s anything happening on campus. GSA does Friday Night Drag.”
“Sounds fun. You’ve earned it.”
I wonder if Maude would agree. If the dozens of other senior division skaters are letting loose before the weekend.
A night in doesn’t sound all that bad—even if we’re one month into the semester, and I haven’t gone to a single proper party.
There’s no alcohol at drag night, so that’s a plus.
There are also several classmates I haven’t connected with yet this semester.
“I know you’ve got to be somewhere—”
“I’m not in a rush.”
“Christos.” I nod in the direction of the bar entrance. “Go coach your team. They’re as bad at pool as they are at hockey.”
“Wow.” He shakes his head, but his smile is bright even in the dark. “You going to make it to any games? Gotta prove you wrong.”
“I might slip in one game early this season.”
“Looking forward to it.” He heads for the door, opening it enough that the inside chatter pours out onto the sidewalk. He pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. “Proving you wrong, I mean.”
He ducks his head so his horns can fit through the doorway.
By the time I make it back to campus, Friday Night Drag is in full swing. A beefy drag king with a glitter mustache collects the cover charge. “Good luck next week. My mom is a big skating fan.”
Despite my fame being pretty niche, or perhaps because of it, getting recognized always feels weird.
I tell them, “Thanks,” and disappear into the modestly sized crowd.
At least that interaction was brief. I don’t mind chatting with fans at the airport or outside the arena.
It’s part of the job. Tonight I’m off the clock.
Christos isn’t my coach but I’m taking his advice anyway.
I’ve earned a break. Even if watching painted college students lip-sync to showtunes isn’t that different from figure skating.
There’s enough choreography, glitter, and camp that if I squint I swear the queens are wearing skates.
I’m standing at the back where the audience flings crumpled up dollar bills onto the stage. All that’s missing is the kiss and cry.
In-between numbers, I go to the snack table, eyeing the liter bottles and hoping one of them is diet, or ideally, sparkling water. I chew the inside of my lip as I weigh my options.
“Roderick, hey!” A voice shouts over the beginnings of a pop track.
A skinny pair of glasses sits on the scaly snout of a green Dragonfolk.
Marcus puts a cautious hand on my shoulder, his other arm outstretched.
I step into the hug, his skin somehow both smooth and bumpy.
Marcus and I met early on in our freshman year, when we went back to his place with plans to hook up but ended up playing fighting games for hours instead.
To this day, we’ve never done anything more than hug and I’ve still never beaten him in a round of Dual Drakes.
“Sorry I haven’t reached out—”
Marcus holds up a clawed hand. “I don’t follow sports, but even I know it’s an Olympic year, I get it. Are you on the team yet?”
“I won't know till January. Got to keep competing till then. Even if I win qualifiers that doesn’t guarantee me a spot, so can’t slack off.”
His jaw drops, showing off a wide mouth more rows of razor-sharp teeth than I could possibly count. “That’s intense.”
I play it off with a shrug. “You win any Dual Drakes tournaments recently?”
He shakes his head. “But my boyfriend qualified for a big tournament in New York.”
My brows lift. “Boyfriend?” Not that Marcus having a boyfriend is all that surprising. He’s a cute computer science nerd who never says no to a club activity. Pretty sure he set up the lights and sound system for tonight’s event, because that’s just the kind of guy he is.
“Oh yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “He goes to this tiny college out in Vermont. We’re doing long distance.”
I hope the pop ballad hides any bitterness in my voice. “That’s great. He’s a lucky guy.”
“Maybe you’ll get to meet him sometime? If you’re not too busy. I was thinking of starting a tabletop RPG group.”
“I’m not sure I’m built to sit at a table for four hours,” I admit.
Marcus explains to me that there are shorter games. That we could play online so his boyfriend could join. Totally flexible schedule. I let him talk, because it is fun hearing about all the different games I could play post-Olympics. Or sooner… if I don’t make the cut.
Except, I am going to make the cut. There’s no point in hypotheticals, in imagining what my life would look like if I fail. I’m not going to manifest failure because rolling dice or going out to drink with the guys would be easier.
Marucs is still explaining percentage dice when I grab his shoulder. “Love when you talk nerdy to me, but I want to say hi to some other folks before bailing. I’ve got practice in the morning.”
“Right, sorry, rambling. Hey, let me know when your next competition is, I could set up a watch party for the hockey team.”
“Aw, that’s sweet of you.”
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “I want an excuse to watch the jocks play outside of the boy aquarium.”
I scoff. “Girl.”
“I can’t help it!” He throws his hands up with a dramatic flair. “You got shoved in enough lockers and it does something to you psycho-sexually.”
“Does your boyfriend know he’s dating a wannabe puck bunny?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but yes,” he hangs his head in shame, “he’s aware.”
Maybe I should assure him he’s not alone in pining for hockey bros and that it could be much worse. At least all the Dingbats are around his age.
I started To Frost the Thaw.
Typical performative intellectual.
Wow. Harsh. I was about to tell you I’m liking it so far.
How much have you read?
Five pages. But it’s been a good five pages.
You know if you read five pages a day it’ll only take 100 days to finish reading.
That's manageable.
Birdwatching, Russian literature, and hockey. You’ll slay at dinner parties.
Covering all my bases.