Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
My hood is tight around my face as Marcus and I walk to the dining hall.
From the moment I returned to campus, I’ve been keeping my head down and my hood up, practically living in my old Dual Drakes hoodie.
All my other hoodies have either the ISU logo or my home rink plastered on the front, and I can’t have people hounding me on my way to class.
Everyone wants to congratulate me and wish me luck, and everyone seems unaware of the Olympic favorite curse. Considering how much they cared about figure skating the last three years, I’m pretty confident they have no idea.
As we enter the dining hall I tear down a poster of me posing triumphantly in front of various Italian landmarks—none of which are in Milan.
“I swear I tore down this same poster in the same exact spot yesterday.” I ball the paper in my fist, tossing it in the foyer without a care.
Weirdly, the ice rink is the only place on campus that doesn’t have some photo of me with eye-bleeding comic sans. My guess is the Dingbats hockey team keeps taking them all down. I’m grateful, even if the act is out of spite.
“I think at this point it’s a community effort. Just wait till you’re back from Milan.” Marcus says without an ounce of empathy but also not a drop of humor.
It’s like he’s as sick of the posters as I am. That or he’s sick of me.
Without slowing down, he scans his ID and marches towards the trays, but I hesitate.
The hockey team is sitting in their usual spot all huddled around each other like hens.
Terrence is facing the dining hall entrance, but he hasn’t noticed me yet.
Marcus grabs a tray and continues on towards the food, and I realize I’ll get left behind if I don’t follow.
The last thing I want right now is to eat alone.
I catch up to Marcus at the pasta bar. “You’re being really weird about Terrence.”
“Look, I apologized to him already. He’s the one giving me the silent treatment, not the other way around!”
He gets a nice helping of baked ziti before moving on, talking like I haven’t said a thing. “He’s your roommate! You sleep next to each other. If he wanted to pummel you, he’d have plenty of opportunities.”
“Counterpoint. The vibes in our room are terrible, and I would like to avoid that in public whenever possible.”
Marcus’ already skinny lips somehow get thinner.
I ask, “What did he tell you?”
“Nothing.”
I roll my eyes and groan.
“Nothing! Seriously. You think Terrence talks to me without you in the picture?” He grabs some green jello, the same shade as his scales from the fridges. “I don’t get why you’re so jumpy around him.”
I haven’t grabbed any food, but I follow him to the table anyway. “I don’t want him saying things about me that aren’t true. Not when everyone on campus is suddenly oh-so-interested in me.”
He shrugs. “Fame sucks.”
“Tell me about it.”
The conversation doesn’t slow down as Marcus munches away on pasta. “Full honesty, I also don’t get why you’re so mopey about getting attention. Isn’t that the point of sports?”
I cross my arms. “There are way easier ways to get attention.”
“Yeah, but you wanted this, right?”
My fingers tap my arm, like I’m impatiently awaiting my answer. “I want to be the best at the thing I love doing. I couldn’t care less about random spectators. Which at this point, most people are.”
“I guess…”
He hunches over his lunch tray, now way more interested in his meal than talking to me. So, I take the hint and get up to leave.
“You haven’t eaten anything!” Marcus erupts like a nervous mother. “At least grab an apple or something.”
I roll my eyes but make a loop back to the fruit stand to grab two apples and some packets of peanut butter.
The sugar isn’t ideal but Marcus is right, I do need to eat something.
On my way out I wave at him with an apple.
His attempt at a toothy smile is more of a grimace.
Everything is shoved in my hoodie pocket and I trudge back to the dorm.
I much on an apple while catching up on class reading, pausing to smear peanut butter into the grooves of the fruit. I somehow read fifty pages in an hour, but my brain feels as smooth as the peanut butter that’s warmed up since sitting in my hoodie.
I open my laptop for a well-deserved break but somehow end up opening up my email instead.
Dear Susan,
Is it too late for me to defer this semester?
I stare at the shortest email I’ve ever written the same way I stare at my poems I don’t vibe with, hopeful that with enough patience and re-reads, something will click. I never get the courage to actually send the email, opting to shut my laptop.
Terrence is at hockey practice, otherwise I wouldn’t even be in the dorm.
I’ve decided to make myself scarce whenever possible, seeing as Terrence had a week of bliss without me already, and I’ll be gone again in a few weeks.
Though with all the pictures of me plastered around campus maybe it feels like I haven’t been gone at all.
I’m still catching up on the first week of missed assignments, but my brain can’t process schoolwork, my friends won’t talk to me, and whenever I think about what I’m going to do for my free program, I start wishing I could focus on schoolwork.
I open my desk drawer to look for a notepad, wondering if maybe analogue work will do the trick.
I stop short when I find the key to the campus ice rink sitting atop a notepad.
Ten minutes later I’ve written down a few bullet points and scribbled out plenty more. I’m telling myself not to do more than one draft, that any further editing is dishonest. As if I’ve been so honest these past few months.
Christos,
I’m sorry I made you feel like you didn’t have a choice.
It’s unfair that we met now and not after I graduated.
It wouldn’t have mattered then. We could have fucked and been done with it.
But I liked having dinners with you. I was scared you’d like my achievements more than you liked me.
At the same time, I didn’t pay nearly enough attention to your own achievements.
Holy fuck the Dingbats didn’t lose a single game for a month!
Two months! Maybe I am glad we met when we did because what if we never had those dinners?
Or you never told me you like birdwatching?
It was all worth it, to know you better.
To avoid trouble, I don’t sign my name. Christos will know, and that’s literally all that matters.
I put on my hoodie, shoving the key and letter into my front pocket and head out.
Hockey practice will be the perfect cover.
I can get in, leave the key on Chris’ desk, and then it’s over.
One less relationship to mourn over. Or maybe start mourning.
We haven’t seen each other since December. At least, he hasn’t seen me. I bail whenever I see his massive form enter the room, keeping my head down as I sneak out. It’s worked well enough so far, so I slink into the rink and upstairs to Chris’ office.
I’m not sure if this key opens that door as well, but thankfully he’s left it unlocked. I’ve turned the doorknob halfway turned when I stop, wondering a moment too late if he’s inside getting some work done while the team runs drills.
I peek through the crack in the door and find the desk chair facing forward and empty.
I tiptoe to the desk, falling back on my heels when through the office windows, I spot Christos out on the rink.
Even from the second floor, I can make out his stern expression and hear what he’s shouting when he calls out a player.
Something about unnecessary roughness, our team’s specialty.
I set the letter with the key folded inside on his desk. Then take one last look at him, appreciating the curve of his horns and his fur so white he’s almost camouflaged against the ice. This quiet moment is interrupted by angry shouting. He rushes onto the ice.
I follow his trajectory and see two guys fighting. At practice.
With their helmets and practice jerseys on, it’s impossible to tell who is fighting but I have my suspicions. I bolt downstairs but instead of running to the exit I run to the rink. All the other players are standing around, watching awkwardly as Christos tries to break up the fight.
“Take that shit back!” Terrence yells, one hand grabbing for the other guy’s jersey while pummeling the guy’s helmet with his fist.
Christos growls, “Knock it off!”
He gets between them, Terrence’s fist colliding with the flat of his nose.
“Oh my god!” I don’t hesitate to run onto the ice, every slip propelling me forward.
Christos holds his snout, blood dripping from between his fingers. Terrence has finally backed off, realizing what he’s done.
The other guy from the fight grabs Terrence’s jersey. “You son of a—”
“Are you serious?” I shriek. I grab a nearby player’s hockey stick and hurl it at the other player. He ducks out of the way, but is right in the crosshairs of my tirade. “Some team you assholes are!”
I shove him, but he just glides away slowly, like a glacier passing a ship.
“Hurffs—” Christos says, which I think is supposed to be proper words but between the blood and his hand covering his mouth it’s a garbled mess. Blood drips from his hand onto the ice.
“Can someone get fresh towels from the locker room?”
I usher Christos off the ice. He doesn’t put up a fight, plopping right down on the bench while I grab the first aid kit off the wall. Not that it will do a lot of good.
“Here coach!” A guy throws a towel over the plexiglass and I catch it right before it hits the floor.
“Lean forward,” I tell him before handing him the towel.
“I’m fine,” he says, like this is an argument.
“If the bleeding stops in 10 minutes you’re fine. And don’t tell me how many times you’ve been punched in the face before. I don’t care. Lean forward.”