Chapter 3 Mickey
Mickey
Iwatch as Viv walks away. And I probably stare too long.
And there’s a good chance that drool is going to start dripping from lips.
God, she’s fucking beautiful. She’s all sunshine and good energy.
She radiates calm and happiness, even though there’s nothing chill about her.
Wherever she goes, Viv takes up space, and I love that about her.
She’s not quiet or shy, not timid or hesitant. She’s unapologetic and perfect.
And she’s not sick of me yet.
As crazy as it seems, Viv loves me just as much as I love her. And yes, we love each other. And yes, we say it. Of course, we do. I tell JT I love him all the time. Why would it be any different just because my other best friend is a girl?
Oh, is it because I’m actually madly in love with her and I want to spend the rest of my life worshipping her both figuratively and literally?
Well, yeah. Okay. Fair point. But Viv doesn’t know that.
And I don’t plan on spilling the beans any time soon.
She’s going to graduate in two months and then she’ll be off to who knows where.
I know the yoga studio in town has offered her a job, and even though I really hope she takes it, I want her to follow her dreams. But that means we don’t have much time until everything changes.
I’ve kept this secret to myself long enough. What’s a few more weeks?
It doesn’t take long to walk back to the hockey house, and when I walk inside, I’m torn between getting a shower and grabbing a snack. I’m starving. But I’m also sweaty. And I’m half-hard from spending the better part of an hour watching Viv bend herself into all kinds of positions.
Fuck it. A shower burrito sounds pretty damn good right now.
After popping my frozen lunch in the microwave, I start stripping. Everybody in this house accuses me of being an exhibitionist, and they’re not wrong, but I’m also practical. If I get naked now, I don’t have to get naked later. See? That’s logical.
Plus, the washer and dryer are right next to the kitchen. That’s basically an invitation to get naked while I cook.
Okay, cooking is probably a generous term for what I’m doing, but after The Incident last year, I’m restricted from doing certain tasks like using the stove when no one else is home.
It’s kinda bullshit because that’s not how the fire started at all.
It was the combination of a big ass candle and a very flammable couch. Coulda happened to anyone.
But no. You light one house on fire, and suddenly your roommates make a bunch of rules.
I can’t blame them, I guess. It’s not like that was the first dumbass stunt I ever pulled. Or the last.
When the timer dings, I grab my lunch, and head upstairs.
My room is huge. It’s big enough for a queen-sized bed, a dresser, a desk, and a couch.
I step into the bathroom and turn the knob for the shower.
That water heats up in a matter of seconds.
This place is way nicer than the old hockey house, but have I gotten a single thank you? Nope.
Stepping under the spray, I’m careful not to drench my burrito.
Over the years, I’ve perfected the fine art of shower snacking.
I think it started in middle school, maybe?
I’d forget to eat, and then I’d make food.
But then I’d take a few bites and set my plate down so I could game or stare at my homework.
And then I’d remember to shower. And then I’d find my cold food on my bedside table.
So, I started taking my dinner into the shower with me.
It was the ideal solution. Cold fries are the devil’s work, but so are soggy ones, so I quickly learned where to stand and how to angle my head.
And you know that tiny little shelf thing that all showers have?
It’s probably where you’re supposed to put a bar of soap, but a half-eaten burrito fits perfectly. Same for a hot dog or a hoagie.
By the time I’ve washed, exfoliated, and conditioned all the necessary parts of my body, I’m finished with my burrito. I’m telling you, shower snacks are going to catch on someday, and you’re going to know you heard it here first.
I’m reaching for a towel when there’s a knock at the door.
“Come on in,” I call.
Leo opens the door and sticks his head in. Since our rooms are next to each other, he’s used to seeing my bare-naked ass, but by the time he steps inside, I’ve got a towel wrapped around my waist.
“What’s up?” I ask, squirting some smoothing cream into my palms before working it through my hair. Can you tell my sister’s a stylist?
“Mail delivery,” he says, setting a white envelope on my desk. He gives me a wave before ducking out again. The guy doesn’t say much, but he’s a damn fine hockey player. Besides, I talk enough for at least two people, so it’s probably a good thing he’s so quiet.
Dropping my towel into the hamper, I pick up the mail that Leo dropped off.
It’s got the university’s seal on it, which seems weird.
I mean, why send a letter when they could just email me?
Although, to be fair, my inbox has about thirty thousand unread messages in it, so maybe they already have.
I’m not so good at maintenance. It’s the ADHD.
If something’s not right in front of me, I’ll forget all about it.
And if it is right in front of me, I might get distracted and forget all about it anyway.
I tear the envelope open and pull out the letter inside. It’s probably something about my athletic scholarship. Or maybe it’s about scheduling classes for the fall. I think I need to do that soon. I’m not really good at keeping track of dates like that. I just go when JT goes.
It’s looking more and more like Portland’s going to call him up for next season, so that means he’ll be moving across the damn country. I guess that means I’ll have to start taking care of shit by myself, like a grown ass adult.
Maybe Leo will adopt me? He’s only a freshman, but he’s got his shit together. I bet he knows when scheduling starts.
Before I can step out into the hall and see if he’s around, I force myself to focus on the letter in my hands. I guess I should find out what it’s about first.
I unfold the letter and let my eyes roam over the words. What the hell? I have to read it twice more before the meaning finally registers.
Mr. Brannon Mikalski,
We have attempted to reach you several times.
We are writing to inform you that you have earned the maximum number of elective credits.
Unfortunately, you are in a deficit for credits in your major.
You’ve only earned nine credits in Communications.
To earn your degree, you’ll need the remaining fifty-one credits.
That can be accomplished over the next four semesters.
As you know, your athletic scholarship will only last through the next academic year. You may be able to take some credits online or during our minimesters. Please call the Academic Advising Office as soon as possible to schedule an appointment so that we can help you make a plan for success.
Thank you,
Barbara Arnold
Dean of Academic Affairs
I read it another few times just for good measure. I read it until I can feel the blood rushing in my ears and my heart beating in my chest.
I hate making phone calls, but my fingers fly over the keypad as I tap out the numbers listed at the top of the page. The phone rings about a million times until an automated message tells me that the office is closed for the day.
Of fucking course they are.
Barb dropped a damn bomb on my life and now she’s on her way home. I hope she gets stuck in traffic.
Okay, that’s not really fair. It’s not Barb’s fault I’m a fuck up.
Now that I’m seeing the words in black and white, it’s all too fucking clear.
When I started at BU, I declared Communications as my major because I had no clue what I actually wanted to do with my life and a bunch of guys on the hockey team said that was a good way to go.
But then JT and I became best buds, so when he scheduled his classes, I grabbed my computer and did the same. That’s what I’ve been doing ever since.
I guess I never actually changed my major to Exercise Science, though. I meant to. Hell, I probably even made the appointment, and then promptly forgot about it.
Fuck. My. Fucking. Life.
There’s another knock on my door and I hear Leo’s voice carry through the wood. “Time to go, Mick.”
Shit. I’ve got practice. And I’ve also got teammates who know I have to be reminded of every little thing because my mind is fucking mess and I can’t take care of my own damn life.
And yeah, they make meds for ADHD, but I hate them.
And they don’t really work for me. And I always forget to take them.
Leo knocks again, so I throw on some shorts, a hoodie, and some slides in record time. I grab my bag and head out into the hallway, then I circle back, and shove Barb’s letter in my desk drawer. I’ll deal with it later. Right now, I’ve got hockey practice.
“Is this a bad time?”
I turn my head to see Viv standing just outside my room, and I can’t help the smile that lights over my face.
It’s never a bad time for Viv to stop by, but now is the best time.
I got back from practice half an hour ago, and I’ve been staring at my desk drawer ever since.
I haven’t opened it because it’s like there’s a snake in there just waiting to sink its venomous fangs into me.
The venom is in the fangs, right? Or is it in their tongues?
No, it would have to be the fangs. That’s how they get you.
Right?
Before I can look it up or lose my damn mind—because those are my only two options at this point—Viv drops her bag by the bed and plops down on the couch next to me.