Austin
AUSTIN
O f all the assholes in the NCAA who could have been traded to the team, Sebastian Huntington is the absolute fucking worst.
Being an asshole is one thing. But being an entitled, spoiled little brat asshole is another.
My ma calls as I’m heading out of the arena and I tell the guys I’ll meet them up later. I start venting about our new teammate without taking a breath.
“-and plus, we don’t even need him, it’s hard enough to keep your spot in the top three lines as it is, the competition-”
“Breathe baby,” Ma says.
“Sorry, I’m just pissed. I don’t understand.”
“Try and see it from his point of view.”
No thanks.
“Your school has the best hockey team in the league, why wouldn’t he be dying for a transfer?”
“It’s just fishy,” I say. “And if it is just that he wanted something, so he asked and got it, then that makes it even worse. I didn’t even see any rumors of a transfer.”
“You said he’s a good player right? So where’s the harm in having as many good quality back-ups as possible? That’s what they do in the NHL.”
“Yeah, but I know this guy, he isn’t gonna be satisfied being a ‘back-up,’ he always has to be the center of attention. There’s no way in hell he’s bent over backwards to get transferred from fucking Yale - sorry Ma - just to sit on the bench.”
She sighs. I caught her on her way out of the house and I’m bitching about something that isn’t that big of a deal compared to all the shit she’s put up with to get me here.
“Sorry, I just had to vent.”
“Don’t apologize. I’d rather you call me and vent then punch the guy in the face.”
“I’m not making any promises on that front.”
“Hey, you’re not a fighter, leave that to the enforcers.”
I hear the lilt in her voice and want to reassure her I won’t get hurt.
“I’m just kidding Ma, I’m not gonna fight the guy.”
“Good.”
“You on your way to work?”
“Yep, only a short shift today though, so I’ll be home by five with my feet up in front of TLC .”
I snort. “That shit’ll rot your brain.”
“It just makes me grateful my son is an angel, and I don’t have a man to deal with.”
“Angel? Ma, you shouldn’t drink before work.”
She snorts. “Hey, I saw Alyssa yesterday.”
At Alyssa’s name, my mouth gets dry.
“Oh? How is she?”
“Fine. She was asking about you.”
I pick up on the tone. Try to ignore it.
“I told her you’re doing good.”
“Good.”
“She’s graduating this year, with you.”
Not ‘with’ me. I have to lean against a wall.
“Ma-”
“I know, I’m keeping my nose out of it and leaving you kids to it, she just asked me to let you know she was asking about you, that’s all.”
“Okay.”
“She’s a nice girl.”
“I know she is.”
“Does it bother you, me talking to her?”
“Course not, talk to whoever you want.”
“You guys didn’t end on bad terms right?”
“Right Ma, I want you to talk to her, it’s fine.”
“Okay, I gotta run, talk soon yeah? And don’t hit that Yale kid.”
That makes me smile at least. “I’ll try.”
I hang up and try not to think about my ma on her feet for hours at the diner. At least she gets to work less now college is sorted and all my hockey gear and accommodation is taken care of by my hockey scholarship. She must have really been able to breathe a sigh of relief when that happened.
I feel like my whole childhood was lived out on the ice and at the diner, drawing in a coloring book and nursing a milkshake while Ma bussed tables. I always had everything I needed. Not just hockey gear, but books, new shoes for school, pencil cases, folders, even shit I didn’t really need like highlighters and those pencils with the funny erasers on the end. When my coach in juniors gave her a nutrition plan for me to follow that didn’t include free diner cheeseburgers and tater tots, she made sure I got it.
When I moved into student accommodation my first year at college, she looked up the list of recommended items on the website and got everything, from shower shoes to a mattress protector. She even got all the optional shit, like a fan - which actually came in handy - and a portable iron - which I never used. That first year, I lived in a high-rise apartment block on the side of the I-90, where the fire alarm woke me up at three am every weekend, but I did it with a fan and a portable iron.
I didn’t always know how she did it, but whatever I needed, she always made it appear. And now I want to pay her back. Every last cent. I can’t give her all those hours of her life back. The ones she spent slaving away in a diner when she should have been doing what she loves. But I can, and will, stop her wasting any more.
I have a business class and a sport’s nutrition class right after, so I head straight to Chipotle and grab a burrito bowl to fuel up. It’s quiet and the guys must have left by now to take a nap or go to class. I practically inhale the food with my earphones in, listening to an old playlist of country songs I’ve liked since I was a kid. Johnny Cash, June Carter and Patsy Cline. I thought everyone’s ma could sing like mine until I got older and realized they couldn’t. It took me a few more years to realize she should have been doing that on a stage somewhere instead of wiping tables down in a diner and scraping by on tips. And that it was my fault she wasn’t.
I’d like to take a nap after that practise and all the food I just ate, but I have classes, and even though I don’t like them, they’re important. My back-up plan, in case it doesn’t work out. In case the team that called my name in the draft almost two years ago decide not to sign me to the NHL after all.
When I get to class, Sebastian Huntington is sitting in the best part of the classroom at my favorite table by the window. Just close enough to the board to get a good view, but far enough away that you can sneakily check your phone without the professor catching you.
His head snaps up and that shit-eating grin spreads across his face. It takes everything in me to keep my expression neutral.
“No way,” he says. “Are you in this class too?”
I want to ignore him and go and sit somewhere else, but people are looking and they’re gonna find out at some point that he’s on the hockey team. How would it look if the captain shunned one of his teammates in public?
I take a deep breath and sit in the chair beside him.
He leans over and whispers, “this is the best spot in the class, don’t tell anyone." Even his whispering is loud and annoying.
"I know.” I don’t even look at him as I take my books out of my bag and start loading them on the table.
He whistles. “Are we supposed to have all those books?”
“The reading list’s on the student intranet.”
“Thanks, maybe I could borrow yours some time?”
“Or maybe you could buy your own?”
Prof comes in and everyone’s head snaps in his direction.
I ignore Huntington’s eyes on the side of my face as Prof starts speaking.
He scans the room and his gaze lands on my table.
“Ah, new student,” he says. “Why don’t you introduce yourself?”
Huntington clears his throat and smooths the front of his t-shirt down like he’s wearing a fucking tie. He actually stands up.
“Hello Sir, my name is Sebastian Huntington the third and I transferred here from Yale to play on the hockey team, this is my first day of classes and I’m finding it great so far.”
There are snickers from the back of the room and I’m getting second-hand embarrassment.
Even Prof smirks as Huntington takes his seat. “Thank you Sebastian, and welcome. I’m sure you’ll find our hockey team are far better than those fops at Yale.”
That wins him a few chuckles and Prof goes on with the class. Huntington’s face is blank as he pulls a notebook from his bag.
“What?” he asks when he catches me looking.
“Sebastian Huntington the third ?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not calling you that.”
He shrugs. “I’m sure you’ll find something to call me.”
I ignore him and try to focus on the class.
He doesn’t technically do anything to bother me again and makes notes with a pen that doesn’t even have a scratchy nib, but he’s still getting on my nerves, just by existing too close to me.
When Prof dismisses us for the day with a reading list, I try to put my bags away as quickly as possible to get away from my new teammate - and classmate apparently - but he only has his notebook to pack and he’s waiting for me by the door.
“Hey, wanna hit the ice later?”
“What for? We already had practise this morning.”
Huntington tuts. “Don’t you want to push yourself a little harder?”
I ignore him, but he keeps in step beside me.
“Oh that’s right, you were drafted by Boston, second round pick right?”
Third, but who’s counting?
“So you don’t need to practise.”
I try to ignore him. Hope if I pretend he isn’t there he’ll disappear.
“I’m sure they’ll sign you soon. If not to the NHL then at least to the AHL- what are they called again?”
I open my mouth, but he goes on before I have a chance to say anything.
“AHL team names get worse all the time don’t they? It’s like band names. Eventually you're going to run out of good ones that haven't already been taken- but the ECHL, that really takes the biscuit-”
“What do you know about bands?”
He perks up. “You like music?”
I shrug. I don’t trust anything this guy says.
“I like some bands, but I’m not big into it or anything,” he says.
“I’m sure ‘Daddy’ took you to see U2 at Madison Square Garden when you were a kid.”
He snorts. “Yeah right. If I wasn’t at boarding school in Switzerland or with the nanny.”
“Boo hoo, let me get my violin.”
He’s grinning when I look at him.
“I have a sport’s nutrition class now, please don’t tell me you do.”
“No. I’ve got a free period, then finance.”
“Of course.”
“Finance could be a good class for you to take, to help you figure out how to spend all your money when you’re an NHL all-star.”
Did he just say something nice?
“I’ll get an accountant, but thanks.”
“Not all accountants can be trusted.” I’m nearly at my classroom, but he won’t stop talking. “Let me know when you’re in the market for one and I’ll recommend someone.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“No problem,” he beams. I don’t know whether he really didn’t pick up on the sarcasm or he’s just pretending not to.
“K bye.”
He’s still talking, right up to the moment the door closes in his face.