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“Agreed. I’m thinking about taking my mom’s last name so I don’t have to be Holland Claremont anymore. Why should I carry on his legacy, you know?”
“That’s a good way to make a fresh start.” He looks over at me. “My step-dad is a pretty big jerk, too. We never really got along all that well, but what he’s doing to my mom is totally shitty.” Eli stares out of the window for a moment, looking lost in thought. “She’s got some personal stuff going on, and him leaving just makes everything that much worse.” He glances back at me and forces a laugh. “Sorry. I didn’t mean for this conversation to take such a depressing turn.”
“I don’t mind.”
“You know, you’re the only person I’ve talked to about this stuff,” he says. “I never talk about personal things with anyone.”
“Why not?” I ask, curious.
“I don’t know.” He takes another drink of his beer. “When I’m with my crew, it’s all hockey, school, and girls. We don’t talk about anything deep. Never have.”
“Yeah, I guess not.” I pop the top of my beer and take a swig. “The only person I talk to about personal stuff is my best friend, but she lives back home in Washington.”
“You’re from Washington state?” he asks, looking surprised.
“Yeah. Lakensville. Farm country.”
“I never would have pegged you for a farm girl.”
“I was at one time. My dad gave all that up when we moved to New York. I was fifteen at the time. I didn’t know it then, but we moved there because he wanted to be closer to his online mistress.”
Eli rubs his forehead. “Wow. He’s a piece of work.”
“Are you originally from New York?”
“Nope. I’m from Florida,” he says. “Moved here when I was a little kid.” He polishes off his burger with one final bite. “Damn, that was so fucking good. Thank you.”
“I wasn’t sure if I should have gotten you a chicken burger or something.”
“No matter what you get from Sal’s, it’s good,” he assures me. “I can’t eat there too much though, or I’ll get weighed down.” He pats his flat stomach. “Are you ever going to come to another one of my games?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Hell yeah.” He swipes one of my fries and pops it into his mouth. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Well, I don’t know that much about hockey,” I hedge. “I mean, I get the point of it, obviously. You have to put the puck in the net. But I don’t know the finer details. How long have you played?”
He stretches his arms above his head. “I’ve been on skates since I was about four. I honestly don’t remember a time when I wasn’t playing hockey.”
“Were you always a defenseman?”
“No. I played every position at one time or another, but I love defense. I’m definitely an offensive defenseman, though.”
“Oh, of course,” I say, nodding sarcastically. “I figured as much. When I was watching the game, I said to myself, ‘Holland, that Eli Donnelley guy is totally an offensive defenseman!’”
He laughs. “It just means that besides playing defense, I help create offense in whatever way I can. That I can score goals, too. I’m not just parking myself in front of my own net.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Have you played any sports?”
“Good lord, no. I have zero athletic ability. I envy people with those skills, though.” Leaning back against the bed, I ask, “Is that what you want to do? Be a professional hockey player?”
“It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“I thought you were really good when I saw you play,” I admit. “Not like I really knew what was going on, but I could tell you knew what you were doing. You’re just as smart on the ice as you are in class.”
He smiles. “Wait, did you just call me smart? Was that an actual compliment?”
