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“I don’t think I have any?—”
He lets out a long sigh and grabs the bag he brought with him.
Yeah, I’m freely waving the idiot flag.
“You must be dating some really low-maintenance girls if they put up with this,” he says while he starts opening the drawers and cabinets in the kitchen nook until he finds the plates. He lays two out on the counter, opens the bag, and starts plating the food.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I’m starving. It seems like this is the quickest way I’ll get some food in me.” He holds out a plate for me.
My mouth starts to water almost immediately at the sight. Steak. Caramelized onions. Some sort of dark red sauce. An abundance of leafy greens. Bread that looks like it’s from a bakery. Leftovers, my ass.
We sit down on the bar stools in front of the counter, practically inhaling the food. When we’re a few bites in, I get up and pour two glasses of water, and we both slow down some.
“Fuck, that’s good,” I mumble.
He laughs. The more he eats, the more he loosens up. His shoulders relax. His smiles come more easily.
“You had a long day?” I ask.
He nods. “Full day of classes, one test, and a study group. Longest day of the week for me, but at least I get it out of the way at the beginning. It’d suck even worse if I had all that shit scheduled for, say, Friday.”
I put the sandwich down and take a drink. “That’s why I try to have everything as close to the beginning of the week as I can. Plus, I usually have games on Friday and Saturday anyway, so I can’t really have anything getting in the way of that.”
“Your schedule might be even crazier than mine,” he says. “At least I only have school. You have to divide yourself between two equally demanding things.” He frowns at the sandwich and then at me. “How come you’re not, like, a general studies major or something? I mean, of all the things you could choose, you pick math. Math.”
“I like math.”
He cleans his hands methodically with the napkin before he crumples it into a ball and drops it on the plate.
“You always were a bit weird like that,” he says.
“It’s not weird,” I protest. “Math… Math makes sense.”
“Math is painful.” He makes a face. “I still have nightmares about that semester with calculus.”
“I’m pretty sure mathematics is necessary to medical professionals,” I point out.
“Math makes sense to a certain point. Everything that comes after that point is not math anymore. I’m on the safe side with medicine. That math I can grasp.”
I laugh at the loathing on his face.
He turns his body so it’s facing me. “What will you even do with a degree in math?”
I shrug. “Anything I want, basically. It’s easier to teach a mathematician biology than it is to teach a biologist partial differential equations.”
He mulls that over for a bit. “Okay, but what are you going to do with a math degree?”
I’ve never actually discussed this with anybody. Most people don’t really care about my major. The ones who’ve asked have seemed to think it doesn’t matter much what I study because it’s sort of like a backup plan anyway, and I’ll go to the NHL and rake up so much money I don’t ever have to worry about earning any for the rest of my days. Which would be nice, yeah. Not gonna lie, I’m aiming for the NHL for sure. But that doesn’t make school in any way less of a priority. First of all, nothing is ever guaranteed. If I get injured, concussed, or fuck up my body in any other way, I’ll need a plan B. And even if I do make it to the NHL and carve out a nice career for myself there, playing hockey is not a long-term strategy. Professional athletes aren’t exactly known for their longevity, so once I’m done with hockey I need to do something with my life. I can’t be just sitting around with no purpose. I’d go nuts.
So what’s the plan?
“Keep it in my back pocket, and then when the time comes, I’ll go back to school. Grad school,” I say.
He stares at me with an unreadable expression for a long time before he shakes his head. “Christ, you’re the weirdest jock I’ve ever met.”
I snort and look down at my empty plate.
