I want to growl out in frustration.
“Because it’s not...it’s nothing you can earn or touch orhave, okay? It’s playing with the absolute best of the best while knowing there’s only so many people who will ever get to skateon that ice or wear that jersey.” I’m raking both hands through my hair now as I search for words to describe the indescribable.
“Have you ever been to a hockey game?” I ask but don’t wait for his answer since I suspect it already. “Everything there is electric. Heightened! When you lose, it’s the worst feeling in the world, but when you win you feel invincible! I mean, you actually skate on these sharp blades to slap a rubber disk into this tiny net at breakneck speed and it…it does something to your heart. It’s like ants all over your body. And you can actually play with the biggest assholes on a line, but when you click on the ice, none of it matters. It doesn’t matter where you are from or who you are because you’re one team, all wanting the same thing. It’s just not anything you can experience in the beer league on the weekend.”
I slump back into my chair, exhausted. My cheeks burn as I realize that this must be the most I have talked in a class all semester. Clearing my throat, I drop my gaze to the lined notepad in front of me, but it’s not enough to block out the stares of my classmates.
So apparently no one here can relate. Good to know.
Fiore lets us sit in this awkward silence until I’m about to crawl out of my skin before he releases us all with a slow clap of his hands.
“Passion. I like it! Reminds me of modern gladiators, only with slightly less deadly stakes and more clothing,” he tells us, giving me a wink before standing up and sauntering back to his white board.
“Now we need some conflict. What could go wrong on Van der Hoff’s journey to the NHL?”
I grind my teeth as the hands in the rows before me fly up again.
“Nathaniel, wait a minute!”
I’m almost out of the door when I realize Professor Fiore is talking to me. Being called by my brother’s name is something I have gotten used to even before the switch, but it’s rare someone actually uses either of our full names.
“Uh?” I frown as I backtrack. I’m still ruffled from the earlier exchange.
He waits until everyone has left the room before handing me an essay with Nate’s name on it.
“Everything okay?” he asks as I glance at the grade on top of the paper.
A–. That nerd.
“Yeah, I just…didn’t feel too well last week,” I murmur, thinking that he must be hinting at the skipped class.
“Stomach bug, I heard.” He nods, then vaguely motions at my face. “I couldn’t help but notice it came with a little makeover.”
I cringe at that, pushing the thickly rimmed glasses up my nose. Nate’s teammates have all ribbed me about my sudden loss of style over the past few days, but I just can’t with those nice sweaters and chinos. I attempted the gel, but my hair ended up looking like a bird’s nest, so I abandoned that too.
“My eyes were itching from the contacts,” I mumble, deciding to ignore the fact that my brother wouldn’t be caught dead wearing sweats to class.
Fiore narrows his eyes at me, his nose actually scrunching up, and for a moment I’m sure he’s about to call me on my bullshit.
“Be kind to yourself,” he tells me instead, and I blink in confusion at those unexpected words. “Making it to the NHL doesn’t have to be your only goal. Some things just aren’t worth the pain.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I give a curt nod, relieved when the door opens and the next group of students pours in.
I take those ridiculous winding steps two at a time, not stopping until I’m outside.
The weekend’s snow has long melted away, but the air is still crisp. A mild breeze is tousling my hair, carrying the smell of pine trees and lake water. I take three deep breaths before my shaking fingers unzip the duffel to put the essay away.
Just as I’m about to fold it in half my eyes catch on the title: A Goal Beyond Goals—My Motivation on the Way to Publishing.
***
“Do you have a life goal?”
I try to sound casual as I work the shampoo into my hair. The foam is trailing over my chest and abs, all the way down to my knee, where it’s soaking the blue tape that is conveniently hiding my surgery scars. I thankfully didn’t suffer any repercussions from my fall last week, but it was a welcome opportunity to cover them up. Now I don’t have to loiter until everyone is out of the showers.
“Hm?” Hart hums from the stall next to me, and I tear my gaze off the water pooling at my feet. The stalls at St. Bernard’s are divided by only chest high barriers and milky glass doors to preserve some privacy.
Hart has continuously picked the one in the corner, a choice I can understand. I don’t feel like the Bats are behaving differently around him, but I have noticed he tends to avert his gaze every time he changes, even when his attitude seems relaxed.
