“Do you have a life goal?” I repeat myself, a bit louder now, so he can hear me over the running water.
Hart leans his head back under the spray to wash out his black hair. The citrus smell of his shampoo fills the air, and I wonder if he will keep buying that cheap store brand when playing for the Rebels next year.
“A life goal?” he echoes, tearing me out of my thoughts. “Where’s that coming from now?”
“Creative writing,” I mutter, gesturing vaguely as I duck back under the spray.
Hart’s brows furrow as he thinks about my question. I’ve noticed him doing that a lot over the past days. He always pauses and frowns before giving an answer. It’s like he silently double-checks all of his words, because God forbid the social media poster boy speaks his unfiltered mind.
I hope it will give him early wrinkles.
“Probably buy a house somewhere nice? A reasonably big one with several bedrooms and a garden?”
“Buy a house?” I sputter and turn fully toward him. I definitely counted on hearing about the Stanley Cup from him, so this is unexpected.
For a moment, Hart looks at me in surprise, drawing my attention to those ridiculously long lashes that frame his eyes. Up close it seems like he put mascara on. I huff at my own thoughts, but I can’t look away at the same time. Tiny water droplets are sticking to them. They reflect the light every time he blinks.
“Do I have something on my face?” he asks, raising both hands to rub over his cheeks and nose. It’s enough to have my ears burn from the embarrassment of getting caught, so I quickly adjust my gaze.
“No, no, I was just surprised it’s not hockey related,” I explain, my words rushing out. I’m staring at a point somewhere above his broad shoulders now. While I’m of average height, Hart beats me by a good three inches and several pounds. Colliding with him on the ice isn’t a whole lot of fun, which I’ve experienced first-hand in the past.
“Uhm. Well, you saidlifegoal,” he points out with a shrug. “I mean, sure, winning a Stanley Cup is a huge goal. Getting to play at the Allstar’s Weekend, making MVP, going to Olympia,” he counts off my own set of goals, and I find myself nodding along.
“But after that...I dunno. I’d like to settle down somewhere with my moms and a…”
“Puppy?” I supply helpfully when he pauses, thinking back on yesterday’s visit to the dog pound.
“I meant to say partner,” he laughs, and for the first time since I have known this guy, there’s a hint of bashfulness in his voice. “But sure, a puppy would be great. And a pool maybe?” He phrases that last part like he’s not sure if he will be able to afford a goddamn pool after a career in pro hockey.
This guy!
“If you find someone who puts up with you.” It’s meant as a joke, since I don’t doubt he has guys lining up for him and his pretty eyelashes all around campus.
Every once in a while, just to torture myself, I read through the comment section of his “good boy activism” posts on Instagram. I’m sure he deletes a lot of bigotry and harmful crap, but there are also tons of eggplant and peach emojis.
“Yeah,” he sighs, and I roll my eyes.
“Oh come on, like you will have any problem picking out a trophy husband.”
“I don’t want atrophyhusband. And divorce rates among professional athletes are significantly higher compared to the rest of the population,” Hart tells me, and I huff. Somehow this seems to be a known fact around this campus.
“That’s why you need to get that puppy,” I inform him as I grab my towel from the hook to wrap it around my hip. For a moment it feels like his eyes follow my movements, but when I look up again, he has turned away.
“So, what’s your life goal?” Hart asks me when we’re back in the dorms. I spill some of the hot water that I’m pouring over a bowl of ramen noodles. My stomach will be a mess once I’mallowed to get back to my own eating habits. I don’t know how the two of them survive on this crap.
I open my mouth to give the obvious answer, the one thing my whole life has been revolving around for years, the dream I always knew Nate would share. But then I remember the crumpled essay in my duffel and my heart squeezes in my chest.
“Uhm. Write a book?”
I hold my breath, waiting for Hart to protest and tell me that I’m obviously crazy, maybe even laugh at what must have clearly been a joke on my brother’s part.
But all he does is nod as he takes his own ramen bowl off the counter.
Like he already knew.
Xander, October 27th
Ithrow myself onto the bench without taking my eyes away from the game that’s in full swing right before me. The mood is insane; our home rink is packed with what feels like the entirety of SBU’s student body. They’re all shouting and screaming. The stands are a heaving sea of green shirts and banners showing the stylized bat that’s our mascot. Only one corner behind the opposite goal is clad in scarlet and waving flags with an obnoxious roaring cat on it.
