“He needs a name,” I say, holding the fish up to my face like I’m examining it so he can’t see that I’m about to cry.
“Muffin,” he says. “Look at him. He’s soft. He’s a little pathetic. He’s a muffin.”
“A muffin’s a bad shot.”
“He’s not bad. He’s just... gentle.” Zach reaches out and tucks my hair behind my ear. “Muffin.”
We leave the arcade hand in hand as he walks me to my car. He opens my door and I go up on my toes to press a quick kiss against his mouth, pulling away before his hands come up to my face, because I know myself and I know once his hands get involved I’m not going to be able to stop. He’s got morning skate and I’ve got an early class and the only thing keeping me from pulling him into the backseat of my car is the smallest amount of self-restraint and the fact that this parking lot is lit up like it’s midday.
“Your turn to pick next week,” I say.
“I’ll find somewhere.”
My phone vibrates in my cupholder before I’m even out of the parking lot.
Zach
For the record I let you win game 5.
Me
you didn’t let me win anything.
also you owe me a rematch and access to your mustang.
13
ZACH
Jack tossesme a roll of tape before morning skate without looking up. “How was your weekend?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine? You didn’t do anything? Go anywhere?”
“It was a quiet weekend.”
“Quiet weekend,” he repeats, shaking his head. “Twenty-two years old and every weekend is a quiet weekend. When I was your age I was?—”
“Getting into trouble.” I’ve heard this speech four times. He always stops before the details, which means the details are either boring or incriminating and either way I don’t need them right now because I’m trying to tape my stick without looking at his face. His face that looks like her face. The same jaw. The same way their eyes go narrow and they tilt their heads when they’re thinking about something.
I tape the blade then pull it off and start again. The edge isn’t right. Rodriguez is watching me from two stalls over. I can feel it.
Practice starts, I’m in net and everything is fine for about five minutes. Stopping pucks is the one thing in my life that stillmakes sense. The puck comes, I read it, I stop it. No lying involved. No guilt. It’s only angles and reflexes and the sound of rubber hitting leather.
Then Rodriguez drifts over.
He positions himself near the net like he’s retrieving pucks but he’s really just hovering. He’ll swat one into the corner and then lean on his stick and talk to me while the rest of the line resets.
“So I came by your place Friday night.”
My hand tightens on the stick because I’m pretty sure I know where this is going. “Okay.”
“You weren’t answering your phone. I figured you had it on silent or something so I was going to knock and see if you wanted to grab food.”
“I was busy.”
“Yeah, I know you were busy.” He flips a puck off the ice with his blade, catches it, then drops it. “Because I could hear someone laughing inside your apartment. And it wasn’t you because I know what you sound like when you laugh and this was a girl.”
