Page 14 of Josh’s Play

He recovered, turning and waving back at me. “Later, Shelley.”

I was three beers in at Lefty’s, eyeing a table of unfamiliar guys while my roommate ogled the bartender. We were with some of our friends, finance majors like Devon, and it was clear to me that if things didn’t pan out with the guy behind the bar, he could always take Kurt back to the dorm. They’d been on-and-off fuck buddies for years.

I tapped his foot to get his attention at the same time my phone buzzed. I pulled my phone out but ignored it to talk to Devon first. Tilting my head in the direction of the table I’d been staring at, I asked, “You think they're freshman?”

He gave them a cursory glance before locking eyes with the bartender again. Though he wasn’t looking at me or them, he nodded and responded. “They definitely have that new-car smell to them. I’m thinking the blond is in the closet, and the one with the glasses is queer. I vote for the closet case. You know, a challenge. You should go for it.” He wasn’t paying attention to me as he said all of that, and I was barely paying attention to him as I opened the notification on my phone to find an email from Professor Dayden.

“Hockey!” I exclaimed, and Devon focused back on me.

“I’m sorry, what? I thought we were talking about the fresh meat over there.”

“Objectifying, not cool.”

“You’re right. Can I objectify the bartender, though? Because he’s fucking hot.”

I snuck a look. “Agreed.”

Devon took a sip of his mostly full beer, then slid it in front of me. “I’m gonna get another one. Why are we talking about hockey?”

Chapter Six

Campbell

When my professors knew who I was, they tended to underestimate me; at least that’s how it felt when I opened the email from Professor Dayden to see that I’d been assigned hockey. I could hear the conversation in my head. “Of course, I’ll give you credit for games played, Fifty-Nine. Maybe you write a brief summary of one of the games, you know, something quick to highlight the scores, throw in a little color. Something that would run in a local paper. I can help you with that if you need.”

I came to school to learn. Hockey was the dream, sure, but my parents had a struggling farm and two other sons to put through school. I needed a career out of college, no matter what. I was serious about my studies, knowing I would need something to fall back on if I didn’t make the NHL and respecting the opportunity that a full scholarship to Hampstead University offered.

For years I’d worked at the recreation center in my hometown. It had an ice rink, so I would have spent all my time there no matter what, but I’d worked there from the time I was fourteen, doing everything from wiping down the bathrooms, to being a camp counselor, to coaching hockey. I’d twisted my ankle goofing around with my brothers on that ice over the summer, and if I hadn’t known it before, that would have made me realize that hockey wasn’t a given; I needed something to fall back on.

So I’d decided on a minor in sports journalism, thinking that if I couldn’t play hockey, maybe I could commentate or write about it. Maybe I’d learn enough to start my own podcast in my downtime while running the rec center and helping out on the farm.

But then I’d get these sports-obsessed professors. Maybe they were just business savvy and understood the importance of college sports, but they were more than happy to let me slide, to help me slide into a passable grade with minimal effort.

I’d heard it all before. “I know how hard you’re working out on the ice, Fifty-Nine.” “Meet my TA, he’s going to be your tutor for this class.” I had one guy ask me to stay after, take the copy of the syllabus out of my hand, and toss it toward the wastepaper basket. He’d missed, and as I went to pick it up and was smoothing it out, he’d assured me that I didn’t need to worry about the “BS” on those pages. All I needed to do was focus on the ice.

He’d reviewed the game schedule for the year and told me which classes I needed to attend to meet the requirements, and which he thought I could attend that wouldn’t interfere with my time on the ice.

I’d smoothed the pages of the syllabus out, quietly thanked him, and attended every class.

I was sure it was happening again with the sports journalism class, so I showed up early for the next lesson to talk to the professor, surprised to find myself holding the door of the building open for Josh once again.

“You’re early?” I questioned.

“You too,” he replied, but his “thank you” was mumbled, like he was embarrassed by my politeness. Inside we walked in stride down the hall together. He was quite a bit shorter than me, and we both faced forward as we chatted, so I found myself tilting my head toward him, subconsciously inching closer and closer though I kept my face forward.

“Actually, I’m here early on purpose. I wanted to talk to the professor about my assigned sport. See, I took this class …”

I interrupted Josh’s explanation when I heard why he was early. “That’s why I’m here too!”

He stopped then and turned to face me, which is when I realized how close to him I’d been leaning. We were face-to-face, inches apart, Josh standing close enough to the white-washed cement brick wall that I could have easily pushed him against it and boxed him in. I didn’t, but my eyes might have conveyed something along those lines because his got wide for a second, taking me in. Was he thinking something similar?

When I jerked my head back and took a step away, it wasn’t subtle.

“What did he assign you?” I inquired as if it was the most important question in the history of questions. And it was his turn to talk over me as he asked something similar. That’s how we ended up saying “hockey” at the same time.

I laughed, and so did he.

“What do you have against hockey?” I teased.