Page 9 of Josh’s Play

The party was raging. School hadn’t even started yet, but that just meant that the people who were around were looking for a place to hang. I lived in a group house with four of my fellow players, just outside the campus grounds near the sports complex. The Hockey House, we creatively called it. We’d drawn straws to pick rooms, and I had ended up in the single, the other four guys pairing up two to a room.

I was on an athletic scholarship, and my parents couldn’t afford to help with rent, but I had worked all summer, during the day at the local recreation center and at night delivering pizzas. I’d make it through hockey season okay, but I worried that I’d need to find a job in the spring. In the back of my mind, I always thought, if the NHL comes knocking, I won’t have to worry about money. Not the rent, or my parent’s farm back home that it felt like we were always on the brink of losing. Not my kid brothers’ education and futures. If I made it to the pros, I could bankroll all of it.

The season would start in a few short months, and we’d find out how interested the NHL was in HU’s number fifty-nine, Campbell Ryan.

There were people throughout the first floor of our house, spilling out into the backyard. I was sitting outside in a camp chair, nursing the same beer I’d held for a while, taking it all in by myself. I’d waited inside for a long while, keeping an eye on the door, but neither Diane nor Josh had shown up. I took out my phone and stared down at the two-entry, one-way text conversation I’d had with Josh. Was I hoping to find a missed reply? Or those taunting, bouncing dots that meant he’d decided to text me at the same moment I was looking at my messages, hoping to find one from him?

I should have been engaged in the party, but I just wasn’t feeling it.

I searched “Frankenstein,” looking at the many modern iterations and retellings and reading about the contest among friends that had resulted in the original story. The author, Mary Shelley, was competitive. I liked it.

Next I flicked over to the campus website, and after a few attempts at spelling his last name, I found not only Josh as a registered senior, but his older brother Vance as a PhD candidate, and who I assumed were his parents, Professor Clifford Gordon and Dean Natalie Marchetti-Gordon.

“Marchetti.” Once I figured out the name, I said it out loud. Then I said it again to get the pronunciation right. “Marchetti-Gordon. Joshua Marchetti-Gordon.”

“Hey!” From behind me as if I’d conjured him, I heard his voice. I turned quickly, caught, I assumed, spying on him and his family, quickly shutting down my phone as I turned in my seat. A group of my teammates, along with a bunch of girls, took that moment to cheer and laugh at something, and turning to face him with that boisterous joy as the background noise did something to my stomach that I wasn’t ready to explore.

Josh played up the timing of the noise as well. Waving his arms above his head, he joked, “Yay, I’m here.” When he brought his left arm down, he rested it on his right shoulder. I looked on with concern as I got up and stood in front of him.

“I’m supposed to keep it elevated.” He shrugged.

“We’ve got a shit ton of first-aid stuff around here. Do you want me to see if we have a sling?”

“Nah, I’m good. I have a sling. It’s annoying as fuck. I left it at home. I always leave it home.”

“I hear ya.” I nodded in understanding, thinking about how happy I was when the trainer told me I could stop wrapping my ankle. My gaze moved from Josh’s hand to take in all of him. He was impeccably dressed again, in tight brown shorts that only covered half of his thighs; his shirt was a richer shade of pink this time, a button-down with the brown color as part of a subtle pattern, like tiny pieces of rice all lined up diagonally across his chest. The shirt was slim fitting on his trim body. He wore the same two-toned slip-on boat shoes, the darker brown complementing his outfit that evening. He had styled his short, curly hair, which had it sticking up adorably in the front.

I self-consciously ran my fingers through my own hair, which really was getting too long. It flopped in my face, and I looked in the pocket of my ratty HU Hockey sports shorts for a headband but came up empty. Glancing down at my shirt, I was embarrassed for the first time that the shirt had a few small holes in it along my side. At least my HU maroon shorts matched the maroon Hampstead Hockey wording on the shirt. A benefit of my wardrobe being mainly HU Hockey clothing: I almost always matched.

I was looking right at his indescribably blue eyes as I said, “I’m glad you came.” I’d meant it to sound like one bro talking to another, but my voice sounded all breathy. I shook it off and would have punched him in the arm if I wasn’t worried about his hand. I managed to change my tone as I said, “How’s it going, Modern Prometheus?”

“Again, I’m the monster, not the creator, Fifty-Nine!”

There was that swoop in my stomach again. It all felt like flirting, and I couldn’t be flirting with this guy. I couldn’t flirt with any guy. I was saved when one of my teammates walked toward us from the sliding glass doors of our kitchen, someone following behind him.

“Yo, Cam!” He looked behind him. “What’s your name again?”

Diane came into view as she responded.

“Yeah! Diane’s here!”

“Hey, you made it.” I gave her my winning smile and noticed both Josh and my buddy Noah clocking the look. Noah’s eyes went big, bro code for Is she yours? I decided in an instant, what I always decided, that it wouldn’t be fair to any girl for me to pursue them, so I signaled right back, Good luck, man.

We stood in a circle as I made introductions, and we started chatting. After a few minutes, Noah gently put a hand on Diane’s back. “I’ll go grab us drinks. Beer okay?” She nodded and smiled up at my friend as he pointed to Josh in question. He nodded. “Forget the keg.” Noah waved at the barrel in the center of our yard. “I know where we hide the good stuff. I’ll be right back.”

“So, Josh,” Diane said. “Tell me all the things. You said you're a communications major. What year are you? What are your future plans? Do you live on campus or at home with the professor and the dean?”

Josh laughed good-naturedly at the barrage of questions. “The professor and the dean, that’s exactly what my best friend calls my parents! I’m a senior. The professor and the dean have always been good about letting my brother and me live on campus even though my house is actually closer to some of my classes than Cortland Hall. They understand that it’s all part of the college experience or whatever. Plus, we get a discount since they work here. That’s why my roommate and I still live in the dorms even though we’re seniors and most of our friends live in group houses like this.”

He continued answering her questions. “I’m not really sure what I want to do, maybe journalism, maybe PR. I like to write, but I’m not creative like my brother or my dad. Maybe I could write academic stuff like my mom? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just stick around another year and go to grad school. What about you?”

Noah returned, holding two beer bottles in each hand. He started passing them around, then listened raptly as Diane explained that she would be done with her advanced degree in the spring, and that she planned to stay in the area and continue to work as a physical therapist.

“I’m hoping to turn this internship into a job.” She playfully tapped Noah on his bicep but looked down toward my feet. “And if you sports types keep pushing yourselves too hard, I’ll for sure have job security.” I noticed she gave Noah’s arm a little squeeze, appearing impressed with what she felt.

Josh clocked it, too, and we shared a knowing look. He put his arm back up on his shoulder and looked my way. “Hey, Cam.” It was the first time he’d called me that, and my fucking traitorous stomach took notice. I downed most of my beer in one nervous gulp. “Maybe we should go look for that …”

I didn’t even let him finish. “The sling, for your arm. Yeah, man. Let’s go find you one.”