Page 13 of Unforgettable Player

“He’s already alphabetizing his footnotes,” Scout cuts in.

Elliot’s blush deepens. I want to tell her to back off him, but it stopped being okay for me to tell my sister to shut up a long time ago.

“That’s cool,” I say. “I wish I could be that organized.”

“You don’t need to alphabetize footnotes, you’re a dude-bro athlete. You get a pass automatically, right?” Scout looks up from her food with a goading smile.

I work hard to keep my face neutral. Scout doesn’t know that I was put on academic probation. Even my parents think leaving Harvard was about being frustrated with my hockey coach and needing a break. No need to let them know how much of a loser I really am.

“No, actually.” I manage to keep a fake smile on my face. “I had to do my assignments and I definitely didn’t always pass.”

“Sure,” she says.

I leave the house, shaking the image of Elliot without his glasses on—blushing—out of my head.

At least at Chase’s house I can drink. And it’s not like any of those guys made it to the NHL, either. Most of them quit hockey when they realized there are easier ways to impress girls.

I head straight for the kitchen, pour myself a beer from the keg and try to relax.

For a while, I’m able to put everything out of my mind.

No one asks about hockey. A couple of cute girls flirt with me and one of them gives me her number. While there’s no spark with any of these girls, it still feels nice to flirt and forget my problems for one night.

After drinking three or four beers way too fast, I find a bathroom and splash my face with some water. The bass from Chase’s stereo pumps through the door and I can hear people talking, waiting in line to get in here after me.

I bump into a guy I vaguely recognize out in the hallway. He has his arm around a girl who looks way more sober than he is.

“Connor Ryan,” he says, slapping me on the back. “How’s it going, man? You playing in the NHL yet or what?”

My heart sinks. The girl he’s with notices my face drop and looks awkward, but this guy’s way too wasted to notice subtle changes in someone’s demeanor.

“No, actually, I’m not doing that anymore.”

He frowns. “You didn’t get signed by Colorado?”

“No, but⁠—”

“You’re still playing at Harvard?”

“No, actually, I’m not⁠—”

“Oh, shit man, I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I totally thought you’d be in the NHL by now.”

The girl does everything she can to discreetly shut him the fuck up, but it only makes it worse. He starts looking at her like, ‘What did I say?’

“It was good to see you,” I lie. “I’d better get back.”

I hear him calling something as I walk away, but I don’t listen. My whole body is on fire.

My friends are standing around in the kitchen, laughing and drinking beers. It’s like a rock has been dropped into the pit of my stomach. What the fuck am I doing? Did we peak in high school? Is this some sort of sad, circle jerk of people pretending they’re still someone?

I never thought I’d feel like a loser at a party full of people I know. I thought I’d be playing in the NHL by now. Thought I’d be able to come back home and tell everyone how awesome it is and talk about all the people I’ve met and subtly brag about sharing the ice with Sidney Crosby. But that didn’t happen. And now instead, I have to stand there and explain myself to dicks like that guy whose name I don’t even remember.

Bypassing the kitchen, I grab my jacket and head out the side door to call an Uber.

I feel slightly better by the time the car pulls up outside the house, but that conversation back at the party still prickles at the back of my skull.

At least the lights are off in the house. I should be able to sneak in, grab something to eat so I’m not too hungover tomorrow, and go to bed. Forget this night ever happened.