Page 32 of Best Man on Campus

I slap the phone against Kace’s chest, he takes it, and I turn to my locker and rip off my jersey. No way do I want to answer to these guys, my good friends. No way do I want to explain. No way should I. It’s not my fucking video.

“Did you read the comments?” Kace asks.

“No.” I’m barely keeping my voice civil, aware that I can’t shoot the messenger because I’m not that asshole. I let out a long breath and meet Kace’s and Stone’s concerned faces.

“Look, I’ll deal with it. Not much I can do about it now, but I’ll talk to her. Find out what the fuck she was thinking. See if she can take it down.”

“Too late for that,” Stone says. It’s been shared everywhere. I think I even saw it on Pinterest, of all places.”

Voz walks by and says, “I didn’t know Pinterest had a porn page—”

“Shut the fuck up, Voz,” Kace says. “Mind your business.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “Let him get it out of his system.” We eye each other and he moves on. If I don’t fight Voz, he tends to back down. All I need to do is keep my cool. It used to be easy to do. Before I met Jazzy. I finish changing to street clothes and get ready to go to my first class. Kace and Stone finish dressing. Most of the guys are ready to go, but no one leaves the locker room.

I’m barely on TikTok because I know it’s a time suck. But I bring it up on my phone now. The number of views of Jazzy’s video is astronomical and my chest tightens. What the fuck are med schools going to think of this? I know they check social media profiles.

“Don’t worry about it,” Kace says. “She’s the one who posted it. Majik can’t hold it against you.” I don’t bother telling him I’m worried about med schools because it’s my problem and I don’t want to be a dick about it. Or paranoid. My name isn’t mentioned. It’s only obvious to the guys in on the bet that the song is about me, that it’s me she’s singing about while she has her hand in her panties, playing with her pussy, writhing.

Why the hell did she do that? Post a fucking video like that? The song is un-fucking-believable, her voice spooky-sexy, world-class good. Makes me want to look her up and find what else she has out there. Makes me wonder why she’s wasting her time here at SPU instead of out there in the world singing for millions. Except I know the answer to that. She’s too broken to leave, maybe too broken to know she can, that she has the talent to succeed. She says she knows she’s good, but I’d bet my right wrist shot that she doesn’t truly believe in herself. Her demons won’t let her go.

“I need to talk to Jazzy,” I say. To find out what the fuck she was thinking. To see her again.

“In the meantime,” I say, raising my voice and moving to the center of the locker room, “This vid goes no further. I don’t want to hear another fucking word about it. Good, bad, or otherwise. From anyone.” I pause and look around at my teammates. “We have our first playoff game tonight. We have more important things to focus on. Am I right?”

The call out of yes sirs is loud and heartening and I lead a chant as everyone stands, joining me in the middle of the locker room, creating a circle of energy and camaraderie. This is what I love most about playing hockey.

This is what I’ll miss more than anything else about it. The tightness in my chest sharpens, but I try and stay in the moment to savor it.

Walking to class, I text Jazzy to confirm that she’s meeting me after the game. She doesn’t return my text. After my classes are over, I send another text telling her I saw the TikTok video. Still no answer. Fuck. That’s all I’m willing to say in a text. What we have to discuss needs to be done in person. In the flesh. The image of her flesh, her full breasts in my hands, the taste of her pussy on my tongue, the scent of her, how she writhed, ecstatic and broken, makes my dick jump. The vulnerable look in her eyes as she sings makes my chest tighten. Her badass sense of humor makes the corners of my mouth turn up in spite of all my reservations.

The team has a three o’clock pregame dinner together in the dining facility of the arena and once I enter the building, I stow my phone away and forget about the video and Jazzy, put away all that baggage and restart my mind like a rusty engine to focus on tonight’s game four hours from now.

* * *

The Zamboni rolls off the ice and the music cues up with the announcer ready to introduce the teams. Normally we come off the bench, but tonight we’re coming from the dressing room tunnel for the extra playoff show. We wait just under the loge D section of the stands getting ready, the rumbling in my belly gearing up my energy to the boiling point. Timing the release of the adrenaline for the opening face-off is something I’ve perfected over the years and it’s a challenge tonight with the extra vibration running through me, knowing Jazzy’s in the audience watching.

“And here’s your St. Paul University Wildbeast hockey team, ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer booms. I bang my stick on the floor and the team’s stick banging starts as we move forward to the gate in the boards, ready to skate out into the flashing lights of the packed arena as our names are announced. My name is called last and I skate out, gloved hand in the air and stick on the ice. I spin around and look to the stands to the section where the team’s tickets are, zeroing in to find Jazzy. It’s hard to see until the lights flash on and we line up for the national anthem, facing our opponents. I glance up again and I find her with her hair wild and a dark, unzipped hoodie over her Wildbeast shirt. My number shows front and center. She’s standing and staring straight at me. My mother stands next to her.

That’s all I need, more than I need, as I shut out everything but the ice under my blades and the opponents across the red line. When the anthem ends the ref blows the whistle. The guys on the first line take their places around the circle at center ice and I slide in to take the face-off. There’s nothing but me, the opponent across from me, our tangling sticks, and the ref standing with the puck raised above our heads. The instant he drops it, even before the puck hits the ice as if it’s falling in slow motion, I move my stick, first slashing my opponents stick backwards and then as the biscuit hits the ice, scooping it back behind me where Kace takes control.

The game is on as I rush to the blue line for the pass from my wingman and best friend, angling my body to hold off the defenseman there, keeping his poke check away as the puck hits my stick and I spin around away from the man and skate down along the boards. Looking to pass it back, I see Kace is covered by two guys and struggling to get his stick out in front of him. In a snap decision, I smack the puck off the boards instead, and it flies back out at an angle where I reach for it, freeing myself from the defenseman who’s been inside my shirt.

As soon as I feel the puck hit my stick, I one-time it with a quick wrist shot, lifting the biscuit off the ice and aiming for the top corner of the net as the goalie scrambles and reaches a glove up. But he’s not in time and the puck flies past him just under the cross bar and into the net.

The red goal light flashes on and mayhem breaks loose. The game is less than thirty seconds old and we’re winning. The airhorn sounds and the crowd explodes as my teammates surround me, nearly knocking me over. I give us a few seconds to celebrate with high fives, glove and stick taps, and a few shoves in the back before I remind them that we have a lot of game to play.

“I expect one of you clowns to outscore me in this game. And I expect Stone to get a shutout. Are we up for it?”

“Here’s to a hat trick,” Kace says raising a gloved hand in the air before we return to center ice for another face-off. The quick score boosts our confidence which is already sky high and gives us the adrenaline kick to keep our energy up for a dominating win.

Three periods later, Stone gets his shut-out and as the team converges on him, I make sure he gets the game puck and all the adulation. After we all file off the ice, I look for my mom and find her, but Jazzy’s nowhere in sight. Not that I’m surprised.

Mom catches me before I get into the dressing room, but I don’t mind since I need to stay after the game for an extra half hour with the doctor while he assesses injuries.

“Ben, I’m so proud of you. I hope the scouts were watching and taking notes.” She gives me a hug and I let her. She’s used to the postgame stink of my sweat-soaked uniform.

Before I have a chance to ask, she says, “I met your new girlfriend—”