Page 60 of Best Man on Campus

“True. How do you know about it?”

“Played hockey up in Quebec and got lost on the way back and spent time in the general store in Clarksville.”

“How many years ago was that and why would you remember?”

“It was twelve years ago and I remember because it was the last hockey game my father came to watch.”

“Oh. Right.” He mutters and looks out his window.

“No big deal,” I lie. He snorts.

“Whatever you say.” He goes silent but I know he has something on his mind. “So how pissed would your father be if you played hockey instead of going to med school?”

“It’s not about him. He wouldn’t get pissed.” I take a deep breath. “Not sure he would care.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. I only met him once, but I know he would care. He’s fucking proud of you.”

“Maybe, but that’s not why I’m going to med school.” Not why I’m not planning to play pro hockey.

“I saw your interview after the last game. You didn’t rule out the NHL. How come?”

“Because I’m not a total fucking idiot.” We both laugh and the tension I didn’t realize had been constricting my breathing releases.

* * *

“Shouldn’t we tell Majik what’s going on?” Kace says in a whisper as we return through the back door to BMOC House. It’s almost midnight on a Monday night. The place is quiet, but as we walk up the back stairs, I can hear the video game and see the flashing lights coming from under the door in Stone’s room.

“Quiet. No,” I say. “We’re not telling Majik or Stone or anyone else.” I look at him and he nods. I’m so far out on a limb I feel like a criminal though I’m not doing anything illegal. But hunting through someone else’s past to dig up dirty details makes me feel like a sleazy private detective, the kind who finds cheating husbands in compromising positions and photographs them for a living. I hope to God Jazzy will forgive me for the breach of her privacy.

“Maybe I should tell Jazzy,” I say.

I open the door to my room and wave Kace in so we don’t have to whisper in the hall. He closes the door behind him.

“What do you think she’d say about it?” Kace still whispers.

“She’d fucking knock me on my ass,” I say. Or try to. “Then she’d never speak to me again. Worst case.”

“You’re going to tell her eventually…” Kace says.

“Yeah, I know. I’m screwed either way.”

“Why do it? Let her find Sarah on her own, in her own time.”

“I thought of that.” I shake my head. Because I know she never will, because Jazzy thinks the truth will destroy her. It’s why she stopped seeing her therapist, why she’s shrouded her memory in a dream and has nightmares about it for fuck’s sake. But I don’t say any of this out loud. I say, “Trust me. She won’t.”

“I hope it works out, man.” He shakes his head, skepticism on his face and understanding. “You’re a better man than I am,” he says and leaves me to try and get some sleep.

Fat fucking chance.

* * *

First round game of the Frozen Four tournament

It’s no surprise that Jazzy doesn’t return my text, that she’s not at the game tonight, so I shake the disappointment as I look into the stands and find my mom there with a friend and Dooley nearby. No sign of Jazzy even though I left her a ticket and texted her twice about the game. I’m a fool for expecting at least a “break a leg” in return.

The anthem starts up and I close my eyes, breathe in the cold air and that special ice rink smell of sweat, stale popcorn and Zamboni grease. Concentrating hard on the stick in my gloved hand, I control what I can, right at this moment.

By the time the ref drops the puck, my head is into the game. It’s a rough physical game and I come face to face with the boards in a thundering crash more than once, but I make sure I dish it out more than I take it, the bone-crunching slams against opposing players feeling good, satisfying my need for aggression. Thank God for fucking hockey.