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I nod as I crunch into another chip. A flutter catches my eye as a small bird with brown wings and a velvety black head lands on the bird feeder attached to the outside of my window.
“Hey there, buddy,” I say to the little Oregon Junco who likes to feed from my window. He tilts his head, a seed angled between his tiny beak, as I sit on the end of my cushy bed to pull on fresh underthings. My tired feet sink into the thick pile of my cream, peach, and pink area rug, sending euphoric relaxation waves through my exhausted body.
“Ow-ow-owwwwwt!” Caro sings from the living room, rattling the window and scaring the bird away. We are not a quiet trio. It’s a wonder our upstairs and downstairs neighbors don’t complain more. Although from what we’ve observed, our downstairs neighbor spends a lot of time dumpster diving for artisanal bottles, and Midge, our upstairs neighbor, is often gone as she’s very popular among the forty-sixty crowd.
“Can we pre-game?” I call, deciding sweatpants sound better than skinny jeans at the moment.
“Whatever you want, doll,” Aly says from my doorway. I grab a pair of knit lounge pants from my capiz-tiled chest of drawers. She passes me my paloma for a sip, and then I add a comfy Breton-striped T-shirt.
“This is toxic,” I say, puckering at the sharp citrusy sting of the tequila. Aly sniffs it and makes a face.
“Did something happen today? Or is it just another day?”
I exhale as I pull my long blond hair up into a pink velvet scrunchie. It’s hard to explain to my roommates what school feels like, although Aly gets it a little more. We’ve been inseparable since we roomed together freshman year at Stanford. She’s met my family, heard the expectations, and gets that as difficult as this is, it’s what I’ve been working for. I’m not sure Caro quite gets it on the same level since we’ve only known each other for a few short months, but she tries.
Both of them look in from the outside and see a med student whose education has been completely paid for—a girl who grew up with access to the best schools, and a trust fund that’s well over seven figures. It’s hard for people to understand that I don’t just want to coast. I don’t want to have to depend on that money. And that makes it even harder to explain the thick, suffocating dread that comes with my constant fear of failure in every class. Or the fact that while my classmates have settled in over the past two and a half semesters, I’m still faking it. That my biggest fear is that when I do become a doctor, I’ll still feel like a fraud.
“It’s fine,” I say when I realize I haven’t answered yet, but half of my paloma is gone. “Just another long day.”
“You know, it’s okay to ask for help. Or take a break.” She says it as if it’s the simplest, most obvious thing in the world. But the thing is, med students who need help aren’t taken as seriously, and the ones who take breaks don’t match and end up without a residency program.
It’s not something I can even consider. But I can forget about classes and medicine and hospitals for the weekend. So that’s what I’ll do.
2
zeke
Swish.Thu-thump. Swish.Thu-thump.
My heart pounds against my jersey as my blades swish across the ice. I tip my chin at Freddy Flux, who looks relieved I’m back on the ice. Boston’s defense has been on him all period and he needs a break. But we need him to score.
“’Bout time you showed up,” Freddy says, flashing a tight grin—and a glimpse of his bright green mouth guard. He doesn’t expect me to respond, not until the game’s over and I can relax.
“Markov has Flux’s number,tvar’ mat’,” Pasha grumbles from my right. I don’t speak Russian, but I know our giant of a center didn’t pay the Boston defenseman a compliment. “Let’s end this so we can get to the pussy faster.”
I grunt in agreement, eyeing the number twenty-seven on Markov’s jersey. We almost got into it in the first period. I was ready to pull off my gloves after he hip-checked Freddy. Coach made a substitution and pulled me off the ice to cool down, but it did no good. Boston scored again and now we’re down one.
The ref blows the whistle and the puck is in play. I cut across the ice as Markov tracks Freddy as he takes the puck at speed. Markov winds up to slam into him, but I get there first. I check him into the boards, taking the brunt of my hit with my shoulder. The home crowd goes wild with the hard hit as I skate backward, making eye contact with the thug.
He spits out some choice words but I’m not listening, tracking the puck as Pasha takes it down the ice, swooping past defenders who aren’t expecting such a big guy to move so fast. He passes to Freddy, who is even faster, and alone. Freddy catches the puck and shoots.
GOAL.
The red light flashes as the crowd beats against the protective plexiglass. I skate to my teammates, where they’re celebrating. They pull me into the circle, clapping my back and tapping my helmet. For a moment I let myself feel the excitement, the pay-off after putting in extra hours in the gym all off-season and on days off just so I can keep up with my teammates. But I don’t revel in it. It’s what I’m here for: to protect my teammates. I’ve been doing this for Freddy Flux since we were eighteen. It’s like second nature.
“Thanks, man,” Freddy says, grinning as he pats the back of my helmet.
I nod and grunt as we break the celebration and get back to the action. We’re tied 1–1 and halfway through the second period the game is far from over.
The rhythm of the game takes over and I feel the momentum shift back and forth, all in time with the hammering of my heart. Markov keeps targeting Freddy but I do everything I can to put the asshole in his place. I don’t want to fight him tonight, but if it comes to it, I’ll pull off my gloves and punch him in the teeth.
I would do it for any of them. They’re my brothers, and it’s what I’m here for. Sure, I have an actual brother, who is probably watching from the bar on the South Waterfront. But other than him, his family, and my parents, these guys are my family. They’re all I’ve got. And they’ve got my back.
And I fucking love it. I love the cut of my blades against the ice, the slap of the puck against my stick, the frenetic energy of the team when we’re all in sync. When we’re on like we have been lately, there’s literally nothing in the world I’d rather be doing. Hell, good hockey is better than a blow job. It’s all about building up that tension and then when you let go at the end, you have a win. And far less of a mess.
The period ends and we file back to the locker room for a water break. Freddy chugs his electrolytes and Pasha towels off his hair. The man sweats more from his scalp than anyone I’ve ever met. I wipe down my face and massage my left shoulder. The trainer notices and checks my rotation, telling me something about seeing him later. But it’s in one ear, out the other. Everything blurs together when I’m playing. Next thing I know, it’s time to return for the third period.
I get tunnel vision in the moment. It’s just me, the ice, and my beating heart. Until the fight.
