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Coach’s comment about my best not being an anomaly has stuck with me. I had no clue he thought that of me. Conor said almost the same thing, how I’ve never put my all into hockey so I could prioritize partying.
I haven’t gone out as much lately. Haven’t been distracting myself with a bunch of girls. If I’d focused sooner, would we be after our second championship? Our third? I started a playoff game, and we won. I didn’t crack under the pressure.
Maybe I would’ve, as a sophomore. As a junior. Who knows, and there’s no point in speculating. Our season isn’t over yet.
I don’t even bother glancing at the laminated menu on the table. I know exactly what I’m ordering.
A waitress appears only a few minutes after we sit down, the usual quick service I always experience here that has nothing to do with how crowded or slow Gaffney’s is.
“Hey!” Her voice is as perky as the swing of her high ponytail as she glances between us with a wide smile.
I don’t recognize her…but that doesn’t mean much.
“Hey.” Conor’s smile is polite.
I’ve gotten used to the way he acts around girls now. The quick drop of eye contact, the lack of emotion in his tone. His body is angled toward the table, instead of toward her.
She’s eyeing both of us but she focuses on me after picking up on Hart’s indifferent vibe. “What can I get you guys?”
Hart raises one eyebrow, waiting for me to hit on her. It’s the perfect opening.
I could lean forward, smirk, and say any number of things that would basically guarantee us hooking up later. Ask her what she recommends. Say what I want—her—isn’t on the menu. Compliment her shirt while checking out her tits.
Instead, I’m doing the same damn thing as Hart.
“Burger, cooked medium rare. No tomato. And a pint of whatever draft is on tap.” I hold out my menu. “Thanks.”
The waitress nods, not quite managing to hide the disappointment in her expression before she turns toward Conor. He orders the same thing as me, except he opts for tomatoes on his burger and a Heineken.
“Are you feeling okay?” he asks me as soon as the waitress walks away.
“Yeah, why?”
“Because the waitress was hot, and you didn’t hit on her. I thought you had to be in a coma for that to happen.”
I roll my eyes. “Fuck off, Hart. Figured you’d be proud of me for focusing on hockey, not give me shit about it.”
I doubt he’d be as proud if he knew my recent stretch of celibacy is because our coach’s daughter will barely give me the time of day and she’s the only girl my dick is currently interested in.
“I am. Just…surprised.” His expression is more incredulous, and it’s annoying.
Yeah, I like sex. Find me a guy who doesn’t. And yeah, I’ve never had a girlfriend in college, so there have been a lot of girls.
Fuckboy, playboy, player.
I’m sure they’re all words that have been used to describe me. I don’t see anything wrong with enjoying my college years.
But I’m sick of that being all people associate—or expect—from me.
Conor pulls his phone out. It’s buzzing with an incoming call.
“It’s my mom,” he tells me. “She must be on a break during her shift. I’ll be right back.”
I nod.
The waitress passes him by with our beers as Conor heads outside.
“Here you go,” she tells me, setting a glass down in front of me and a bottle at Conor’s empty spot.
