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Summer’s familiar with my deadpan delivery by now. “Conditions accepted.”
We sit down on her floor. Salsa skedaddles over to her bed next to the bookshelf and starts playing with the pig that she can’t get enough of.
I sink my teeth into the first bite of a cupcake, choosing the one with bright pink frosting. I have to tighten my throat to keep a moan from escaping. “That’s so fucking good.”
A pang of self-consciousness detonates inside me. Those are words I really shouldn’t be uttering in Summer’s room. They call certain … scenarios to mind.
Summer averts her gaze momentarily, looking over at Salsa as if her rolling around on the floor with a pink pig is the most interesting thing in the world. To be fair, it is pretty damn cute. But I know why she’s looking away.
My words drew to her mind the same images they drew to mine, and she’s trying to push them out just like I am.
“Were you always so sugarphobic?” Summer restarts the conversation.
“Not really.” The cupcake I just ate seduced my tastebuds so effectively that I’m reaching for another without thinking about it. I pick up one with neon green frosting this time. “Used to bake with my mom all the time.”
“Used to?” Summer’s voice is delicate but probing.
The bite of cupcake I just swallowed takes longer to go down, because my throat just got a bit tighter. “She passed away.”
A stricken expression crosses Summer’s face. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” The word feels awkward in my mouth. I never know what I’m supposed to say when this comes up in conversation. Part of why I don’t like to talk about it much. “After that, I got more and more serious about hockey, so my conditioning became more important. Which meant my diet became more important.”
“So only carrot sticks and overcooked chicken breast from then on,” Summer teases.
I blow out a laugh. “Something like that.”
“I lost my grandpa when I was fifteen.” Her sudden change of subject catches me off guard. “We used to watch cooking shows together.” She laughs, nostalgia laced in the sound. “He was a terrible cook, but he loved watching those shows. I loved watching them with him. We’d be glued to the TV, watching a chef shop up an onion with lightning speed whenever I visited my grandparents. He’d always say, why the heck doesn’t it go like that when I try it?”
My lips tug upward. Sounds like a nice memory.
“After he died, I couldn’t watch another for a long time. Then I realized something. He wouldn’t want that at all. He’d want me to keep enjoying the thing we enjoyed together. He’d want it to be a source of memories, of happiness. The last thing he’d want is for me to have one fewer thing to enjoy after he passed away.”
Her words sink into my chest and go right to my heart.
I expect her to follow up that story, to make an explicit connection with what I just told her. But she doesn’t. She just lets it hang in the air, allowing me to draw my own conclusions.
My diet really is important, though. My body, my conditioning, is everything. It’s how I’m going to make a living.
That’s why I’ve abstained from sweets since my mom died. Because if I slack on self-discipline even just every now and then, before I know it, it becomes a habit. Before I know it, I’m out of shape. Before I know it, I’m no long an elite-caliber goalie—and then I can forget about the future I’ve worked for my whole life.
That’s the reason. Right?
Sure, the other guys on the team cheat on their diets all the time. But they can afford to. They’re not playing positions as demanding as goalie, where we’re all fighting for that many fewer opportunities.
“Take the rest home with you,” Summer says as I place the tinfoil back over the tray of cupcakes.
“I …”
This time, she doesn’t need to cut me off. I stop myself. The look in her emerald eyes tells me she knows exactly what word was about to come out of my mouth.
So, I choose to utter a different one. “Alright.”
“Your girlfriend’s hot.”
The first words I hear when I get back home. Do I even need to say who uttered them?
“Shit, Tuck. Didn’t we just have a conversation about you needing a better filter?” Lane laments.
