The Jock and the Fat Chick (14 page)

Her compliments should stroke my ego, but instead I feel used, like a notch in a bedpost. My mind conjures an image of Claire at her desk, jotting down a to-
do
list:
Guys I want to sleep with: a chef, a college guy, an artist . . . a jock . . .

“Was I just something, or someone, to do until graduation?”

She gasps. “What? No, I—I—” she stutters, then lowers her eyes. In her hesitation the truth unravels. She nods. “But then we clicked—”

“Wow” is all I manage to say.

“We clicked, and I thought you’d get bored with me because I’m not a fitness bunny and you’d go back to someone who was.”

“You thought I was sleeping with you until I got bored?”

She nods sheepishly.

“Is that why you were into all the secret meet-up stuff, because you thought it’d keep me interested?” I half-laugh and shake my head. “Claire . . . you were my first.”

Her expression is a mixture of awe and confusion. “I was?”

“Yeah,” I say, half-laughing even though nothing’s funny. “I was blown away the first time I saw you. You weren’t someone to kill time with until someone else better came along. I’d have fallen for you even if you hadn’t . . .” The word “seduced” pops into my head, but instead, I say, “. . . if you hadn’t come after me.”

The hurt expression on her face doesn’t come close to the ache in my chest. Tears collect in the corners of her eyes again, and when she speaks, her voice breaks at its edges. “I wish I never made that deal.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I shouldn’t have shaken on it.”

A tear slides down her cheek, and she wipes it away using the back of a finger. “You’re this amazingly sweet guy. The best. I never wanted to hurt you.”

A log collapses in the fireplace, splitting in two and sending a shower of sparks rising. My thoughts turn to Mom and Buddy. I’m too wiped to hear any more. I stand and put on my coat and grab my bag.

She stands too.

“Kevin?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you came by and we got a chance to talk.”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Me too.”

I’M GLAD THE ARENA’S A DECENT HIKE FROM my house. When it’s not too cold, I hoof it there with my gear. It gives me a chance to think. It’s hard to stay mad at Claire when I did the same thing she did to me, but to Missy. I was with Missy on New Year’s so I could say, “I’ll show you” to the guys. Of all the cowardly, idiotic things I’ve done, getting involved with Missy is what I regret the most. I wasn’t honest with myself, which led me to be dishonest with her.

I head for the locker room. I give a couple of players on the team a “’sup” nod as I take a seat beside them and get changed. Dino catches my eye and gives me a “hey,” and I say “hey” back. I wonder why he’s being friendly all of a sudden?

Coach barges into the room with both hands raised and looking serious. It’s his signal we need to shut up and listen. We settle down.

He scans our faces, then claps his hands together loud
before rubbing them. “College scouts tonight!”

Three golden words turn the room electric. A multitude of conversations break out at once. I’m about to look at Viktor, and I think he’s about to look at me because his head turns my way, but we both stop.

“So, I want you to go out there and bring your A game and give ’em all you’ve got. Let’s show the scouts what they’ve been missing here in Huntsville. Let’s make it worth their trip. Make them remember us.”

“Yeah!” we shout, letting Coach know we’re going to bring it.

“All right!” he hollers. “Let’s kick some Grenadier Gaiters’ ass!”

Coach ignited an energy bomb that rips through the room. We’re all riding the same wave, sensing something awesome is about to take place. This is
our
game and this is
my
time. My body breaks out in chills. Guys cheer and whistle. I stand and let rip a “YEEEEAAAAHHHH!” so loud and hard, heat rushes to my face, turning it red. Guys slap their sticks against the rubber-matted floor in a four-count beat. All eyes focus on me; the signal to lead them in a pregame chant. I go for it and yell: “Why we gonna score?”

“’CAUSE THEY CAN’T TOUCH THE PUCK!”

“Why they gonna cry?”

“’CAUSE THEY CAN’T TOUCH THE PUCK!”

“Who’s gonna win?”

“WE WILL!”

“Who’s gonna lose?”

“THEY WILL!”

“Who’s gonna dance?”

Silence as guys show off their funky dance moves.

“What are they gonna do?”

Guys suck their thumbs and cry, “WAA! WAA!”

“And whyyyy?”

“’CAUSE THEY CAN’T TOUCH THE PUCK!”

“Noooooo!”

“THEY CAN’T TOUCH THE PUCK!”

We chant, “HUNT-HUNT-HUNT-HUNT” over and over, faster and faster, speeding up until it becomes one massive ball of noise.

We hit the ice for warm-up laps, passing the puck to one another. I feel good, tight, and move with purpose.

After a grade-school kid sings the anthem, the game begins.

We start strong. The Grenadier Gaiters are tough, competitive with a good defense, which makes scoring a challenge.

Several times I’m open, but Viktor fails to pass, or he sends the puck to Leo, who can’t score worth a damn. Shot after shot is wasted. What the hell is Viktor doing? If he keeps it up, he’ll screw both our chances, and for what? Because I told off his girlfriend? I push past it, focus on the
game I was born to play. I keep showing him I’m open, yelling even, but no-go. Teammates notice, and after the Gaiters score, making it 0–1, the guys fire the puck my way instead. I charge into the Gaiters’ blue zone and launch a rising slap shot. The goalie snags it out of the air, and the first period ends.

Coach storms into the locker room. “What the hell happened out there? You all need your eyes checked? I thought I made it clear. Your job was to go out and show them what you’ve got! Viktor!” he yells, glaring at him but pointing at me. “Pass to Kevin. He’s been wide open all night! Now I suggest you get your head in the game, or I’ll bench you.”

“Yes, Coach,” he says.

“And that goes for anyone else who decides to screw up!”

In unison we cry, “Yes, Coach!”

He storms out, and the guys break into low, tense conversations. They shoot death stares at Viktor. A first.

Viktor pretends like he doesn’t notice. He gets up and saunters to the water fountain, filling his water bottle. I grab mine and head over too.

“Hey,” I say, my voice striking a balance between “I’ve got something to say” and “I’m not here to pick a fight.”

He acts like he doesn’t hear me.

I think back to all the sweat we left on the floor at Shreds, all the mental conditioning and the “You’ve got this” and the “No one’s going to take this from you” talks.

“Everything we’ve been training for is happening now,” I say. “To hell with what went on before. I don’t care. You and me? This is what we do. This is what we’re good at. So, let’s just put all that shit behind us and score ourselves some scholarships.”

He raises his water bottle to his mouth, and his Adam’s apple bobs with each gulp. He’s taking his time, screwing with me. My hand closes into a fist. If he continues to grind my chances in the dust, I’ll kick his ass so hard they won’t let him back on the ice.

He lowers the bottle, gives his chest a good thump, and belches.

“Can you believe Alyssa dumped me for some drummer?”

I stand there dumbfounded, blindsided. I slowly shake my head.

“Yeah, some guy who drums in a
band
.”

He turns to face me, and I hardly recognize the guy. His macho mask is gone, revealing heartache and pain. I picture a dog on its back, belly up and neck exposed in a display of surrender. This is Viktor’s way of apologizing.

I roll with the punches. “No way.”

“Yeah, well, he can have her, ’cause you were right, she’s a liar. Missy told me everything. Did you know Huntsville’s her fourth high school in two years?” he scoffs. “What does that tell you? She also kept helping herself to my wallet, too.”

“What? No.”

“Yeah, well, whatever, I’ve moved on.”

Even though he says it, I know he hasn’t. I lay my hand on his shoulder to show him I’ve got his back. His confession makes me want to come clean, and now’s the time to do it. I take a deep breath and say, “So, I wasn’t painting mom’s house.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Coach was making me take dom tech for extra credit.”

Both eyebrows vault up his forehead. “What?”

“Yup, I was the only guy, too.” I smile like a proud nine-year-old and add, “I made beef Wellington.”

He stares, clearly unsure of what he’s hearing because his mouth keeps moving, changing its mind on what to ask first. “What the—? What’s Wellington?”

“Hey!” Coach barks, startling us. Viktor and I turn around. We’re the only ones left in the locker room, and he’s firing the dreaded finger our way. “If you two ladies want to finish your tea party, we’ve got a game to play!”

In unison we answer, “Yes, Coach!” and get a move on, grabbing our gloves and sticks.

On the way out Viktor says, “Hey, Kevin?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for the black eye. Teresa Miller gave me her number.”

And just like that, the old Viktor’s back. “You’re a dog,”
I say.

He shrugs, like it’s unfortunate but true. “Never underestimate the power of bruised flesh to attract the sympathy vote.”

“Yeah? Well, anytime you want me to reblacken it, just ask. I’m here for you.”

He laughs, and when we step onto the ice, it’s down to business. We’re about to own this game.

The puck drops. It heads for Dino, who nabs it and sends it to Leo. He passes to Viktor, who fires it to me. I slam it back, and he dekes a few players until I get into position. I’m open and Viktor sends it my way. I take the shot. The puck ricochets off the goalie’s stick, but Viktor shows for the rebound and sends it sailing into the net for the tie.

Yes!!!

The Gaiters tighten their game and make three attempts on our net, but our goalie’s on tonight.

Two minutes in the final period. The puck slides down the ice in a long shot. I haul ass in the chase. I grab it and it’s back to Viktor. He, Dino, and Leo stall for time in a cycling pass as I skate along the boards, trying to outmaneuver the opposition, who sticks to me like stink on stink. I glance back. Dino passes. I line up the shot. Viktor checks a guy who’s coming right for me. Bodies collide. I scoop the puck and tip it in, easy, like flipping an omelet.

Scoooooooooooore!

The crowd goes nuts. We raise our sticks, pumping them in the air.

Damn, we make this look good.

We beat them, 2–1.

In the changing room Coach tells us he’s so damn happy he wants to hug us, but won’t because we smell like feet.

The next day Viktor and I are told to report to Coach’s office during lunch.

“Good news, boys. They’re sending a college rep from Michigan State to meet the two of you.” He slides two letters our way. “He’ll be in town this Saturday. Viktor, you’ll meet him at your house in the morning, and Kevin, you’ll meet in the afternoon. Details are in the letters.”

I can’t read it. The mere sight of the Michigan State logo at the top of it makes me punch-drunk and sends every hair on my body dancing.

“No way!” Viktor cries.

“Way,” Coach barks. “So, I suggest you check your application, prep for the interview, and remember to take a shower.”

For the rest of the day, I’m walking around, riding high. I can’t concentrate in class, and I surprise myself by forgoing my trip to Shreds and heading to the library instead. Viktor joins me, and every day after school we bug the librarian, who gives us résumé templates, articles, and tip sheets, along
with interview videos, so we know what to do and expect.

We swap résumés for proofing and feedback.

Viktor whistles. “Holy crap. Look at all these math and science awards. Hey, how come you didn’t put down dom tech?”

He must be joking.

“No, seriously.”

I give him a “What have you been smoking?” face.

“Dude. I’m serious. It’ll make you stand out.”

“Get out.”

“No, for real. How many résumés do you think this guy reads? A ton, right?”

I nod.

“I’m telling ya, it’ll make you stand out, that and all the smarty awards.”

I mumble, “Okay.”

“So, what was it like in dom tech? Did you sew a pillow or something?” He chuckles, and I admit, the image of me sewing makes me laugh too.

“Nah, we cooked. It was cool. I’ve got some mad knife skills now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What were the chicks like?”

I shake my head. “You’re a pig.”

He nods, agreeing, and buffs his nails on his shirt. “Sad,
but true. Sorry, not sorry.”

I snort. “It’s actually pretty cool, I learned a lot. Didn’t hurt I was the only guy there.”

“No way.”

“Yup. Food and girls, what’s not to love?”

“Huh, now I wish I took it.”

“Yeah, right.”

“For sure. I’d gladly be the only guy in a class of girls. Sign me up.”

I think of Claire, Ruby, Tiara, Lucy, Danni, Rat’s-Nest Girl, and the others. “I’m pretty sure they’d have strung you up by your balls.”

He laughs and motions to his résumé in my hand. “So, what do you think?”

When I pause to search for the right words, because it’s a little thin at half a page, he shakes his head. “I’ll never get into a school like Michigan State.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do. My grades aren’t as good as yours, and your résumé is jam-packed.”

I glance back at his paper. “Well, what you have is good, you just need to flesh it out. You want to be a gym teacher, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, instead of just putting that you volunteer with the Boys and Girls Club, list what you do there and what
you teach the kids. Show the interviewer how you take on a leadership role and stuff like that.”

His eyebrows rise, hopeful. He nods. “Can you help me?”

“Yeah, sure, I got your back.”

When Saturday, interview day, arrives, I’m up bright and early. I take Buddy outside to pee. He’s doing better with the medication now. His eyes aren’t twitching as much as they used to, but his head still tilts to one side, and he wobbles a little when he walks. At least he’s eating on his own, which is a good sign.

Since the sun is shining and it doesn’t feel like zero degrees out, I take advantage of the nice day and run five miles along the snow-dusted streets. It helps burn off some nervous energy. I guess Mom’s feeling the same way because when I get home, she’s awake and dressed. She wanders around the house, and like me, isn’t sure what to do with herself. She ends up reaching for the vacuum cleaner.

“Mom, you cleaned the place yesterday.”

“I know, I can’t help it.” She picks up a photo of me from the bookshelf. In it, I’m nine years old and practicing my stick handling in the kitchen with Buddy’s help as he pounces on the tennis ball. She sets it onto the coffee table.

“Too obvious?” she says.

“A little. Maybe if you used it as a coaster.”

“Oh, shush, you.” She laughs and puts the picture back.
Mom then runs both hands down along her pant legs, as if the fabric were wrinkled. “Do I look okay? Should I change?”

“You look fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I’d better go change.”

Two hours to go. I whip up some omelets for breakfast and a snack of toasted mixed nuts for later. I’ve been experimenting with hazelnuts, almonds, grill seasoning, cumin, poppy seeds, and sesame. I figure I’ll put some in a bowl, just in case the guy’s hungry and wants to munch on something. I’m sure Viktor’s mom will bust out the food big-time. I wonder if Viktor will wear a suit? Should I? I’m overthinking this. The interview videos said I should just be myself.

I carry Buddy outside to do his business, and afterward I sit with him, brushing his coat. “You a good boy?” I ask, and of course he wags his tail because he
is
a good boy. He’s the best boy ever.

I glance at the time on my phone. It’s almost two o’clock. The scout should have finished interviewing Viktor by now. I text him.

Yo, How’d it go?

Good. He left 15 min ago