“Don’t try and change the subject, I was fishing for information about you and a sexy hockey coach.”
My face burns as I turn to look out the passenger window. Nate knows I spent the last weekend—in its entirety—with Desmond and Parker; knows that I spent the night there, and didn’t head back to my dorm until late Sunday evening. And I only did that because I have early classes on Monday, and needed to get everything ready. Nate does not yet know the conversation Desmond and I had, mostly because I still suspect it might have been a fever dream.
“Well, I already told you pretty much everything,” I say slowly, picking at the bottom of my shirt. There’s a hole in the hem that I thread my fingers through. I also didn’t tell him about the pillow-sniffing thing, but I have no intention of doing so now, either. Although, given how obsessed he is with Marcos, he’d probably understand.
“Pretty much?” he pushes, reaching across the cab of the truck to nudge my shoulder.
“Desmond asked me out on a date,” I admit quickly, cracking the window a little bit to feel a breeze on my face.
“Good for you, Desmond,” Nate says, whacking the steering wheel in celebration. “Did you just fucking die when he did? Sizzle into a puddle of goo onto the floor? Fall prey to the vapors?”
“Pretty much all of the above, yeah.” I laugh when Nate does, the cab ringing with it. “I overturned a plate of food onto the floor; tried to talk him out of it; nearly puked. You know, the normal way one might react when someone asks them to dinner.”
“You said yes, right? Once he gave you mouth-to-mouth and brought you back to life?”
“Of course I said yes. I’m a mess, but I’m not stupid.”
“Slap that on a fucking T-shirt, Mick,” he agrees happily, making me snort in laughter once more. “I knew something went down because you’ve been shady as hell all week, but I wouldn’t have guessed that. I figured you just did something embarrassing like fart in front of him.”
“You seem oddly fixated on your digestive system today,” I note, spearing a look toward his belly. He sees me looking and wiggles his hips a little bit. “And no, I didn’t fart. I’m not an animal.”
“You excited? You’ve been drooling after him forever.”
“Okay, says the man who stalked Marcos,” I add sarcastically. Nate waves a hand through the air, scoffing.
“He liked it. So when are you guys going out? What are you going to do? Maybe Marcos and I should go to dinner at the same place so I can keep an eye on you.”
“Jesus Christ, Nate.” I laugh. He pulls to a slow stop at ared light, looking over at me and grinning. I’m not even certain he’s joking. Something tells me he probably would show up and make faces at me from across the restaurant. Hell, he’d probably pull up a couple of chairs for him and Marcos to join us.
“I guess you probably can’t go this weekend, huh? Since we’ve got the game.”
I tug a little on the hole in my hem, twisting the fabric of the shirt around my finger. Coach Mackenzie’s partner, Anthony Lawson, used to play for South Carolina’s NHL team and was replaced by Carter Morgan III, an SCU alum. Coach had reached out a few weeks ago, letting me know that Anthony Lawson had an entire section of seats to the home game this weekend. He wanted everyone on the team to be able to go and watch Carter play, seeing as quite a few of us had played with him while he was here at school. I want to go so badly, but I also feel like I shouldn’t be allowed. I’m no longer on the team, after all, and they’re providing the tickets to us forfree. I don’t want to freeload off of Coach Mackenzie or Anthony Lawson; I don’t want any of my former teammates to see me there and wonder why I was invited.
“I don’t know, I might not go,” I admit. “I feel sort of weird about it.”
“Micky! No, come on. Please come. I’m picking you up, remember? We already decided that,” Nate pleads, doing his best to send puppy eyes my way. The effect is lowered slightly by the fact that he’s also trying to watch the road.
“I’m not on the team anymore, Nate.”
“So? The whole point is to support Carter, and you’re Carter’s friend. You’re coming.”
“Friend is a little inaccurate,” I argue. “I didn’t even play for the team when he was at school. I only know him becauseCoach Mackenzie hired him over the summer to try and make me a better goalie.”
“You’re coming,” he repeats firmly. “You already agreed to go, so it would be rude not to.”
My pulse elevates at the thought of being disrespectful, my anxiety always hovering at the surface and ready to make an appearance. I sigh, because that alone ensures Nate gets his way on this one. Now, if I don’t go, I’ll be lying awake in my dorm all night, thoughts diving head-first into an anxiety-induced panic spiral.
“Okay, you’re right. I’ll go.”
“Excellent,” Nate says, cheering up immediately. “Get to see your boy Troy Nichols.”
I hadn’t even thought about that, which surprises me into silence for a second. Lately, my thoughts all seem to rotate through school, Nate, and Desmond—a revolving door that occasionally gets jammed by panic and anxiety. Adding Troy Nichols into the mix is the cherry on top of the sundae.
Sitting outside the dorms,I bounce my leg up and down nervously. Checking my phone, I see there are still no new messages, the same way there weren’t any thirty seconds ago when I looked. Nate’s on his way to pick me up for the game, and Desmond and I have been chatting. His last text message, sent five minutes ago, mentioned that he wanted to speak to Coach Mackenzie next week. Once I figured out he meant that he wanted to speak to Coach Mackenzie aboutus, I’d promptly broken out in a cold sweat and had to drink some water, afraid I was going to pass out.
I can’t imagine a single thing in this world I’d rather doless than have a conversation with Coach Mackenzie about dating Desmond. He’s going to be pissed. And unlike every time in the past when I was worried he was mad at me, this time he reallywillbe mad at me. He could fire Desmond, which would pretty much mean that I ruined his life.
I texted back asking if we had to say anything now, or if we could wait a little bit. Maybe we could tell Coach Mackenzie when we were engaged to be married. He hasn’t replied, but I have a feeling I already know what the answer is going to be anyway. He’s going to want to tell him as soon as possible, because Desmond is a good person, and he respects Coach Mackenzie. So do I, but I’m also scared shitless of him. My phone buzzes with a text just as headlights swoop across the other side of the parking lot.
