My brain snagged onhigh school boyfriend.
“…I finally paid cash for a real lesson, because it was either that or we were going to kill each other. And two hours later, I could handle most of the groomers. The next weekend, I could do even more. It comes fast once you get the basic motion. And I didn’t want to be the only Vermonter who couldn’t snowboard.”
“Vermonter, huh?”
Rikker leaned back on his hands, looking more relaxed than he had before. “I fucking love Vermont, honestly. It made me actuallylikehigh school.”
“Cool.”
“Itwascool. And if I were smarter, I would have played hockey for the University of Vermont, and avoided the shitsplosion at Saint B's.”
But then you wouldn’t be sitting here talking to me right now, I thought immediately.
Annndthat was my cue to leave. I checked my watch, like the tool that I am. “Shit, I’d better get going. See you at practice?”
Rikker blinked, probably confused by my abrupt departure. “Sure,” he said after a beat. “See you over there.” He dragged one of his books back into his lap. “Thanks for the delivery.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. And then I practically left a vapor trail on my way out of his building.
Talking to Rikker in his room had been the most vivid ten minutes of my week.
Naturally, I vowed never to go back there.
Odd Man Rush: creating a scoring opportunity by outnumbering the opposing defense in the zone.
—Graham
The only time I ever ate at The Slippery Elm — one of Harkness’s few fancy restaurants — was when my parents came to town. This time, when I arrived at the entrance to the sleek dining room, none of my family had arrived yet. But the last text I’d received had the ‘rents checking in to their hotel, so I knew it wouldn’t be long.
The place smelled like turkey, stuffing, garlic, and herbs. My stomach growled in appreciation. When a smiling hostess came to rescue me¸ she asked if I had a reservation.
“It should be under Graham. Four people.”
“Follow me.”
She led me to a nice table by the window, where I received a wine list and the kind of hand-written menu which informed more than it invited you to make selections. But on Thanksgiving, that was only fair. The chefs in the kitchen were busy putting snooty touches on plate after plate of turkey with self-consciously fancy side dishes.
This year, we had hockey games scheduled during both the Thanksgiving and the Christmas breaks. So while most students booked flights for leisurely stays at home, the team would return early to what felt like a ghost town.
Not that I’m complaining. Hockey was a big deal at Harkness. That’s partly because hockey was a New England thing, and partly because Ivy League colleges can compete at a higher level in hockey than in a money sport like football.
And somehow I’d bluffed and blundered my way into the center of it all.
So my parents had flown in from Michigan to eat overpriced turkey with me on Thanksgiving, and then hang around to watch me play Saturday night. It was all pretty glam.
A server glided over to my table. He did, really. He glided. Dressed in a crisp white shirt with a black vest, it was obvious that the restaurant was going for a traditional look. But instead of stodgy slacks, this guy had upped the ante with a pair of very tight black jeans. They hugged his ass in a way that I was trying not to notice. So I looked at his face instead. He was probably about my age, or a couple of years older, with shiny black hair and blue eyes. “Can I bring you a drink while you wait for the rest of your party?” His voice was huskier than I was expecting.
“Um…”Damn it. For a second there, I got a little stuck on how attractive he was. Shit. I looked down at the wine list, as if I knew fuck-all about wine.Deflector shields engaged. “What do you have on tap?”
He rattled off a string of choices, and I ordered the first beer on the list, just to get rid of him.
“May I see your I.D., sir?”
Great. A Coke would have been the way to go. Live and learn. I dug my wallet out of my back pocket, and handed it up to him, my gaze on the doorway. Now would be a great time for my parents to walk in. Or even my harpy of a sister.
No such luck.
He studied my driver’s license for a beat longer than really seemed necessary.Don’t look, I coached myself.Don’t look.
