“That’s fair,” Dutton agrees, nodding as he shuts the door again.
“You are ruthless, DeWalt,” Blue says, holding up the completed hammock with a look of absolute pride on his face. Unfortunately, when I reach for it and he hands it over, the whole thing falls apart. “I couldn’t find all the pieces! And since they were all labeled ‘c’, I figured ten instead of sixteen would be fine.”
“Please tell me your major is something you’re actually good at, like practical jokes or panty-dropping smiles.” I incline my head, silently telling him to scoot over so I can make sense of the mess he’s made.
“Those are actual majors here? Shit, I missed my calling,” he tells me with a laugh. “Wouldn’t matter anyway, though. My future is pretty much set in stone.”
“Well, you’re good at hockey, too, I guess, so that makes sense.” I’m going for a joke because Blue knows he’s one of the most talented guys on the team. Hell, one of the best in the region, easily.
“I’m not playing pro hockey, Liza.” His words are quiet and sad and somehow we’ve taken a turn into a universe where Blue isn’t a happy-go-lucky guy.
“You’re not? I mean, I’ve never heard you mention a team, but then, you and I don’t talk too much. I’m really sorry, it’s just that you’re so good, and it seems like you love it, so…” I let my voice trail off awkwardly as I focus all my attention on Hazel’s hammock because it’s the one thing I can fix.
“Thanks,” he says, picking at the corner of the instructional manual. ”I do love it, but my dad? Not so much. And he’s the one paying the bills and calling the shots, so I get to play until I graduate and then it’s the nine-to-five for me. Well, more like the six-a.m.-to-midnight with a round of golf in the afternoon, if my dad’s schedule is anything to go by.”
“What is your major?” I ask, because those are crazy hours and the only career that seems ideal for Blue, other than pro hockey, of course, would be teaching physical education to third graders. That’s his jam and they’re his people, but the hours he listed aren’t right for that.
He clutches at his heart as he gasps aloud. “You don’t know my major? That’s cold. Don’t you type up the program for the team?”
I do, but I don’t recall any details of his bio. That’s probably because I was channeling all my professionalism and trying not to list his middle name as Douchebag.
“Since you’re not even going to guess,” Blue says, interrupting my thoughts, ”I’ll tell you that it’s finance. I’m joining my dad’s investment firm after grad school.”
“Oh, my god, I should have known. You’re a finance bro.”
“Hey,” he pouts. “That’s not fair. It’s just my major, not my personality.”
“You totally are, though, right down to the backwards ball cap,” I tease, reaching behind him to flip the bill of his hat.
“I am not,” he whines, fixing his hat and frowning. “But I’m going to have to work with those assholes for the foreseeable future, and that sucks, let me tell you. I’m going to be surrounded by them in grad school, and I won’t have Dutton or hockey to distract me.”
“Are you staying at Bainbridge for grad school?” I ask, suddenly interested in Blue’s career trajectory. “Because I am. Not that I’m a substitute for your best friend or the sport you love. I’m just saying, I’m sticking around because the program here is pretty good, and it’s cheaper because I can get a head start if I double-up on some classes next year.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” he says as we stand and begin to lift all the completed pieces onto the base. “But my old manis hellbent on me following in his footsteps, so I’ll be going to Wallace University in Virginia.”
I don’t pretend to be an expert on graduate schools or finance programs, but Wallace is just a step below Ivy League, and it’s not cheap. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Blue’s got that whole country club vibe going on, and he apparently has the bank account to back it up.
He shakes his head as if he’s trying to drive the negative thoughts out. “Sorry for being a whiny bitch. I know I don’t have it rough or anything, but sometimes I feel like a guy on Death Row, you know? Like my days are numbered, so I have to try like hell to enjoy what’s left. God, that sounds whiny, too.”
“It doesn’t,” I assure him, and I truly mean what I’m saying. A week ago, I’d have agreed with his assessment and told him to quit his bitching. But I’m starting to see a different side to Blue. Maybe he’s not the entitled ass I labeled him to be. Maybe, just maybe, I judged him a little harshly.
But he sucks at building things. I’m not being judgmental. I’m just stating facts.
“You want me to lift this onto that platform and you can screw it in place?” he asks, hefting one of the larger pieces.
“Not that one,” I say, pointing. “It goes on the other side.” He looks at me quizzically for a minute, then decides to take my word for it, which is the right thing to do. Once he’s got the correct one, I duck in underneath to secure it. When that’s done, Blue moves to the other side, but my brain is stuck for a second.
“The scouting reports have to have your name all over them. Mickey’s getting looks, and I guarantee you are, too. Couldn’t you pursue hockey as a free agent? If you really love it, have you ever thought about giving it a shot?”
Blue huffs out a humorless laugh. “My dad would lose his shit. He’d probably disown me or something. My dreams of playing pro hockey are just that—dreams, not reality. Face it,DeWalt, you’ve only got a year and half left to watch me play, and don’t even pretend you’re not ogling me during warm-ups. I know you damn well are.”
I roll my eyes at him. “I’m sharpening blades and filling water bottles during warm-ups, dumbass.”
“Yeah, and sneaking peaks at me while you do those things,” he says, winking.
“Let’s just finish this before I’m tempted to gouge your eyes out with an Allen wrench.”
Blue wags his finger at me. “Hey, my best friend said you can’t hurt me until the season is over.”
