“El! We’re bread buddies! They’ve got us over on rolls. All we have to do is rotate the trays in the oven and pass them out to people. We don’t have to like, actually bake or anything like that. The big guy, James? The one who owns your team? He and Charlotte said I was on rolls by myself today and I was like “woah, woah, woah, rolls are the best part of Thanksgiving. This is definitely a two man job, I don’t want to screw this up!” And I asked if you could join me and they said yes! Isn’t that cool?”
I feel my mouth morph into the goofiest of grins as I take in Alex and all of his fast-talking glory. He’s got on a black and grey Thunder t-shirt, covered up by a brown, red, and orange flannel apron with heart-shaped pockets and frills around the edges. Franny, his neon green buddy, is buckled around his waist, giving his bulky frame the illusion of an hour-glass figure. His sneakers are a similar lime green color to his bag, standing out bright and clashingagainst his fire-engine red skinny jeans. On top of his head sits a child-sized pilgrim’s hat—gold buckle and all—held on to his hair on either side with two glittering, pink butterfly clips.
He looks absolutely ridiculous, and I can’t take my eyes off of him.
“Rolls are totally a two man job. Good call, Goat,” I say, patting him on the shoulder. He hasn’t taken his hand off me—in fact, it's slid down and now he’s cradling my lower back as we stand side-by-side. Alex groans and drops his head onto my shoulder, and a prickle of awareness skitters down my spine.
“Is calling me “Goat” going to be a thing now? See, this is why I don’t tell people my middle name.”
“Other people have nicknamed you Goat?”
“No. Usually when they hear my middle name, they start calling me ‘Comrade’ or ‘Tsar’. There was this one dick head kid in high school who always called me ‘Dirty Commie’, and I had no idea what it meant. But the joke was on him, though. I might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I like to learn and I’m stubborn to a fault, so now I have a degree in International Economic Theory along with my anthro minor to fall back on if hockey doesn’t work out. So suck on that, Jimmy Berger. Have you ever read Das Kapital?”
“I…” I trail off, scrunching my brows and wondering how we went from dinner rolls to communist literature. But that’s Alex, as I’m learning. His brain works at a million miles per hour, and the rest of us just have to try to keep up.
“Anyway, I guess Goat isn’t that bad. They might be a little stinky, but they’re cute animals, and people love them. I mean, there’s goat cheese, goat memes, goat yoga?—”
“And it's also an acronym. You know, like how in our world, GOAT means "greatest of all time.”
“Exactly!” Alex yips, tapping me on the nose. “So, yeah. You can call me Goat, El. I’m cool with that. But only you. I don’t want anyone getting any ideas or asking around about the Russian words for various farm animals.”
He pats my back again, then leads me across the kitchen to the tall, standing oven we’ll be using to bake the prepared dinner rolls today. And all the while, I try not to read too much into his touch, or the fact that I got to give him a nickname that’s only for us.
Because Alex is straight. He’s straight, and he’s my friend, and even if he was queer, he doesn’t hook up during his season. So all feelings—sexual, tingly, butterfly-ish or otherwise—need to be shoved deep into the bottom of a well, never to be brought up again.
8
THE HOCKEY PLAYING PYROMANIAC
Alex
The smell of smoke singes my nostrils as I dab my eyes with a tissue.
“I didn’t realize bread could be so…flammable,” I say as I watch Coach Hannigan return the now-empty fire extinguisher to its place on the back wall of the kitchen. Thankfully, there’s a whole row of the red metal canisters lined up, so we should be good if I manage to set anything else on fire today.
“It wasn’t the bread that started the fire, Goat. It was the wax paper you laid on the baking sheets. Next time, you’ll remember to use parchment paper instead.” Elliot wipes at a small burn mark near the bottom of his t-shirt, and I cringe.
“I set you on fire,” I whine, not for the first timesince the oven went up in flames a few minutes ago. My flight or fight mode malfunctioned at the sight of all that orange and yellow, and I neither fought nor fled. I froze, watching like a deer in headlights as Elliot morphed into action hero mode, pulling the flaming pan of ashy rolls and extinguishing them with a large kitchen towel, while my coach got to work on spraying the oven with the foamy extinguisher spray thing. Thankfully, the whole affair was over and done within a matter of seconds, before the fire alarms even had a chance to go on.
Everyone and everything is safe, except for the first batch of rolls.
Oh, and of course, my dignity.
Elliot plops down on the floor next to me, throwing an arm around my shoulder. I nuzzle my face into the crook of his arm, shielding myself from the eyes of fifty other athletes and their families who all want to catch a glimpse of the hockey playing pyromaniac.
“You didn’t set me on fire. A teeny, tiny bit of fire caught on to my t-shirt and gave it some much needed character. Now it's not just a Redwoods practice tee, it's an Alex Holmes original. In fact, we should both sign this baby. I can sell it online and probably make a fortune. We can donate the money to a local food bank.”
“Or to the city’s volunteer fire department,” I mumble against Elliot’s shoulder. I can’t help but notice how warm he is—not “I’m sweaty because I’m in a working kitchen” warm, but teddy bear warm. Like he’s something soft and cuddly that I want to pull close and fall asleep with. And he smells good, too. Like a manly soap named something like “Arctic Hurricane” or “Atomic Evergreen Blast”. He smells a little bit like fire, too, but I’m pretty sure that’s my fault and not the product of any colognes or laundry detergents.
“Yeah, Goat. We can donate to the fire department. Whatever makes you happy,” Elliot chuckles, and despite the humiliation coursing through me, I manage a small smile.
“Hey, so no offense, but we’re kicking you two off rolls duty. My six-year-old could do a better job manning this station. She’s never set anything on fire.”
I look up to see that I’m being chastised by a woman I only typically see in my cardio-fueled nightmares—Kira McKenna, fitness instructor and owner of Spin Sync, a global fitness brand that anyone who is anyone uses to workout. My coach back in Boston used to force us to take her high-intensity interval training running classes on thetreadmill as a punishment for losing or fucking around too much during practice.
With her arms crossed over her chest and a look on her face that says “I’m both mad and disappointed”, Kira is just as scary in real life as she is on the other side of a treadmill screen.
“Holy shit, you’re Kira McKenna. I mean shoot, not shit. I mean…Kira…Mrs. Mc…ma’am. You’ve made me puke so many times. I mean, not you! Not your face! Your face is great. Very symmetrical. But you’re kind of evil?—”
