“Yeah. And singing. Maybe a little dancing if it’s called for…” He smiles.
“Wow, that’s really cool.” And super intimidating. He does have that vibe, though. Fearless. Magnetic. “Although that kind of sounds like my worst nightmare.”
“Yeah, you don’t strike me as the exhibitionist type,” he says. I nearly choke. “So what are you studying?”
“Oh well, I’m just a freshman. I haven’t officially declared.”
“Hey, me too. Well, the freshman part. I’ve known I wanted to be on stage since I was about five.” He bats his lashes at me, theatrically. “Okay, so you’re not official, but do you know what your major is going to be?”
“Oh. I mean, yeah, I’m pretty sure. I guess it’s been pretty clear what does it for me from a young age, too.” I hear myself, and I clam up. Oh my God, that is not what I meant. Is he going tothinkthat’s what I meant?
But he just gives me a crooked smile.
“Okay. What if I try and guess your—probable—major?”
“Okay…”
He looks me up and down. Squints. “Alchemy?”
I laugh. “Uh, no. Surprisingly, I don’t think that one’s available.”
“Hmm. Reality TV Studies.”
“Nooo. Not really my thing.”
“Interesting.” He taps his finger against his lips. Which is…distracting. “Got it! Cryptozoology!”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing again. I swear I see Dash’s eyes flick down to my mouth. It takes a Herculean effort, but I ignore it. Mostly. “No. Just plain old English, actually. At least I’m pretty sure.”
“Oh. Cool.”
There’s a whoop of excitement down below, and I realize I haven’t been watching the practice.
“What just happened?” asks Dash.
I scan the ice. Judging by the positions of the players, it looks like they’re doing a shooting drill.
“Nice glove, Zach!” West shouts to the goalie.
“Shit. Ihadthat corner.” That’s the center. Griff, I think.
“‘Course ya did, sweetheart,” chirps a defenseman whose name I don’t know.
I turn to Dash. “I’m pretty sure the goalie just physically caught a corner shot, like in his hand. And judging by the way they’re reacting down there, it must have been pretty impressive. “
Dash blinks at me. Then he reaches up and gives my shoulder a playful shove. “Pretty impressivejock knowledge for an English major.”
I look down at my hands, but I can’t help grinning. “Nah. I’ve just picked up a few things.”
“What, like, is your dad a coach or something? Have you been coming to practice all your life?”
Given that my dad is about as athletic as I am, that’s pretty hilarious. “Ha, no. No, mostly I just picked it up from books.” Shit, why did I say that?
But now he’s looking at me like I’m some kind of weirdo, and I haven’t even saidwhatbooks. “You mean like…Hockey for Dummies?”
I laugh. “Um. No.” I size him up. But, he seems sincere, and I don’t know what comes over me—maybe it’s because of his obvious comfort with queerness. Or because he very clearly is not a jock either. But whatever it is, I just tell him. “Okay, so there is this whole kind of wacky sub-sub genre of romance that’s basically just dudes who play hockey.”
“Okay.”
