I start to laugh, but then it dawns on me how much of my awkward teenager years are memorialized from competition photos. “How far back did you research?”
“I stuck to recent events…” He’s trying to hide a smile, I know it. “But, one exhibition skate kept popping up.”
I know the one. An homage to an eighties glam rocker group my dad is obsessed with.
“Oh my god.” I cover my eyes as if that will make the memory go away. Honestly the tight leather and glitz work with figure skating aesthetics. The huge, back-combed wig I wore? Not so much. “I want it on record, that was not my idea.”
“I figured, the eighties aren’t really your era.”
“Closer to your prime?”
“You havegotto stop calling me old. I wasn’t even a twinkle in my dad’s eye in the eighties.”
“Promise me you’ll never bring up that exhibition skate again and I’ll stop calling you old. Deal?” I offer him my hand.
“Deal.” We shake. “I was planning on keeping that gem to myself anyway.” He winks.
I wonder if he notices when my palm starts to sweat.
“I should let you get back to your shopping.” My hand slips out of his and I leave without a proper goodbye. Not that it matters since we keep finding each other again, catching glimpses of one another between the aisles and standing by the fridges.
I grab my phone with the intent to double-check an ingredient but end up searching for Christos instead. It takes a bit of scrolling but I do find him on an old roster list for a team I’ve never even heard of.
Here I thought I’d gotten pretty good at reading hockey stats from hanging out with Terrence and the team for so long but his player page reads like a budgeting spreadsheet. I scroll back to the top of the page.
Christos Samaras.
Position: F
6-5 / 250 lbs
Shoots: L
Birthday: January 2nd
Birth Place: Riverton, New Jersey
A lot of this feels like something I should have found out by talking to him. An old photo of him with a neutral expression looks back at me. The hair between his horns is long, his bangs threatening to cover his eyes. I like his hair the way he wears it now. Short with a little extra on the top.
Would I have liked Christos in college? I like him now—in a totally professional way. He’s supportive and nice and gives the Dingbats some much-needed discipline. All of this suggests maturity. Would I have gotten butterflies in my stomach if we met at some frat party? I can picture Terrence introducing me to his buddy Chris, a bit of beer foam in thefur around his lips, and shaking his hand like we’re about to make a business deal.
Maybe his bangs would have prevented me from noticing his pretty eyes, or he would have still been in the closet and rebuffed my advances. But it’s also possible we would have connected, kissed on the back porch of Phi Rho and then gone back to grind on some shitty mattress in the dorms. The pinnacle of college romance.
Finished up that statement. Emailed it to you
I’ll give it a look. I’m sure it rocks ??
Don’t push it, old timer.
Chapter
Seven
“You can’t even havea beer? Seriously?”
There's a clattering of pool balls behind us. It’s Friday night and a bunch of the junior year hockey players are celebrating the season starting next week. Terrence convinced me we should celebrate my recent gold while we’re at it. The bar floor is sticky with cheap beer, and the air is heavy with smoke. Leroy loves this place for its atmosphere. Most nights I actually like the cheap beer, and Terrence is always up for a few rounds of pinball.
“Alcohol makes me puffy,” I whine.
