by Kitty Parker
Four thirty.
Shrugging, I let myself into my dorm and headed up to my room to dump my stuff. Having accomplished this, I decided to try out a new form of procrastination: watching Tully's practice.
I caught one of the TCAT buses to get down to Lynah Rink and made my way inside, taking a seat toward the front of section A. The players were skating around that end of the ice, passing to each other and taking shots at the goal. I'd done a bit of research online beforehand, trying to get at least a vague idea of who was on the team, and I tested myself by attempting to match their numbers to their names. I could only remember a few: number thirty (the goalie) was Scrivens, number five was Krueger (he stuck in my mind because he was from Düsseldorf, Germany), number twenty-seven was Gallagher, and numbers ten and eighteen were the Kennedy brothers, though I had no idea which was which. I supposed that they all wore jerseys with their names during games, but whatever they were wearing for practice only had numbers. Of course, I'd taken special note of the fact that Tully was number twelve. I looked around the ice until I spotted him waiting for his turn to take a shot.
Fully concentrated on the task at hand, he didn't notice me watching him from the stands. So much the better. If he'd seen me, it would have ruined my plan for "making an entrance," so to speak.
I waited patiently for Tully to get the puck. As he began to skate forward, number fourteen (Nash, maybe?) passed it to him. He took a hard shot at the goal. Reaching out his right arm, Scrivens caught it and tossed it back to the next pair of players in line.
"The point of a shot is to get it past the goalie, McFadden!"
Startled, Tully looked around to find out who was heckling him. His eyes eventually landed on me, the lone spectator.
I grinned cheekily.
He gave me a wave. I had apparently distracted him, though, because he skated right into Gallagher, who let out a startled grunt as both of them fell to the ground.
"LEARN TO SKATE!" I chanted, laughing loudly. "LEARN TO SKATE!"
A couple of the players tittered.
Deciding I'd bugged them enough for the time being, I shut up and settled for watching them practice. They continued their passing/shooting drill for about five minutes before a shrill whistle brought them to a halt.
Coach Schafer stepped onto the ice from his previous position near the team's bench. I hadn't even noticed him before, and his sudden appearance took me by surprise. "Alright, let's add in a defensive line: Krueger, Berk, alternate with Ross and Seminoff."
Numbers five, sixteen, four, and three glided over toward the goal, the first two getting into position and the second two waiting their turn off to the side.
"Forwards, attack in lines of three," Schafer continued. "I'm going to try mixing you up and seeing which combinations work best, so if I call out your name, get on the play. First line: Greening, Scali, Roeszler!"
Fifteen, twenty-eight, and nine skated forward, passing the puck and trying to dodge Krueger and Berk. Greening finally took a shot, but Scrivens skillfully blocked it with one of his pads.
"Kennedy, Kennedy, Nash!"
My phone vibrated. I took it out of my pocket and saw that Amory had sent me a text message.
Hey, what are you up to?
Watching Tully's practice, I replied. Want to come heckle him with me?
I waited a few minutes for his response.
Sure, be there in a few.
"Gallagher, McFadden, Barlow!"
My head snapped up. I grinned as I watched Tully skate forward with his two teammates. Number twenty, whom I assumed to be Barlow, passed the puck over to Gallagher, who skillfully maneuvered around Berk before passing to Tully. Raising his stick behind him and taking a big swipe, he sent it sailing toward Scrivens and into the upper left-hand corner of the net.
I gave him a little cheer while Schafer scribbled something on his clipboard. Though it wasn't easy to see through the face mask on his helmet, I was pretty sure that I caught a glimpse of a grin on Tully's face.
Schafer continued to shift the lines of forwards around. After about five minutes, Amory sat down beside me.
"What are they doing?"
"Their coach is trying out different lineups," I explained.
He nodded, appearing to understand. Although Amory initially hadn't known that much about hockey, Tully had informed me that he was giving his roommate "lessons." These were apparently pretty extensive, judging by the diagram of a power-play I'd seen in their room, complete with stick figures.
"Jillson, McFadden, Gallagher!"
I nudged Amory in the side and pointed to the ice. "Look, here he goes. He's number twelve."
We watched as the three players skated toward the goal, passing between themselves and dodging the defensemen. Tully finally took a shot. The puck hit the post and ricocheted off to the left.
"CLANG!" I shouted, mocking his miss.
"Tully, this is the post," Amory gestured to said part of the goal. "And this is the net. You want to hit the puck in the net."
Tully flipped us off.
"Ooo, looks like someone's mad at us," I teased. "I'm scared. You scared, Amory?"
"Petrified."
I could have sworn I heard Schafer snicker.
* * *
"Good work today, men," Schafer announced at the end of the practice, sometime around six thirty. "I'm pleased with the amount of passing I'm seeing, the defense looks sharp, and Scrivens, you're looking good. Definitely a big improvement from yesterday. Tomorrow, same time, same place. We're going to focus a lot on penalty kills, so give yourselves some mental preparation before practice. Alright, hit the showers."
As the rest of the team skated off toward the door to the locker room, Tully glided over to the Zamboni entrance, just to the left of where Amory and I were sitting. He took off his helmet as we headed over to talk to him, revealing his glistening face and sweat-soaked hair. I supposed it must have been ridiculously hot beneath all that padding.
"Thanks for all the encouragement, you guys," he greeted us.
I grinned. "No problem."
"What are friends for?" Amory added.
I wrinkled up my nose as Tully came closer. "Dude, you smell terrible."
He shrugged. "Not my fault. It's just hockey-smell. Kind of gross, but you learn to deal with it."
"Padding?"
"Yeah, it gets sweaty and stuff," he clarified. "Whatever. It's not like Harvard players are going to be sniffing us while we're playing or anything."
Amory nodded. "True."
"You're still icky," I insisted.
"Sounds like someone wants a sweaty hockey-hug!" Tully opened his arms wide.
"Ew, gross!" I squealed, dodging him.
Still wearing his skates, he clomped after me, cornering me over by the door to the room where they kept the Zamboni. There was only one place to go…
Darting around my sweaty, smelly friend, I ran out onto the ice, sliding toward the opposite end. It was only then that I realized what a stupid plan that was. When you're a klutz and the person you're running away from happens to be wearing skates, heading for a huge patch of ice (like, oh say, a rink) is probably the worst thing you can do. As though my body had caught on to this logic, I began to slip, setting off an unfortunate chain of events:
First, I was forced to slow down to prevent myself from falling on my face. Second, Tully came flying toward me with all the speed he had gathered from chasing me (stupid inertia). Last, Tully crashed into me, sending us both sprawling on the ice.
"Urgh!" I grunted from my position beneath him.
He laughed, apparently finding the whole situation incredibly amusing.
I pouted, even though part of me agreed with him. "Not funny. You smell rancid and you're crushing my pelvis."
"That's what she said!" he declared, rolling off of me.
"Okay, I kind of walked into that…"
He grinned. "Yep."
I sniffed myself. "Ugh, now I smell like old hockey pads!"
"You can always come shower in the locker room with me and the guys…" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
I gave him a horrified look.
"Kidding! Chill."
I shoved him, which didn't do much, considering that we were both lying on our backs in the middle of the rink.
"McFadden!" Schafer called, popping out of a side door. "Frat boys are taking the ice in ten minutes! Hit the showers!"
"Sorry, Coach," Tully replied, dragging himself to his feet and offering me a hand. "Think you can get off the ice without killing yourself?" he asked me once he had pulled me to my feet.
I smiled. "I'll manage."
"I'm probably going to dinner with some of the guys, but I'll see you back in the dorm later, okay?"
"Sure."
With that, he gave me a wave and skated off to the locker room. I slipped and slid my way back to the Zamboni entrance, where Amory was waiting.
He shook his head at me in an amused way. "Oh, Evie…"
I gave him a look. "Dinner?"
"Only after you shower," he chuckled. "You smell like sweaty hockey-boys."
I racked my brain for something to say to that as we headed up the stands toward the exit. "Yeah, well… your mom."
"Great comeback."
"Shut up."
* * *
Riiiiiing. Riiiiiing.
I waited patiently for someone in my family to pick up.
"Hello?" my mother finally answered.
"Hey, Mom."
"Evie!" she replied cheerfully. "How are you, sweetie?"
"I'm fine, Mom, how are you?" I thought of how distressed she'd been the last time we'd spoken. "How's everyone?"
She seemed to catch the implications of my question. "Much better, thank God."
"And Jamie…?"
"We got his principal to intervene a bit. Things are looking up."
I let out a sigh of relief. "That's great. Can I talk to him?"
"Of course. Hang on a second."
I could hear the muffled sound of her calling for my brother, then some scuffling noises.
"Evie?"
My face lit up at the sound of Jamie's voice. "Hey, Bro! How's it going?"
"Good… I got a Halloween costume!" This seemed to be the most exciting thing in the world to him.
"Awesome! What're you going to be?"
"James Bond! And Timmy's gonna be Goldfinger!"
"That's so cool, Jamie!" I exclaimed as someone picked up the other receiver in our house.
"You should see him, Eves. He's got a tux, a toy pistol, and everything. I've been trying to teach him a Scottish accent so he can pretend to be Sean Connery, but that hasn't really been working out."
I chuckled at the new participant in the conversation. "Hey, Dad! What's up?"
"Nothing much going on here. What're you up to?"
"Just chilling in my room," I replied, leaning back against my pillows. "Amory and I just got back from dinner."
"Oh yeah? How is he?"
"He's fine, Dad."
"Still a crazy ideologue?"
I chuckled. "Yup."
"What's an ideologue?" Jamie piped up.
"Uh…" I deadpanned, unsure of how to explain it. "Um, just someone who's… er, very opinionated and stubborn, I guess."
"Okay!"
Thank God my brother had gotten out of his "why" stage.
"Evie, I've gotta go," he announced. "Mom wants to get on the phone."
"Alright, sweetie. Talk to you later!"
"Bye!"
There were some shuffling noises as the phone was handed over.
"Hey, baby."
"Hey, Mom."
"So, how are your classes?"
"Fine."
"You like your professors?" Dad added.
"Yeah, especially my econ professor." I replied.
"What's his name?" Mom asked.
"Dr. Burry."
"Jude Burry?" Dad sounded interested.
"Yeah."
"Oh, sure!" he exclaimed. "He was in the class ahead of me. I remember going to watch him play hockey. He was really something. Led us to a lot of championships."
I chuckled. "He's basically Tully's hero."
"Oh!" Mom interjected. "How is Tully?"
"He's fine."
"It's so good that you two are talking again!"
Awkward…
"Um… right."
"Jamie!" Dad suddenly shouted. "Don't feed the cat broccoli!"
I burst into laughter, an immensely amusing mental picture coming up in my mind.
"Sorry, sweetie, I need to go take care of this. It was wonderful to hear from you! Love you!"
"Love you, too, Dad," I replied.
There was a pause before he hung up.
"So, Tully…" my mother continued.
"What about him?"
"Is he back in the dorm?"
I consulted my clock. Eight thirty. "Yeah, probably."
"Can I talk to him? I haven't seen him in so long."
I rolled my eyes good-naturedly. "Sure, Mom. Hang on a second."
Getting up from my bed, I went out the door and headed down the hall to Tully and Amory's room. The latter had told me he was going to the library to work, so I figured I'd find the boy I was looking for alone. There was light streaming out from under his door, so I figured I was right and went in without thinking to knock.
Bad idea.
"HOLY SHIT!"
"HOLY FUCK!"
I promptly dropped my phone. I had just walked in on one very naked Tully McFadden.
We both simply gaped at one another for a moment, completely in shock, before he grabbed a pillow to cover his, ahem, manly parts, and I turned tail and bolted, avoiding the immensely awkward situation that would have followed had I stayed. It wasn't until later that I realized I'd left my phone behind. Whatever, I'd get it back in the morning after the image of Tully's beautifully toned body had vacated my mind. I could only imagine what my mother must have thought…
Chapter 9: The Lynah Faithful and a Hockey Hero
After a good night's sleep and a very strange dream about leprechauns, I was ready to face Tully without picturing him in the nude and turning into a human tomato. This timing was convenient, as we had our bio lab together that morning.
"Can you pass the DNAzol, please?"
Tully shrugged. "I don't have it. My stuff's already in the centrifuge."
"Mischa, do you have the DNAzol?" I tried.
"Vot ono…" he mumbled absentmindedly, passing it to me while trying not to break his concentration as he measured out some ethanol.
I waited until he was done before speaking. "How do you say 'thanks' in Russian?"
He grinned at me. "Spasibo."
"Spasibo, Mischa."
"Pozhaluysta," he replied.
Giggling, I measured out a milliliter of the chemical he'd given me and added it to my sample of bacteria. "Will you teach me to say something else in Russian?"
He chuckled. "What do you want to know?"
I paused and thought for a moment. "My name is Evie."
"Menya zavut Evie," he translated.
"I like biology."
"Ya lublu biologuyu."
I tried to come up with something completely random. "Please pass the caviar."
He raised an eyebrow at me in an amused way. "Peridai, pozhaluysta, ekru."
Tully cleared his throat from across the lab table. He looked slightly miffed. "Evie, I have your phone."
"Oh yeah!" I'd almost forgotten that I'd left it in his room. "Can I have it back, please?"
Tully reached down and pulled it out of his bag. "Here."
Smiling happily, I took it from him. "Thanks!"
He merely grunted in response.
I raised an eyebrow. "Who spat in your oatmeal this morning, Mr. Grumpy-pants?"
"It's nothing," he grumbled. "I just have an eight o'clock practice tomorrow morning and I'm not exactly thrilled about it."
"
Eight o'clock on a Saturday?" I gasped. "Wow, that bites. Mischa, how do you say 'damn, that sucks' in Russian?"
He chuckled. "Chert, chto zasasivayet."
I grinned.
Tully was not amused.
* * *
That night, October third, at seven PM, Amory, Elena, and I walked into the Ramin Room in Bartels Hall to participate in the annual camp-out for hockey season tickets.
For some reason or other, Cornell students were completely obsessed with men's ice hockey. It was definitely a much bigger deal than football. As such, season tickets weren't exactly easy to come by. First, you had to go to the athletic office to get a number. Amory, Elena, and I had gone together (Elizabeth was in the pep band, so she got into games for free). Then, if your number was in the block selected for tickets (ours thankfully were), you had to camp out in the Ramin Room for twenty-four hours for seat selection. This was known as The Line. Every once in a while, some official would come in and do a random number check. If you weren't there, tough luck.
"This is so not a line," Elena commented as the three of us walked into the gigantic room.
I had to agree. People were spread out all over the astroturf floor in little bunches. It seemed that most had simply staked out a spot with their friends and set up camp. Some had brought blow-up mattresses and sleeping bags. One group even had a small TV with an X-Box. They had attracted quite a crowd and appeared to be having some kind of impromptu Halo tournament.
"Let's find a spot," Amory suggested. He began to head toward the right side of the room, which featured a large climbing wall. Upon finding an empty spot, he set his bag down in a very territorial manner.
"I kind of wish I'd brought a pillow now," I mused.
Elena nodded. "Ditto. You know, we're allowed to hold spots for people in our group. Do you guys want to stay here while I dash back to the room and get some things?"
"Sure," I agreed. "Can you grab my pillow?"
"Mhmm. I'll bring some blankets as well. Perhaps a pack of cards?"
"That'd be good," Amory chimed in, watching enviously as a nearby group had a pizza delivered. "Can we get takeout before you leave?"
Elena's stomach growled loudly in response.
"I'll take that as a yes." Amory pulled his laptop out of his bag and turned it on.
