by Elle Kennedy
“I’m afraid not. Your dad won’t be home in time, and you know I don’t like driving on the freeway alone.”
I hide my disappointment. My parents have never been too invested in my hockey career. Dad was always too busy with work to attend any of my games, and Mom just plain wasn’t interested. When I was little, it hurt my feelings. I’d see all my friends’ families in the stands, mine would be nowhere in sight, and envy would flood my chest.
But whatever. It is what is. That’s my attitude about most things. Can’t change the past, don’t cry over the present, don’t stress about the future. It’s all pointless, especially regret.
“Well, try to make it to the finals if we’re playing in them, okay?” I say lightly.
“Of course. Now stop looming over me and go have a seat, superstar. I’ll take care of everything.”
“At least let me set the table,” I argue, trying to grab plates from the cupboard.
She swats my hands away. “No. Sit down,” she orders. “This might be the last time I’ll be able to serve you before you have your own staff waiting on you hand and foot.”
“Nah, that’s not gonna happen.”
“You’ll be a professional hockey player this fall, honey. That means you’ll be famous, and famous people employ household staff.”
I made the mistake of showing my folks the paperwork for my NHL contract, and when they saw how much money I’ll be earning soon (not to mention all the performance incentives my agent persuaded the club to include) their eyes nearly bugged out of their heads. I can’t predict the actual amount I’ll end up bringing in, but the value of my contract is around two million, which is definitely on the high end for a rookie.
According to my agent, that’s what they give the “projected superstars.” Damned if my ego didn’t inflate hearing that. My mother liked it too, because that’s all she calls me now. Superstar.
“I don’t want household staff.” But I chuckle and sit down anyway, because if she wants to spoil me today, why not? She’s partly right. Next year I’ll be in Edmonton, freezing my balls off in the Canadian winters. I’m going to miss Saturdays in Gloucester with my folks.
“Where is Dad, anyway?”
“He’s at the job site,” Mom answers as she turns off the burner.
“On Saturday?” And yet I’m not surprised. My dad is a superintendent for a construction company that specializes in bridges and tunnels, usually handling city contracts. And city contracts mean tight deadlines and a lot of red tape, which in turn means Dad is always under tremendous stress.
It’s the kind of job that gives you heart attacks—literally. He went into cardiac arrest at a bridge site a few years ago, scaring the shit out of Mom and me. I’m surprised she actually let him go back to work, but I suppose he didn’t have a choice. He’s nowhere near retirement age.
“There was a problem there yesterday,” Mom explains. “Don’t ask me what, you know I tune him out when he blabbers on about his bridges. All I know is that it’s crunch time, they need to finish before the winter, and they’re in danger of falling behind because some of the crew are acting like, and I quote, motherfucking morons.”
I bark out a laugh. My father has a way with words. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I assure her. “Dad’s good at yelling at people. And he enjoys it, so win-win.”
Mom starts carrying serving plates to the large cedar table that my dad and I built one summer when I was a kid. I try to stab a piece of French toast with my fork and she swats at my hand again. “Wait until I bring everything. And, truth be told, I don’t know if ordering the crew around is bringing your father much pleasure anymore. He’s tired, honey. He’s been doing this job for so long.”
She places a stack of buttered rye toast on the tabletop. “But tell me about you! Are you going to bring home a you-know-what one of these days?”
I play dumb. “A you-know-what? Like, a puppy? A car?”
“A girlfriend, Jake. You need a girlfriend,” she huffs.
“Oh, I do, do I?” I can’t help but tease. My parents have been on my case for a while now about my bachelor status.
“Yes,” she says firmly. “You do. You need a nice, supportive girlfriend. Like Hazel—I still don’t understand why you won’t date Hazel. She’s perfect for you!”
Hazel is always the first candidate whose hat Mom throws into the ring. “I’m not going to date Hazel,” I say, as I’ve said about a dozen times prior. “I’m not interested in her that way.”
“Fine, then go out with someone.”
That’s always Mom’s second option: someone. She’s dying for me to settle down already.
But that’s not in the cards at the moment. “I don’t want to,” I answer with a shrug. “Hockey’s my main priority right now.”
“Hockey has been your main priority since you were five years old! Don’t you think it’s time for some new priorities?”
“Nope.”
She shakes her head in disapproval. “You’re in college, Jake. You’re young and handsome, and I just don’t want you to one day reflect on this time in your life and regret not having someone special to share it with.”
“I don’t have regrets, Mom. Never have.”
Although if I’m being totally honest, I am feeling regretful about something.
I can’t seem to shake off the guilt over my interference with Brenna and McCarthy. Sure, it’s not as if they were engaged to be married, but she’s right—I did ask him to dump her. That was a dick move. I wouldn’t want someone dictating my sex life, either.
I’d hoped the guilt would simply fade away, but it hasn’t. It was gnawing on my insides last night, and it’s still chewing at me this morning.
Game day, a stern voice reminds me.
Right. Today’s game against Princeton is all that matters right now. We need to win.
We will win.
The alternative is not an option.
8
Brenna
“I can’t believe you’re abandoning me.” I glower at Tansy, but deep down I’m not surprised.
I had desperately hoped that she and Lamar wouldn’t ruin this weekend for me, but as my father likes to say, hope is for fools. Work hard and make your own dreams come true, he always harps, and then you won’t have to hope for a damn thing.
“It’ll only be for an hour or two,” my cousin promises.
“Yeah right,” I scoff from her roommate’s bed. Once again, Aisha proved herself to be my hero. Somehow, she replaced the standard-issued mattress that came with the dorm room with one of those memory foam ones that make you feel like you’re sleeping in a cloud. I dove right back under the covers when Tansy and I returned from our afternoon of lunch and shopping. That’s how comfy this bed is.
“I’m serious,” Tansy insists. “I’m just going over there so we can talk about what happened last night.”
“Oh, you mean how the two of you screamed at each other like maniacs in front of the entire bar?”
Yeah. That was fun. Tansy and Lamar started arguing almost the instant we arrived at the Frog and Fox. It was one of the most impressive snowball progressions I’ve witnessed in a while.
They kissed hello, she teased him about getting the location wrong, he grumbled that she gave him the wrong bar name, she denied it, he insisted, she said it wasn’t her fault his dumb ass couldn’t read a text message, he said, “Why are you acting like such a bitch,” and there you have it—the Apocalypse.
Oh, Lamar. You never, ever tell your girlfriend she’s acting like a bitch. Even if she is.
Lamar’s friends and I decided to do a couple of tequila shots. We figured that Tansy and Lamar would eventually tire themselves and rejoin the group, except they never did, and Tansy dragged me out of the bar in tears and we went home before midnight.
I woke up this morning and didn’t even have a hangover. As far as I’m concerned, that constitutes a crappy night.
“Come on, Tans, tell him you’ll see him tomorro
w. You already ruined Newbury Street by texting him the entire time.” We were supposed to be shopping and having a blast, and instead I spent the day watching her tapping on her phone. We barely spoke during lunch because he kept messaging her.
“I know, I’m so sorry. It’s just…” She peers at me with big, imploring eyes. “We’re talking about getting engaged after graduation. I can’t ignore him when we’re fighting. We need to work it out.”
I don’t even blink at the word “engaged.” Tansy and Lamar have been on and off and off and on so many times that I no longer take their relationship seriously. If you keep breaking up, there’s a reason for it. Fun fact: perpetual drama is not conducive to a long-lasting commitment.
I highly doubt an engagement between them is in the cards. And if by some chance it happens, no way does it lead to an actual wedding. I’d bet my meager life savings on that.
But I tamp down my skepticism and say, “Okay, you’re talking about getting engaged. That has nothing to do with the fact that your cousin, who you haven’t seen in months, came all this way to spend the weekend with you. Last night turned into a sob fest. Today’s shopping trip turned into a text fest. And lo and behold, now you’re blowing off dinner and the club.”
“I’m not blowing you off, I swear. I’ll miss dinner, but we’re still hitting the club. You can use my meal pass and eat here, won’t even cost you anything. Then take a nap or something, and I’ll be back in no time, and we’ll go to Bulldozer just like we planned.”
Bulldozer is the nightclub I’ve been dying to visit. Despite its crappy name, it’s been getting rave reviews, and apparently the music is off the charts.
I have a feeling I’ll never get to hear it.
“Please,” Tansy begs. “I won’t be gone long. Just a few hours.”
I love how it went from “an hour or two” to “a few hours.”
“And I promise I’ll never, ever do this to you again. The next time we plan a girls’ weekend I’ll come to Briar, and Lamar will stay home, and you and I will have the best time ever.”
I swallow a nasty retort. She’s already made up her mind, so what’s the use in arguing? “Do whatever you want, Tans.”
“Come on, Bee, please don’t be mad at me.”
“Then don’t ditch me.”
“Brenna—”
My phone goes off. Normally I wouldn’t be rude and check it in the middle of a conversation, but Tansy’s testing my last nerve, so I grab the phone just to be a bitch.
Except…how lovely. The notification on the screen is even more aggravating than my cousin’s bullshit.
“Harvard beat Princeton,” I growl.
She eyes me warily. “Is that good or bad?”
I take a calming breath. “If you’d listened to a word I said today, you’d already know the answer to that.”
TANSY: I’m heading back soon.
The message comes at nine o’clock, triggering a rush of relief. Finally. She’s been gone for three hours.
Earlier, I took full advantage of her dining hall privileges. Had a yummy dinner, chilled with some cool chicks, fended off the advances of a few lacrosse guys. But now the boredom is creeping in, and for the past forty minutes I’ve been lying on Aisha’s bed, mindlessly swiping through Tinder profiles.
I don’t use dating apps much, but what else do I have to do right now? I can’t call any of my friends—they’re all back at Briar, either attending the semifinals game against Yale, or playing in it. I can’t watch the game on the New England station because Tansy and Aisha don’t have a TV, and I was unable to find a live stream on my phone.
So, chatting with random dudes it is.
Within two minutes of opening the app, I matched with about fifteen guys. And fourteen out of fifteen have already messaged me, an assortment of heyyy and hey sexy, a handful of heart-eyes emojis, and a “holy shit are you real??”
The last one brings a laugh to my throat. I peek at the guy’s profile again. His name is Aaron, he has the lean, lanky build of a basketball player, and a great smile. Rolling onto my side, I message him back.
ME: Sometimes I wonder.
* * *
HIM: LOL
* * *
ME: I mean, what is real? Are any of us real? Is the sky real?
* * *
HIM: The sky’s not real. Sorry to break it to you…
* * *
ME: OMG. What is it then?
* * *
HIM: We’re in a dome. It’s like a Truman show scenario.
* * *
ME: Um. Spoiler alert, dude. I’ve never seen that movie!
* * *
HIM: You should. It’s so good. You’d be really into it. I’m a film major so we watch a lot of really cool shit in class.
* * *
ME: Sounds awesome. So what’s your specialty? Screenwriting? Directing?
* * *
HIM: Directing. I’m gonna win an Oscar one day :) Actually, I already make my own movies.
At first I’m intrigued. Until he follows it up with a winky face.
Uh-oh.
I decide to keep my response vague, because I sense where this is heading.
ME: That’s cool.
* * *
HIM: You’re not going to ask what kind of movies I make? ;)
* * *
ME: I have a fairly good idea.
Two more winky faces appear.
HIM: You’re so gorgeous. I love your body. I’d love to feature you in one of my movies.
Although he hasn’t officially gone full douche yet, it’s only a matter of time, so I kibosh the conversation by typing, Sorry, I’m not interested in being an actress.
HIM: I bet your tits are so sexy. Mmmmmm, and your nipples. I’d love to suck on them and film myself doing it.
Ugh. Why? Why?
I unmatch him without delay and stare up at the ceiling.
I am honestly starting to question evolution. We went from cavemen, to homo sapiens, to this incredible society of great minds—Alexander Graham Bell inventing telephones, Steve Jobs inventing…everything. And now we’re devolving. We’ve travelled back to cavemen, only nowadays we call them fuckboys.
Evolution has come full circle and that’s a real bummer.
I groan out loud, willing my cousin to get home already. I can’t believe I’m missing the semifinals for this.
At the reminder, I check my phone for an update on how Briar’s doing. According to Twitter, the second period ended with Briar leading 2-1. That’s still too close for comfort. Harvard beat Princeton by three goals.
I bet Connelly is mighty pleased with himself. Maybe he’s out with Hot Bambi right now, celebrating the win with a follow-up BJ and some kiss/swirl oral action. Goodie for him.
I’m pulling up Tinder again when another text from my cousin pops up.
TANSY: Change of plans. Lamar’s coming to the club with us.
My fingers clench around my phone. Seriously? This is our girls’ weekend. Her boyfriend already ruined every single thing we’ve done so far, and now she’s letting him ruin Bulldozer? I was excited for Bulldozer, damn it.
I call her rather than text, resentment slithering up my throat. “Are you serious?” I demand when she picks up.
“I’m so sorry,” Tansy moans. “It’s just…we made up, and he asked if he could come, and what was I supposed to say? No?”
“Yes! Yes, you’re supposed to say no. Tell him it’s not personal. We need girl time.”
“Come on, Bren, it’ll be fun. I swear.”
Right. The way last night was fun? I grit my teeth so hard they begin to throb. I try to relax my jaw with a slow exhalation. I’m tired of arguing with her. “Fine. Are you picking me up or should I meet you there?”
“We’ll pick you up. Lamar’s driving because he doesn’t plan on drinking tonight. I’m going to get ready here, so we’ll be about an hour?”
“Whatever. Text me when you’re on the way. I’ll start getting ready.”
I push aside my annoyance and take a quick shower, then dry my hair and style it in loose waves using Tansy’s flat iron. I brought a sexy clubbing dress with me, a shimmery black body-con number that reveals a lot of cleavage and a lot of leg. I slip it on and then settle at Aisha’s awesome vanity to do my makeup. I put on more than usual tonight; along with my trademark red lips, I create a smoky-eyes look, with winged liner and thick mascara.
After I’m done, I examine my reflection in the mirror, happy with the results. Last night sucked. Today, too. But I have a good feeling about tonight. So what if Harvard is moving on to the finals? Briar will too, and we’ll kick their asses. And in an hour or so, I’ll be dancing the night away at Bulldozer.
My phone chirps. Good. Here we go. Tansy’s on her way to pick me up and—
TANSY: Please don’t kill me. Lamar and I are bailing on the club.
The dream is dead. Bulldozer officially slips through my fingers. As anger quickens my pulse, I sink onto the edge of Tansy’s bed, at a complete loss for words. Cousin Tansy has officially usurped Cousin Alex. She is, hands down, the worst. Nothing tops this. Nothing.
My hands tremble as I respond.
ME: Are you kidding me?
* * *
TANSY: I’m so so sorry. It’s been SUCH a stressful two days for us and he thinks it would be better for our relationship if tonight was only about me and him. We’re going to stay in and watch a movie and reconnect.
