Darkroom: A Moo U Hockey Romance

by Kate Willoughby

  “The Dragons are looking at and weighing everything you do against who they already have on the farm team. This year, you’re going to leave everything on the ice, every game because that’s what Fortes do. If you’re a leader in the room, all the better. Character guys are vital. The more ways you can make yourself indispensable the better.”

  I’d heard all this countless times before and not just from my dad. Uncle Rick, Uncle Matt, my late grandfather, and a couple of great uncles had all counseled me my whole life. I could probably write a book filled with their hockey advice.

  “I know all that, Dad, and I appreciate how much you care, but there comes a time in a man’s life when he wants to be trusted to live his life, to stand on his own two feet. I don’t want you or anyone else in the family interfering.”

  “How am I interfering?”

  “Come on, Dad! You talked to Coach Keller about me. You know how that looks? Like my daddy is watching over me like I’m fucking five years old.”

  Finally, he looked contrite. “Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry about that. I just wanted to know what your chances were. I should have just asked AJ.”

  “No, you should have just waited to hear who was captain like everybody else’s father.” I unfastened my seat belt.

  “But I’m not anyone else’s father and you’re not just anyone’s son. You’re a Forte, damn it and Fortes don’t settle for second best.”

  While it was on the tip of my tongue to mention he had never won the Stanley Cup, I knew better than to throw that in his face. It would only make things worse. Anyway, what was done was done and nothing I said now was going to erase tonight’s campaign dinner.

  “So from now until the election,” my dad said as I got out of the car, “you’re going to bust your ass even harder and be the first in and the last to leave. Give a few extra pats on the back during practice. Do everything you can to show your team you can lead them to a championship in the spring. Then it won’t matter that I took those guys to dinner. You’ll have earned it.”

  When I finally left my dad and went up to the apartment, AJ was stirring some Ovaltine into a glass of milk.

  “How do you even have room for that?” I asked.

  “Hollow leg?” He shrugged. “Your dad’s a fun guy. My dad would never just drop by and take the team out to dinner, even if he could afford it.”

  “My dad didn’t just drop by. He was here trying to get them to vote me in as captain.”

  AJ put his glass down and licked the chocolate milk moustache off his upper lip. “No shit?” I could see him run through the events of the night in his head. “That was a pretty slick move. He even arranged for you to be sort of de facto ‘captain’ of the team in that trivia game.”

  “Exactly. He likes to pretend he’s just your average schmo, the guy with a C average in high school, yadda yadda yadda, but his brain is always working the angles. He’s a calculating SOB.”

  “But he’s a fun, calculating SOB.” AJ glugged more of his chocolate milk. “Your dad didn’t have to bother. You’re a shoo-in for captain.”

  “I am not. The captaincy always goes to a senior.”

  “Not true. Under certain circumstances, it can go to a junior. And I don’t think anyone thinks Pete’s a good leader. He can be such a dick sometimes. So can Kurly. You, on the other hand…you’re reliable and easygoing but you’re not a pushover. Hell, everybody likes you.”

  “You sure it’s not just because I’m a Forte?” I asked.

  “Honestly?” AJ said, “maybe a little. But for the most part, you just show up. All the time. You care about the team more than yourself and you make us all better, on the ice and off.”

  I scoffed. “You keep talking like that, asshole, and I’m going to expect an engagement ring.”

  5

  Indi

  As a psychological science major with an eye toward medical school, I was taking a lot of math and science and one breather course so I could stay sane. An aspiring immigration lawyer, Ruby was in the same boat, except she was weighed down with Asian studies, political science and history. We both ended up taking Photography Appreciation, which was supposed to be both an analysis of the history of photography and practical instruction on taking good photographs. I mean, who doesn’t want to learn how to take better pictures? It’s a skill that would come in handy for the rest of our lives. What sold us on the class was that the course description said you could complete all the assignments with a smart phone. As far as I was concerned, this would be an easy A.

  Our photography instructor, Larissa Larkmont, didn’t show up for the first two class sessions due to illness, but she didn’t let us off the hook. We’d been given detailed instructions on how to create our required photography blogs where all the assignments for the semester will be posted.

  Just after Ruby and I took seats in the second row, Professor Larkmont strode in. She was tall and had a commanding presence. Her gray hair came just down to her chin in a severe bob and she wore a belted knit dress with heavy-duty combat boots.

  “Hello, everyone,” she said. “Sorry about last week. Couldn’t be helped. At least, through the miracle of technology, we could proceed anyway. One of these days they won’t need human professors at all, but hopefully I’ll be retired by then.”

  She spent a little time reviewing the syllabus and the assignments. To be honest, a lot of them sounded like fun. Some of the work was written. We were to read articles, study the work of professional photographers, and explain the meaning behind some of our photographs. Best of all, she had extra credit assignments. To me, extra credit was insurance. If you tanked a test, extra credit could save you. Even though I was adopted by white parents, I still ended up being the stereotypical high achieving Asian in school.

  “Am I correct in assuming I have another contingent from the hockey team this semester?” Larkmont asked with an air of amused resignation.

  Several whoops cut through the air. I turned to see a small group of guys all sitting together in a cluster near the back corner.

  Hudson Forte was one of them.

  Shit.

  My heart rate elevated, I whipped around to face forward again.

  “Oh my God,” Ruby said in a low voice. “We’ve got to start going to the hockey games.”

  I didn’t reply. He probably wouldn’t recognize me from The Marketplace. Too much of my face had been covered up. I’m not sure my own mother would have recognized me. But he might remember me as Blair’s roommate. I had my full face on today, as I had when I met him two years ago. I gave myself a fifty-fifty chance.

  Larkmont said, “I hope everyone has prepared their introductory slide show. Any volunteers?”

  For class today, we were to choose and present ten to fifteen photographs that inspired or represented us in some way. The photos could be amateur or professional.

  Larkmont was answered by silence and chair scraping.

  I raised my hand. When it came to presentations in class, waiting to get called on was ten times worse to me than actually standing in front of the class and doing my thing. Plus, as an added bonus, teachers universally appreciated someone getting the ball rolling. Did I mention the high-achieving Asian thing?

  “And you are?” Larkmont asked.

  “Indi Briscoe.” I carefully kept my gaze away from the jock-populated part of the room.

  “All right, Indi, let’s see what you’ve chosen.”

  After I synced my tablet with the big screen TV at the front of the classroom, my first photo appeared.

  “This is a picture of me and my parents on the day they adopted me from the orphanage in Chengdu, China.”

  I included this photo because you couldn’t really see my PWS. My parents looked so joyful and young.

  “How old were you there, Indi?” Larkmont asked.

  “I was eight months old.”

  “Are you the only child they adopted? I know people often adopt several children.”

  “Like Brad Pi
tt and Angelina Jolie,” someone called out.

  “No,” I said. “I’m an only child.”

  I showed a picture of my parents’ pizzeria, our dearly departed family cat, Bonkers, and me on the day I got my driver’s license. I was wearing makeup by then, so it was safe to show.

  “Next is another baby picture,” I said, advancing to a photo of a sleeping newborn in an elaborate butterfly costume.

  Larkmont immediately recognized the work of Anne Geddes. “The queen of baby photography,” she said. “What drew you to her?”

  “Everything I saw of hers was magical and innocent and full of hope, in direct contrast to this…”

  When my next photograph, one of a toddler with a severe cleft palate, showed up on the screen, there were gasps and even a few F-bombs.

  I’d done that on purpose—shown them a beautiful, perfect infant and then contrasted it with one with a facial deformity.

  “That is one ugly baby,” someone said.

  A couple of people laughed and, damn it, that was enough to set me off.

  “Who said that?” I demanded, outraged.

  No one responded.

  “Well, whoever you are, shame on you. Because of people like you, life sucks for kids like this little girl. Not only are they ostracized, they often have difficulty breathing, eating, hearing and talking. When their mothers try to breastfeed them—what are we, twelve?” I asked when someone from the back row snickered. The guy wore an amused smirk as he balanced his chair on its back legs.

  “Please ignore them,” Larkmont said. “Unfortunately, from time to time we admit students who have yet to achieve full adulthood. Please go on.”

  Score: Larkmont, 1, Jocks, 0.

  “As I was saying, when their mothers try to breastfeed their babies, the milk goes through the holes in the roofs of their mouths into their sinuses, causing them to choke. Some mothers don’t know any other way to feed their babies and many infants are malnourished as a result. Fortunately, clefts like this one can be repaired and it’s my goal in life to become a surgeon so I can help kids like this.” I clicked to the next photo. “In comparison, this is the same little girl after surgery.”

  Except for two tiny scars beneath her nostrils, she looked adorable. This time, the class reaction was more appropriate. I saw people smiling in gladness and relief.

  “I always thought the problem with clefts like this one was with the appearance,” Larkmont remarked.

  “I know,” I said. “That’s what most people think.”

  Later, I realized I should have closed the presentation with the cleft photos because the rest of my photos didn’t garner near the interest, but I still thought I got an A.

  As the presentations continued, I was impressed by how often Larkmont identified the professional photographers in the second part of people’s presentations without being told. Someone remarked on it and she said, “I’ve been teaching this class for quite a while and believe it or not, out of the billions of photographs you can find on the internet, students gravitate toward the same images. And that’s not coincidence. Good photography is something we can all recognize. The best images are the ones that retain their strength and impact as time goes by, regardless of how many times they’re viewed.”

  Hudson was the last one to present. He walked with the self-assured grace of a natural athlete and his physique rivaled that of any movie superhero, especially his thighs and butt. Thick with muscle, his legs looked powerful enough to tow a midsized sedan. Now that I knew his sport was hockey, I wondered if he was a fast skater or if that much muscle ended up slowing him down instead.

  “My name is Hudson Forte. I play hockey, and…”

  His teammates whooped it up for him.

  “…I can hear the word ‘breast’ without giggling.”

  He got some laughter, some of it from me, but it was reluctant.

  Ruby typed something on her laptop and a moment later her text appeared on my tablet screen.

  Ruby: Is it just me or is it suddenly HOT in here???? He’s gorgeous and funny.

  Indi: I actually know him.

  When Ruby gasped, Larkmont gave us a glance and I had to ignore Ruby and turn my attention back to Hudson’s presentation.

  “Speaking of breasts,” Hudson said, “my first photo is from one of my favorite shows, Game of Thrones. For those of you who haven’t seen it, the show is famous for its nudity. In fact, one fan site actually tallied up a grand total of eighty-two nude scenes across the seventy-three episodes.”

  A heightened sense of anticipation gripped the room and I realized he made that little statement about not giggling to trick us into thinking he was above the adolescent behavior of his teammates, only to follow it with a picture of boobs anyway. I expected him to justify his objectification by claiming it was art and/or a celebration the naked female form.

  I was wrong.

  The photo was not of boobs, butt or bush. It was a landscape I recognized, having watched Game of Thrones. In the foreground was a colossal statue of a helmeted warrior with a sword and shield. He straddled a waterway on which tiny boats could be seen. Behind him was a vast city bisected by more water. It was pretty awe-inspiring and reminded me of how much I admired the rich and intricate world that George RR Martin had created.

  Hudson’s other photos included that famous one of the construction guys eating lunch on the beam of a New York skyscraper and a personal one of himself as a kid in full hockey regalia, including a helmet with a full metal cage to protect his face. He was surrounded by professional hockey players, all wearing different uniforms, which didn’t make sense to me, because even a non-hockey fan like me knew only two teams played at a time. Once again, the hockey contingent made a ruckus.

  “D-Day! D-Day! D-Day!” they chanted.

  Larkmont settled them down with a raised hand before she asked, “I’ll assume you’re not talking about the invasion of Normandy.”

  “No. The man with his hands on my shoulders there is my dad and his nickname is D-Day,” Hudson replied. “He played in the NHL.”

  “His whole family played in the NHL and he was drafted last year by San Francisco, Coach,” someone said.

  Larkmont raised one gray eyebrow.

  “Not Coach. Sorry. Professor.”

  Looking uncomfortable, Hudson presented the last few photos, ending with a funny black-and-white portrait of a tiny bow-legged Chihuahua, taken at his eye-level. Beside him you could see the owner’s shoes and the massive paws of another dog, possibly a Great Dane. The tiny dog was wearing a knitted sweater, a knitted, brimless Gatsby cap and a comical, long-suffering expression that seemed to say, “Yup, this is my life.”

  The hockey players applauded and even though they were pretty insufferable, I had to admit Hudson’s presentation was surprisingly entertaining, thought-provoking and intimate. Who knew a jock could have a creative side?

  After class, Ruby and I grabbed some lunch at The Marketplace. She was munching on a chicken Caesar and I had gotten my favorite combo—the French dip and fries. The place was crowded and noisy, but the staff here had things down to a science. Even when there were lines, like today, they moved quickly. And I appreciated their commitment to offering healthy choices and changing things up so we never got bored.

  “I am so glad we’re taking that photography class,” Ruby said. “Who knew it was going to be chock full of cute guys?”

  “Yeah, who knew?”

  “Ah, you did,” she said with an arch look. “You said you know the cute hockey player who presented last. Who is he? Because he’s gorgeous. He’s what would happen if Thor and Captain America had a baby.”

  “Ruby, two dudes can’t have a baby. Well, not unless they adopt. Or find a surrogate.” I rearranged the meat on my sandwich so it was spread evenly across the entire roll, not bunched up in the middle.

  “Where do you know him from?” Ruby asked.

  I dipped my sandwich in the jus to let the rich broth soak into the bread then
took a bite. “He hooked up with my ex-roomie once.”

  “Which one?”

  “My first one. Blair.”

  “The one who had a thing for jock cocks?”

  We’d both given each other the run down on our former roommates in the first “let’s get to know each other” session.

  “Yes. That’s the one. Anyway, one day, I got out of class early and when I opened the door to our room, there she was, wrapping up a nooner. She was still in bed, but Hudson was standing there buck naked, with his back to me and oh my God, was he gorgeous. I’d never been in the presence of thighs like that. And his glutes? There are no words. He was just reaching for his pants and I must have made a noise—okay, I might have moaned a little—and he must have heard me because he stopped moving and turned.”

  Ruby gasped. “Wait a second.” She leaned forward. “Are you telling me you saw his ding-dong?”

  “I saw his penis, yes.”

  She giggled. “Was it impressive?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “That’s because it was resting,” said a voice, startling us.

  6

  Indi

  Ruby gave a little yelp.

  Somehow Hudson had come to crouch next to our table without being noticed. His handsome face was literally less than a foot away. I would have asked how much he had heard, but his remark made it clear he’d heard enough.

  My face burned as he straightened to his full height of a little over six feet. I wanted nothing more than to magically disappear in a puff of smoke.

  “As an aspiring doctor,” Hudson said, “I’m sure you know that the male sex organ is flaccid the majority of the time and nothing in a flaccid state is ever impressive. Asparagus, for example.”