Stone Creek

by Davis, Lainey

  "Sometimes? How many times have you had sex?" When I bite my lip to count, she laughs and starts to walk down the hallway. "Ok, I will support you in this, and I will come with you to the sports match tonight, but you have to let me sleep first, because I feel like death."

  I shout after her, "you know it's called a hockey game!"

  "Score a unit!" she shouts and slams the bedroom door.

  I try to spend the day studying, but I can't stop thinking about last night. Thoughts of my body responding to Neal keep invading my calculations, so I decide to work on something much scarier: my grad school applications. I've decided to apply to a few schools, even with this carrot dangling at me from Penn.

  I'm pleased to see I am able to concentrate on PhD applications, and I have no trouble putting together my admissions essays. I've always wanted to pursue a graduate degree in math. The process reminds me that Jeremy and I were going to prep for GREs together, so I shoot him a text to see if he wants to study after lunch. Hey, sorry to disappear last night. You still want to do GRE practice exams today?

  Sure. But UR buying the coffee! I walked in on Tim and Linda. Traumatized!

  We meet at the coffee shop below our apartment building and breeze through several hours of math prep. Both of us struggle a bit with the vocab section, and Jeremy takes a selfie of us pretending to gag. He posts it on his profile and tags me with the caption "future grad school dropouts."

  We decide we've had enough for the day and pack up to walk upstairs. Tim asks me if I'm coming up to his place later to watch the hockey game, but I tell him I actually have tickets to go see it in person. His eyes go wide and he says, "I didn't know you liked sports enough to actually pay to watch a hockey game!"

  I laugh and remind him that I'm tutoring one of the forwards. "I got some seats for free." He makes an odd face then, but gives me a high five as I walk down the hall to my apartment.

  Linda and I make our way to the arena decked out in our warmest Stone Creek University gear. It's not all that cold outside, but I don't want to be cold in the arena, especially sitting that close to the ice. We feel very fancy as an usher walks us over to our section, but once we look around at the family members, I'm glad we bundled up. We fit right in. It looks like mostly parents and grandparents are sitting here, and they all seem to know one another. Linda and I share a popcorn, joking about how bad the guys' hockey gear smells. She snorts and says, "I bet we'll be able to smell their pads from these seats. Look, I can literally bang on the glass if I want to." We're in the second row, but nobody is sitting in front of us yet.

  One of the moms walks over and sticks out her hand. "Hi," she says. "I'm Gayle. Tyler's mom." I start to choke on my popcorn, remembering how Tyler had to step over my underwear on the floor of his apartment this morning. She smiles warmly. "We all just had to know who you gals were. Nobody ever sits in Neal's seats."

  I flush, realizing that of course this community would be pretty tight. These guys have played together for years--half the team are seniors this year and I heard Neal say they have good chances to win nationals. I take Gayle's hand and introduce myself. Linda butts in and says, "Dahlia is friends with Neal, but she knows Tyler, too. He's nice! I met him last night."

  Gayle smiles at this information, but holds onto my hand a minute longer. "I didn't know Neal had any friends special enough to introduce to the family." I don't think it's possible to flush any more deeply, but then I see Coach Thomas saunter in and I feel like I will actually burn up and die. He walks around to all the parents, shaking hands and accepting hugs. When he gets to Linda and me, he stops. I can tell he's confused to see us there, but he puts his smile back on and pats me on the back. "Dahlia, right? Good to see you taking such an interest in our guy on the ice, too!"

  I nod and tell him, "I'm happy to come! Neal's been working really hard, but I think he wanted to show me a side of him that comes more naturally." Linda stares at me and Coach Thomas makes a face. I can tell I've said something off, but try to smile and act like there's nothing at all strange about me sitting in seats that evidently are only given to moms and serious girlfriends.

  The announcer calls everyone to their seats for the National Anthem just then, and I watch as the Otters skate in with the other team. I read my program to see that we're playing the Lions from some school in Ohio, and I point out Neal to Linda. "I know which one he is, asshole," she says. "I also see Tyler and the other guys from the party last night."

  Was that only last night? I start to tune out the crowd then as I watch Neal. He skates over to the bench for a drink of water and as he passes our section, he looks up. I see him smile when we make eye contact and I wave briefly, pulling my hand back then as if I touched something hot. By the look on Linda's face, I can tell that I'm sitting here totally fan-girling Neal, right in front of the moms of all his teammates. I try to rein it in, and we sit back to enjoy the match.

  Right away, we can tell that SCU is going to win. Handily. Our guys gel seamlessly, making passes to where the other players are going to be, even before they get there. The Lions don't stand a chance, and thanks to Tyler's quick stick work, we are up two goals by the end of the first period.

  Neal's line rotates out for a rest, and he throws off his helmet for a drink. I stare at his sweaty curls, stuck to his cheeks and pressed at all angles from his helmet. After he chugs most of a water bottle he looks up, right into my eyes, and winks. His smile feels contagious, and my body warms despite the cold air in the arena. "Shit, Dahlia, you are in trouble." Linda is staring at me with her mouth hanging open. "You look like…god, you've got it bad for him. I had no idea."

  I consider saying something to object, but there's no point. I'm definitely falling for Neal Sweeney.

  By the third period, the Lions are playing dirty. I don't know much about hockey, but I can tell they are checking the Otters too roughly, doing things with their sticks to trip the players and block their shots. I can see Neal turning red with anger, and he's not the only one. More than a few times, he slams into the glass in front of me and I jolt backward. I see the moms around me whispering angrily to each other as the Lions trip Tyler. The crowd is on their feet shouting, and Neal flies over to the boards. He throws off his gloves and starts pummeling the player from the other team. They are fighting a few sections down from us, so I can't see his eyes, but I know they are dark with fury.

  The other player has thrown his gloves now and they are trading blows. I bite my nails as the entire SCU bench races over and joins the melee. The referees are trying to break it up, and Linda is tugging my arm, shouting, "Dahlia, let's get out of here. We're up 4-0 and there's like five minutes left in the game. Come on."

  But I can't leave. I have to stay at least until I know Neal is ok. The tangle of bodies falls to the ground and then the referees begin pulling the players apart in earnest. The arena erupts with angry yelling when the Lion player who tripped Tyler is sent to the penalty box, but Neal is ejected from the game for misconduct. Coach Thomas reaches up and puts an arm around his shoulders as Neal glides toward the SCU hallway to the locker rooms. I can hear him screaming and swearing as he makes his way down the tunnel.

  "Come on," Linda urges. "He's ok. Let's go, Dahlia."

  But I can't tear myself away. I see the faces of the SCU players, concentrated in rage at the injustice of Neal's situation. I worry the rest of them will all hurt each other. I lean against the glass, and I must look a mess, because Gayle puts her arm around my shoulders. "He'll be ok, sweetheart. They'll all be ok."

  I look over at her and realize that tears are brimming in my eyes, threatening to fall down my face. I bite my lip, and Gayle shushes me. "It's hard for me to watch my son play in a sport like this," she says. "Ever since they got big enough to really hurt each other with their fists." She pats my arm and looks from me to Linda. "It's not easy to love a hockey player, is it?"

  I shake my head. "No, that's not…we aren't in love. I just…I thought something terrible would happen to
him…"

  "Why don't you let your friend take you on home. We don't get to talk to them after the game unless we have tickets to the booster dinner." Gayle squeezes my hand and Linda, who doesn't have to be told twice to get out of there, yanks on my arm toward the exit.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "That was fucking intense," Linda says as we settle in to the couch. We've changed to sweats and she grabbed a pint of ice cream. She insisted we watch garbage reality television, which I think is fair since I dragged her to a sporting event. I let my mind drift as the real housewives of some city bitch at each other and fight.

  "What's intense? The show?"

  "No, asshole. The hockey game. Your boy beat the shit out of that guy." I nod over my spoonful of chocolate ice cream. She grabs the carton from my hand and stuffs a spoonful in her mouth. She talks around the lump of ice cream in her mouth, saying, "It was kind of hot to watch them go all alpha dog like that. Why do you think the other team started cheating?"

  I shrug and sigh. The show is getting loud and I pull out my phone, scrolling around my news feed. My phone vibrates in my hand. It's a text from Neal. I need to see you. Can I come over?

  I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until I exhale deeply. I feel so much lighter having heard from him, knowing he's ok. I smile. Since when do you ask permission?

  So is that a yes, pumpkin pi?

  Yes! Of course. You can share ice cream with us.

  This sort of response is not what I was expecting. To meet the mothers of his friends today and get so worked up seeing him hurt…Linda said it was intense, but that doesn't feel like a strong enough word. All I can think about is drawing Neal into my arms and kissing him. I'm not longing to sleep with him. I want to hold him, caress his hair and tell him I will keep him safe.

  Am at dinner w $$ alumni, he writes. Can leave in like 20 min.

  "Hey, Linda," I say. "Neal is gonna come over." She hands me back the ice cream and smiles.

  Linda turns back to the television show and drapes an arm over my shoulders. "I'll go put my bra back on during commercial," she says.

  Awhile later, I hear a knock on my door and answer it to find Neal, glassy eyed and smelling of liquor. He's wearing a tailored black suit with his tie loosened and his shirt half unbuttoned. "Dahlia," he whispers, touching my face.

  I pull him into the apartment. I hear Linda whistle between her teeth at the sight of him. His face bears the marks of his fight on the ice with the other team. At one point in the brawl his helmet must have flown off, because he has a black eye and bruising along his jaw. I walk to the kitchen and pour Neal a glass of water, which he downs in one gulp, still standing in the living room.

  "Come on," I say, pulling his arm down the hallway. "We can talk in here."

  I hear Linda turn the volume up on the television and I roll my eyes at her. Neal flops across my bed and I climb in beside him. "Tell me," I say. "What's wrong?"

  He pulls me to his chest and runs his fingers through my ponytail while I fiddle with his tie. "Do you need ice for your eye?"

  He shakes his head. "I liked seeing you there in the stands," he says. He winds his fingers through mine and squeezes gently.

  "Tyler's mom said you never have anyone." I try not to ask him questions, but I want to know more about why this talented athlete, who everyone says is sure to get drafted after graduation, doesn't even have relatives rooting for him for home games.

  He sighs. "My mom can't make it down very much. She hasn't really gotten to see me play since high school." Neal sits up and throws off his suit jacket and tie. As he unbuttons his shirt he tells me that he was raised by his mom in rural Maine. It was just the two of them, and she worked as a waitress in a small restaurant that didn't get much business outside of tourist season.

  I keep my arms wrapped around him as he talks and say nothing, but I'm feeling overwhelmed--not by the hard times he describes, but by the power he's giving me in trusting me with his story. "What about your dad?"

  He snorts. "The man who impregnated my mother and refused to talk to her ever again? We don't speak his name. He was a professional hockey player my mom dated one summer when she was living in Boston. He ditched her when she got pregnant, and she moved back to Maine so my grandma could help her out." Neal's father apparently sent bits of money every few years, but nothing they could depend on. "It just about paid for new hockey gear as I started growing," he says. His eyes focus on something far off while he tells me this story. "Sweeney is my mom's last name," he adds. "I'm glad she didn't name me after that asshole, and I'm glad my kids will someday share a name with her."

  Neal removes the rest of his suit, ending up in just boxers and an undershirt. He climbs under the covers and lies on his side, squeezed against me in the tiny bed. I'm still wearing my sweats, and I put my arm around him, savoring his warmth, enjoying just lying still beside him. I've never done this before. I've never spent companionable silence or fallen asleep beside a guy I've had sex with. He's opened up to me so much, and I feel like he's waiting for me to reciprocate somehow.

  I spent a lot of years trying to vent my feelings to people only to be called a worry-wart or told I'm too sensitive, but I feel so safe with Neal right now that I tell him, in a whisper, "My mother died of a heart attack. Nobody knows what happened. My dad has been drunk ever since." Neal strokes the side of my face and presses his lips against my forehead. "Her name was Violet," I say.

  Neal brings his fingers to the cluster of delicate flowers I have tattooed above my heart. He traces his fingers along the tattoo and kisses me softly. "I'm really sorry about your mom." His words are low and quiet. I feel a flood of relief that I've confided this piece of myself to him and he has responded with caring arms. We lie together in my bed talking for hours.

  I listen to him voice his frustrations at having to go to alumni functions right after games and listen to lectures from rich benefactors about his behavior on the ice. I get the sense that Neal never complains much to anyone, but is feeling a lot of pressure right now to keep his grades up, put in the hours he needs to in the gym, perform on the ice, woo the boosters who support the program…it all sounds so intense. "When I talk to my mom, I have to make it sound like it's all a dream come true for me," he says. "I know what she gave up to raise me." Neal looks into my eyes. "I just need to come out of this with something to show for it, you know?"

  I press my fingers against his forehead. "Neal," I say. "You probably don't get to hear a lot about how smart you are. But it's true. Even without hockey, you can do anything you want to do."

  He laughs, a bitter sound. "Well, without hockey, I'm waiting tables in po-dunk Maine, Dahlia."

  I confess to him that I've applied to a few schools in addition to Penn. "I know the deal from Coach Thomas is a pretty sure thing," I say, "But some of my professors think I have a really good chance of getting into the PhD program at MIT. It's not Ivy League, but--"

  "This might surprise you, Dahlia, but I've heard of MIT." Neal laughs. "I grew up in Maine, remember?"

  He picks up his phone and starts scrolling through his news feed. "Hey," he says, stopping at the picture of me and Jeremy studying before the game. "Is this the asshole from Halloween?"

  "He's not an asshole, Neal. I told you. He's my friend."

  Neal grunts, zooming in on the picture. "I don't like him touching you and I don't like him putting pictures of you online."

  "Are you jealous, Mr. Sweeney?" Just like on Halloween, I like that I've made him jealous, but I also want him to know that I have other friends apart from Linda.

  "You're damn right I'm jealous," he says, pulling me close to him. He whispers into my ear, "I want so bad to just go tell him to leave my girl alone." Both of us sense the heavy words unsaid after that. We can't tell Jeremy that, because we aren't allowed to be together. And yet here he is, with me in my bed. Again.

  As we settle to sleep that night, I'm certain that I've fallen for this guy. If I'm not careful, I'm going to gi
ve him too much of myself, and risk him breaking my heart into shreds. The idea of being vulnerable with Neal scares me more than getting caught and losing my funding for college.

  CHAPTER NINE

  For the next three weeks, I see Neal every day. He comes to my apartment every night when he's done with practice, we study in my dining room, we have sex, and I fall asleep in his arms. On nights that he doesn't have homework, he sits and stares at me as I work on equations. Sometimes he stands behind me, rubbing my shoulders and watching me scrawl on scrap paper or run graphing programs on my computer.

  "What are you staring at?" I ask him during one of these evenings. I can't concentrate when I feel like I'm under a microscope.

  "I just never saw anyone do stuff like you're doing right now," he say. He's actually eating popcorn while he's watching me do math. He shrugs. "You've watched me work tons of times."

  "No," I correct him. "I've observed your technique and waited to see if you need any help. That's different."

  "Well, maybe I'm waiting for you to need my help." He starts throwing popcorn at me. Linda has gone up to sleep at Tim's, and we have the apartment to ourselves, so when Neal swats the paper from my hand and clears the dining room table with his arm, I get excited even though I'll probably have to start over with the problem I was working on. He says, "You look like you need some help relaxing your mind."

  Neal lifts me out of my chair and yanks down my sweats. Really, they're his sweats. Most evenings we hang out together, I end up wearing whatever athletic clothes he left here the night before. I don't tell him that I just love how he smells when he gets here straight from the showers. When I put on his t-shirts after class, I feel enveloped in his scent for hours until I can get my arms around him and inhale the real thing.