The Score
Page 20
Yeah…I need to nip this Dean idea in the bud. I don’t know why he’s so eager to jump into bed with me again, but I’m confident he’ll get over it eventually. The guy has the attention span of a fruit fly, and the affection-giving habits of a puppy, offering his sexual devotion to whoever happens to be holding the treat. By which I mean the vagina.
As I return to my senses, I change the subject. “Hey, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“Garrett and I are going to my aunt and uncle’s place in Philly. My parents are flying in and meeting us there.”
“Nice. Sounds like fun.”
“You’ll be in Brooklyn, right?”
I nod. I spend every holiday in Brooklyn with my dad. I always look forward to seeing him, but this year I’m a tad worried because the last time we spoke, he insisted on cooking Thanksgiving dinner himself.
Usually I’d be cheering over that announcement, because Dad happens to be the best cook on the planet. But since he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis five years ago, I’ve been doing my best to make sure he doesn’t push himself. The only reason I turned down a free ride to UCLA’s drama program was so I could remain within driving distance of him. The man is so damn stubborn, insisting he doesn’t need help and that he can manage on his own, but I hadn’t felt comfortable moving to the opposite end of the country once his remission periods became few and far between.
Now I’m even more relieved I stayed on the east coast, because Dad’s condition has gotten progressively worse this past year.
Like most people who suffer from the disease, he was initially diagnosed with relapsing-remitting MS, but now it’s transitioned into the secondary-progressive type, which means his relapses are more frequent and more severe than they used to be. When I visited him over the summer, I was shocked by the change in him. Suddenly he was having trouble walking, when before it was the occasional loss of balance and mild numbness in his limbs. He had two attacks of vertigo when I was there, and when I pressed him, he admitted that the pain was getting worse and he was experiencing the occasional vision problems.
All this? Fucking terrifies me. I already lost my mom to cancer when I was thirteen. Dad is all I have left. I refuse to lose him too, even if it means chaining him to his recliner in our Brooklyn brownstone and forcing him to watch football while I cook dinner in his stead.
“Okay, break time is over.” Once again I need a distraction from my bleak thoughts. Groaning, I sit up and open the script to where we left off. “Caroline is about to yell at Jeannette again.”
Hannah tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “For the record? If you ever lost your husband, I would never call you a crybaby and tell you to ‘get over it’.” Her expression grows serious. “In other words, you can keep moping about Sean for as long as you need to. I promise I won’t judge you for it.”
Emotion wells up in my throat, but I manage to squeeze out two words. “Thank you.”
7
Dean
For all his bullshit about the past staying in the past, it’s painfully evident that my former coach is pushing a Make Dean’s Life Miserable agenda. The first practice with our new defensive coordinator runs an hour late—but only for the defensemen. While everyone else heads to the locker room to shower, change and go home, O’Shea forces the D-men to stay behind for extra skating drills after announcing that we’re the sorriest excuse for hockey players he’s ever seen.
When he finally dismisses us, my teammates and I skate off the ice, cursing and grumbling the entire time. We’re all dripping with sweat, steam is rolling out of our helmets, and our mood is foul as we strip off our gear in the now-deserted locker room.
“Decent guy, huh?” Logan says sarcastically, echoing the description I’d offered yesterday.
“He was just showing us his dick is bigger than ours,” I mutter. “It’s probably his way of trying to earn our respect.”
No, it’s his way of punishing me for hurting his daughter, but I keep that delightful tidbit to myself. Not because O’Shea ordered me not to discuss it with my teammates, but because I’d rather not think about all the shit that happened with Miranda.
Ironically, my relationship with Miranda O’Shea didn’t just impact my high school life, but also my college one. Miranda is the reason I now spell out my intentions—or lack thereof—before every single hookup. Granted, I thought I’d spelled everything out back then too, but clearly I hadn’t articulated it as well as I should have. These days, I make sure women know exactly where we stand before their heads can fill up with fantasies about happily ever after.
“You doing anything for dinner?” Logan asks as we hit the showers. “Grace is grabbing Chinese food in town and meeting me at the house. I think she’s bringing enough grub for everyone.”
“Ah, thanks for the invite, but I’m having drinks with Maxwell. Not sure when I’ll be home.”
The conversation ends as we step into our respective stalls. I’ve barely finished soaping my balls when Logan shuts off his water. Jeez. Dude just showered like someone had offered him a million bucks if he could lather up and rinse off in less than thirty seconds.
“Later,” he calls as he slaps a towel around his waist and ducks out of the shower area.
I know he’s eager to see Grace, and for some reason that brings a strange flutter to my chest. It’s not quite jealousy. Not quite resentment. Disappointment, maybe?
I get it. My best friends are in love. They’d rather cuddle and make kissy faces at their women than hang out with the boys, and I’m not pissed at them for it, not in the slightest. Thing is, this feels like the beginning of the end for us.
After my older brother graduated from Harvard, he lost touch with his college friends within months. Teammates he once would’ve laid down his life for? Hardly speaks to them now. Friends from law school? They exchange one email a month, tops.
I understand that friends drift apart after college. People get married. They move away. They make new friends and develop other interests. But I hate the idea of not having Garrett or Logan or Tuck in my life. I also hate this cynical part of my brain that points out the inevitability of that outcome.
I’ll be in law school next year. I won’t have time to sleep let alone see my friends. Garrett will most likely be living in another city, playing in the NHL. Logan too, if it works out with the Providence Bruins, the farm team that has already stated their interest in signing him after he graduates. It’s only a matter of time before he’s called up to the pros and moving away, too. And who knows what Tucker plans to do after college. He might move back to Texas, for all I know.
As I return to my senses, I change the subject. “Hey, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“Garrett and I are going to my aunt and uncle’s place in Philly. My parents are flying in and meeting us there.”
“Nice. Sounds like fun.”
“You’ll be in Brooklyn, right?”
I nod. I spend every holiday in Brooklyn with my dad. I always look forward to seeing him, but this year I’m a tad worried because the last time we spoke, he insisted on cooking Thanksgiving dinner himself.
Usually I’d be cheering over that announcement, because Dad happens to be the best cook on the planet. But since he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis five years ago, I’ve been doing my best to make sure he doesn’t push himself. The only reason I turned down a free ride to UCLA’s drama program was so I could remain within driving distance of him. The man is so damn stubborn, insisting he doesn’t need help and that he can manage on his own, but I hadn’t felt comfortable moving to the opposite end of the country once his remission periods became few and far between.
Now I’m even more relieved I stayed on the east coast, because Dad’s condition has gotten progressively worse this past year.
Like most people who suffer from the disease, he was initially diagnosed with relapsing-remitting MS, but now it’s transitioned into the secondary-progressive type, which means his relapses are more frequent and more severe than they used to be. When I visited him over the summer, I was shocked by the change in him. Suddenly he was having trouble walking, when before it was the occasional loss of balance and mild numbness in his limbs. He had two attacks of vertigo when I was there, and when I pressed him, he admitted that the pain was getting worse and he was experiencing the occasional vision problems.
All this? Fucking terrifies me. I already lost my mom to cancer when I was thirteen. Dad is all I have left. I refuse to lose him too, even if it means chaining him to his recliner in our Brooklyn brownstone and forcing him to watch football while I cook dinner in his stead.
“Okay, break time is over.” Once again I need a distraction from my bleak thoughts. Groaning, I sit up and open the script to where we left off. “Caroline is about to yell at Jeannette again.”
Hannah tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “For the record? If you ever lost your husband, I would never call you a crybaby and tell you to ‘get over it’.” Her expression grows serious. “In other words, you can keep moping about Sean for as long as you need to. I promise I won’t judge you for it.”
Emotion wells up in my throat, but I manage to squeeze out two words. “Thank you.”
7
Dean
For all his bullshit about the past staying in the past, it’s painfully evident that my former coach is pushing a Make Dean’s Life Miserable agenda. The first practice with our new defensive coordinator runs an hour late—but only for the defensemen. While everyone else heads to the locker room to shower, change and go home, O’Shea forces the D-men to stay behind for extra skating drills after announcing that we’re the sorriest excuse for hockey players he’s ever seen.
When he finally dismisses us, my teammates and I skate off the ice, cursing and grumbling the entire time. We’re all dripping with sweat, steam is rolling out of our helmets, and our mood is foul as we strip off our gear in the now-deserted locker room.
“Decent guy, huh?” Logan says sarcastically, echoing the description I’d offered yesterday.
“He was just showing us his dick is bigger than ours,” I mutter. “It’s probably his way of trying to earn our respect.”
No, it’s his way of punishing me for hurting his daughter, but I keep that delightful tidbit to myself. Not because O’Shea ordered me not to discuss it with my teammates, but because I’d rather not think about all the shit that happened with Miranda.
Ironically, my relationship with Miranda O’Shea didn’t just impact my high school life, but also my college one. Miranda is the reason I now spell out my intentions—or lack thereof—before every single hookup. Granted, I thought I’d spelled everything out back then too, but clearly I hadn’t articulated it as well as I should have. These days, I make sure women know exactly where we stand before their heads can fill up with fantasies about happily ever after.
“You doing anything for dinner?” Logan asks as we hit the showers. “Grace is grabbing Chinese food in town and meeting me at the house. I think she’s bringing enough grub for everyone.”
“Ah, thanks for the invite, but I’m having drinks with Maxwell. Not sure when I’ll be home.”
The conversation ends as we step into our respective stalls. I’ve barely finished soaping my balls when Logan shuts off his water. Jeez. Dude just showered like someone had offered him a million bucks if he could lather up and rinse off in less than thirty seconds.
“Later,” he calls as he slaps a towel around his waist and ducks out of the shower area.
I know he’s eager to see Grace, and for some reason that brings a strange flutter to my chest. It’s not quite jealousy. Not quite resentment. Disappointment, maybe?
I get it. My best friends are in love. They’d rather cuddle and make kissy faces at their women than hang out with the boys, and I’m not pissed at them for it, not in the slightest. Thing is, this feels like the beginning of the end for us.
After my older brother graduated from Harvard, he lost touch with his college friends within months. Teammates he once would’ve laid down his life for? Hardly speaks to them now. Friends from law school? They exchange one email a month, tops.
I understand that friends drift apart after college. People get married. They move away. They make new friends and develop other interests. But I hate the idea of not having Garrett or Logan or Tuck in my life. I also hate this cynical part of my brain that points out the inevitability of that outcome.
I’ll be in law school next year. I won’t have time to sleep let alone see my friends. Garrett will most likely be living in another city, playing in the NHL. Logan too, if it works out with the Providence Bruins, the farm team that has already stated their interest in signing him after he graduates. It’s only a matter of time before he’s called up to the pros and moving away, too. And who knows what Tucker plans to do after college. He might move back to Texas, for all I know.
