7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Cody

The condo where I’m going to spend at least the next couple of months is in a residential area called Laredo Highline, close to the Aurora Sports Park. And even though the condo itself is a mess, looking like a small tornado tore through the hallway and the living room recently, it’s still superior to any other place I’ve lived in. As soon as we enter the three-bedroom condo, Luke hurries into the kitchen like the floor is made of lava. With an apologetic frown on his face, he starts throwing takeout boxes into a large trash bag, with what appears to be dried-up noodles crunching under his feet. One end of the counter is overflowing with empty Gatorade bottles and soda cans, while the sink is filled to the brim with dirty plates and used cutlery.

Okay, so the condo has seen better days for sure, but after having shared a room with three other players in the AHL, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen the worst of the worst. And as far as roommates go, Luke seems like a cool enough guy.

We took my rental after practice, and Luke didn’t stop chattering during the short drive. Pointing out coffee shops, stores, and restaurants on the way, he gesticulated animatedly, the soft features of his face lighting up. There’s a strange familiarity to his chestnut eyes, emanating a warmth and kindness that immediately transferred to me and made me relax. After a good practice combined with being bombarded with new impressions—and texts from my mom—I felt exhaustion finally taking over as I melted into the passenger seat, accompanied by the hypnotic hum of Luke’s timbre voice.

I’ve always preferred listening over talking. It’s always been like that. All the way through school and later high school, I was just in the periphery of the popular kids. My semi-popularity stemmed mostly from being on the high school hockey team. Being a so-called jock made me automatically part of the in-crowd, whether I liked it or not. There was never a party or a spontaneous weekend trip I wasn’t invited to. People were always eager to hang out with me, I guess. I mostly stayed at home, though, to avoid my mom’s ever-present nagging and her constant reminders that ‘ if you don’t wanna turn out like a no-good SOB like your dad’, I’d better keep my eyes on the end goal. The NHL. So, it was easier to just stay at home, camping out in my small bedroom, re-watching classic hockey games. Studying the best, dreaming of one day maybe—hopefully—becoming the best.

“Sorry, man,” Luke mumbles as he tucks the overspilling trash bag behind the kitchen island. “Been kinda busy and…” A crooked smile pulls at the right corner of his mouth, the promise of a dimple appearing on his unblemished skin. Brushing a hand through his longish hair that constantly seems to live a rebellious life of its own, Luke motions at the fridge. “You want a drink? We’ve basically got every color of the rainbow in Gatorade,” he grins, puffing out his chest. I can tell that he’s eager to make a good impression. He doesn’t have to. I already think the world of him as a hockey player, and I’m sure that we’ll get on just fine as roomies, too.

“Sure. I’ll take one…” Returning the smile, I relax against the kitchen island, my gaze coasting along the photos and magnets displayed on the door. Most of them are goofy-looking pictures of Luke and our Canadian center, Riley Cameron. I already got the impression at practice that the two of them are close, a constant banter back and forth, an easy-going chemistry between them that only comes from mutual trust and affection. A dull sting courses through my chest as I take in their happy, carefree faces. A faint reminder that I’ve never had that. This type of relationship with someone. This closeness where you can just… be. Well, at least not since Danny left.

“Here you go,” Luke smiles, handing me a bottle of pink Gatorade. “Welcome to Aurora, man,” he winks, a slight blush sweeping across his cheeks. Opening the cap, I zero in on his bottom lip that’s slightly fuller than the upper, giving him a slightly pouty look.

“Thanks,” I murmur before taking a quick sip of the drink, the cool sugary liquid sliding down my throat. “Happy to be here…” I trail off. Fuck, why am I like this? Why is every word coming from my lips such a struggle? Like being on Wheel of fucking Fortune as a constant desperately searching for the next vowel. I’m so socially inept it’s not even funny. However, Luke doesn’t seem to notice my awkwardness as he continues to smile at me while playing with the label on his bottle.

“So, where are you from? I’m from Lancaster, Pennsylvania. My parents and sisters still live there. Twins. Elly and Lilly. Do you have siblings? Can’t say I miss mine. Nice enough place, I guess… Lancaster. A little boring like most of suburban America, I guess.” As Luke continues rambling, his face vivid and hands moving rapidly, I relax even more against the kitchen island, a comfortable calm settling around and inside me. “Did you go to college? I went to Albany. History major. Love history. How about you? You into history?” He spills some of his drink down the front of his hoodie, wiping at it furiously while cursing quietly. “I’m no good with white,” he sighs. “There should be a national ban, you know.” He holds up his hands like he’s holding a sign. “Luke Carrington,” he speaks in a solemn voice, “banned from wearing any shade of white.” Then he flashes his million-dollar smile.

“I thought there was only one shade of white,” I offer.

“That’s what you’d think, right?” With his back to the kitchen counter, he lifts himself up so that he’s sitting on the counter across from me. “But there are loads of different shades. There’s a creamy white that’s kinda yellow. There are whites with bluish undertones, like the color of ice, you know.” He scrunches his nose, and for the first time, I notice that there’s a small scar running along the ridge of his nose. It’s hardly noticeable, but under the bright kitchen lights, it’s slightly paler than his skin tone. “There are whites with a pinkish hue, too, you know?” and as if on cue, his cheeks flush a pale pink.

“Pinkish hue?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, yeah,” he nods eagerly. “That’s what it’s called.”

Involuntarily, my mouth folds into a smile while my eyes remain transfixed on this… this strange yet familiar guy sitting across from me, with pink Gatorade smeared down his hoodie. How many times have I found myself drawn to Luke Carrington watching a game? Watching him race—no fly —uninhibited across the ice, maneuvering around the opponents easily, a focused expression on his face as he aims at the goal. The carefree glimmer in his eyes competes with his radiant smile whenever he scores. Which is often. And now he sits right here in front of me. This all-American guy who has everything it takes to become the next golden boy of hockey. And of all things, he’s currently teaching me about shades of white. Someone, please pinch me.

“So, where’re you from?” Luke searches my face, genuine interest reflected in his eyes.

“Uhm… Utah originally, but I lived most of my life in Arizona.” I zero in on the Mountain Lions flag on the wall behind Luke’s head before continuing. “That’s where I’ve also played most of my life.”

“Oh, yeah? How was that? Phoenix, right? Never been. Really wanna go on a road trip one day. See more of the country. Maybe during summer, you know? You ever been on a road trip? Looks cool, right? You know, camping and stuff. Nothing but the stars above your head and the dusty ground beneath your feet. We should go together.” We should go together.

His casual road trip invitation lingers in the space between us, and I find myself nodding, smiling, inserting a murmured sure here and there. For the first time in a long while, I feel like I can finally let my guard down. In front of this stranger. A guy I’ve only known for a few hours. But somehow it feels like I’ve known Luke all my life. Like we’re old, long-lost friends falling into an easy conversation once again, a shared past, a weird kinship between us. Perhaps it arises out of our shared love of the game. Perhaps it comes from our similar ages. Perhaps it’s just coincidental. Or maybe it’s just one of those things. Fate or whatever. In any case, it feels good. It’s reassuring that I can feel this way within a few hours of meeting someone.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that you never know what it’s going to throw at you. Some things are worse than others, obviously; some are hard to get past and difficult to live without. Other things are just… okay . Some are even great if you’re lucky. Like me catching a lucky break being scouted by the Lions. Or getting a roommate like Luke.

And then, there are just those random things that life throws at you where you can sense everything you’ve previously known to be the truth, to just… to just be replaced by this newfound certainty that you’ve finally arrived at the right place. At the right time. Like right now. This very moment, as I stare into a pair of deep brown eyes. It feels like I’ve finally arrived.

“… the million-dollar question?” Luke looks at me expectantly.

“Sorry, what?” I scratch the back of my neck.

“The ultimate roommate question. The potential deal breaker of all deal breakers. The one question that will define the course of our future relationship,” he smirks, folding his arms in front of his chest. “Are we meant to be, or will we part ways before we even get started?”

Out of all the words bursting from Luke’s mouth, my stupid head decides to zero in on three little words. Meant to be. Meant. To. Be. Sucking in a clipped breath, I focus on Luke’s expectant face.

“What’s the ultimate question?” I laugh, shaking my head at this amazing creature who talks to me like I’m his friend. Luke grins, drumming his hands against the kitchen island, drawing out the moment.

“Reese’s or Snickers?” He looks at me seriously, and it feels like being sucked into two brown orbs.

“What?” I squeak, his question so unexpected and yet so very Luke.

“If you could only eat one for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

“Reese’s or Snickers ?” I repeat.

“Yes. Wars have been fought, dude, over this very question,” he nods solemnly.

“Wars?”

“Yes. Like The Great Peanut Feud of 1978 or The Boston Peanut Butter Battle that lasted half a decade and made the price of peanuts skyrocket to an unprecedented high in 1921. ” Is this guy for real? I blink a few times, considering my reply, but there can, of course, only ever be one.

“Reese’s obviously,” I speak with conviction, my voice steady as beat. Luke nods a few times, sighing audibly, mumbling something unintelligible. Then the smile of all smiles spreads across Luke’s face from ear to ear, his eyes turning positively golden.

“Hallelujah!” he hollers, tipping his head towards the ceiling. “This is gonna be epic, Mitchell! Best roommate situation ever, I tell ya.” Dabbing invisible tears exaggeratedly from his eyes, he sniffs a couple of times, and my entire chest spills over with happiness. “This is meant to be, man. This is meant to be.” He high-fives me before jumping down from the counter and opening the top drawer of the kitchen island. Rummaging through the drawer, the crinkling of paper fills the air. Then something comes flying at me, and I snatch it with my right hand. I already know what it is before opening my palm; the familiar size and wrapper making my mouth water. As I unwrap the orange paper, my heart does a happy dance while my mind drones on like a broken record. Meant to be, meant to be, meant to be.

At that moment, my phone decides to ring, Troye Sivan’s ‘ One of Your Girls ’ blasting from my back pocket. Great. Just what I need. My mom’s nagging to burst the pink bubble that I’m currently in. Sighing, I pull it out of my pocket and answer it without even looking at the screen.

“Hey Mom, what’s up?” I say, trying to put just a little pep into my voice.

“Mitchell?” A deep baritone booms from the other end. “Or is that you, Carrington, you asshat? Hand the phone over to Mitchell!”

Shit. I pull the phone away from my ear, looking back and forth between the screen that says Coach and Luke, who’s raising his brows in question, mouthing, “What?” Shaking myself, I put the phone back against my right ear.

“Uhm, no, this is me, Coach Bassey.” I’m so lame. “It’s me, Mitchell, Coach,” I croak.

“Good,” Coach half-yells like he’s standing on a fishing boat in the middle of a storm, worried I can’t hear him. “Listen up, kid. I hope you’ve got your winning skates on,” I instinctively look down at my purple-socked feet, “because you’re starting tonight.”

What? My mind goes blank, zeroing in on the words starting and tonight , but that can’t be right, can it? Buckhammer is first goalie. It’s my first day. So… what? It feels like my brain is short-circuiting.

“Mitchell?!” Coach yells. “You there, kid?” Luke reaches out across the island and squeezes my shoulder, a concerned frown between his dark brows. Shaking myself, I manage to murmur into the phone, “Yeah, I’m here. Sorry, Coach, I’m here.”

“Good, good,” he hums. “You’re ready, right, kid?”

“Yeah, I’m ready,” I say, my eyes locked on Luke’s.

“Because you came here to play, remember Mitchell? So just play tonight like you did this morning and you’ll do stellar.”

“I will, Coach. I will.” A smile tugs at my lips, a strange sensation bubbling in my stomach. A flutter, really. “Thank you, Coach.”

“You’ve got it, kid,” Coach says, his voice almost back to a normal level. “Yep, that’s good then. Gotta go, kid. Gotta call my missus back regarding some Caribbean cruise she’s got her eyes on or she’ll rip me a new one. Bye, kid.” And just like that, he’s gone, the phone beeping against my ear. Pulling it away, I place it on the island in front of me.

“Sooo?” Luke asks impatiently, pulling his hand away from my shoulder.

“That was Coach,” I croak.

“Yeah, yeah, I got that,” Luke beams, motioning with his hand for me to go on. “And…?”

“And… I’m starting tonight,” I smile carefully, still afraid that this is too good to be true and Coach meant to call someone else. But he did say ‘Mitchell.’

“Fuck yes!” Luke leaps in the air, fist-pumping, the smile of all smiles spreading across his face, lighting it up. “Woohoo!” he hollers, and I can’t help but laugh somewhat manically. “This is gonna be fucking great, man.” He beams at me as he bounces around the island. Holding up his right hand in front of me, he shakes his head, boyish excitement written all over his face. “You did it, Cody!” he laughs as I’m trying to wrap my head around the fact that all this happiness, all this excitement, is for me. “We’re playing tonight,” he breathes as he grabs the wrist of my right arm, holding up my hand between us, then slamming his palm against mine. “You fucking did it!” He high-fives me one more time. “Team Reese’s for the win, Mitchell.”

And I just nod stupidly because what can you do when all your dreams are suddenly starting to come true, and the most enthusiastic roommate ever is smiling at you like he just won a million dollars? What can you do except smile back like a loon too?