Jesse

I wake up with a killer hangover and something squashing my arm. When I open my eyes there’s a head of blonde hair draped over my pillow. Fuck. I can barely remember what happened last night. Now I have a girl in my bed whose name I definitely don’t remember.

I slip out of bed, and when I come back from the bathroom, the girl is awake and wearing my practise jersey.

“Hey,”

she says, “I hope you don’t mind?”

My jersey is way too big on her and it stops around her knees, the shoulders almost reaching her elbows. I laugh.

“What?” she asks.

“You look funny, that’s all.”

“Funny?”

she pulls a face and I realise I’ve said something wrong. “I thought I looked sexy? Isn’t that what guys usually say when girls wear their jerseys?”

How many guys’ jerseys has she worn? Nope, none of my business.

“It’s just that it’s huge on you.”

She sighs and pulls it off over her head. She’s naked underneath and I know I should be wanting to climb back into bed with her, but I’m not in the mood.

I turn around while she looks for her clothes and debate whether to ask her if she wants to get coffee. She answers for me when she’s dressed and throwing me a casual ‘see you later’ as she heads for the door.

Good. I throw myself down on the bed and close my eyes, my head splitting. Why did I have to get so drunk last night?

Memories come flooding back. Chugging beers in the kitchen of that party with the guys. Making a dick of myself in front of Jones’ cute brother, who I’m going to have to see again when he tutors me in a subject he doesn’t even study. Talking to that girl, bringing her back here. Fuck I was so drunk, I hope she wasn’t. She seemed like she was ready for another round before I laughed at her in my jersey. Idiot.

I search the sheets for a used condom, anything to show that at least I was careful, and find one under the bed. At least I hope that’s only been there since last night.

I groan and throw myself back on the bed, wanting to hide under the covers, but Jones starts calling my name up the stairs.

I stumble out of my room like a bear with a sore head. Jones is grinning at the bottom of the stairs and looking like he didn’t even drink last night.

“We’re ordering pizza for breakfast, unless you wanna get your ass down here and cook us something.”

My stomach turns at the thought. “Order your pizza, I don’t want any.”

“You sure? You’ll want some when it turns up.”

I grunt in response and head back to my bedroom.

“Hey Engels, have fun last night?”

I turn around. Jones’ grin is even bigger.

“Sounded like that girl you were banging all night did.”

Disgusting. If a guy ever dared fucking talk about my little sister like that I’d kill him with my bare hands. You can’t say that to your team captain though. I grunt while Jones chuckles to himself and head back to my room to hide.

When I wake up again, it’s the middle of the night. My head is still killing me and my mouth’s dry as fuck, and now I’m starving. I wander downstairs and put my head under the tap in the kitchen until I feel like I’m going to pop. There’s empty pizza boxes everywhere, and I have to open three until I find one crusty piece of pizza left over. I stuff it into my mouth and catch sight of myself in the reflection of the TV. It’s not a pretty sight. Fuck. My dad’s right about me. I am a loser.

I never want to drink again. How many times have I said that? I mean it this time though. Never. Again.

If I didn’t feel like such shit, I’d do something productive, like open a book, but my head’s killing and we don’t have any pain killers in the house. I turn the PlayStation on instead and play NHL 25 until I fall asleep again.

I wake up on the couch with something nudging me. No, kicking me.

Jones laughs.

“What the fuck man?”

“Come on, get up.”

“Where are we going?”

“To my mom and dad’s house, Nate said he’s got a spare hour to tutor you today, but we’ve gotta go like now.”

I sniff my pits and as expected, I stink.

“Can’t I just take a really quick shower first?”

“It’s not a date dude, my brother isn’t gonna give a shit if you don’t smell nice.”

This particular brother’s face comes to mind and how I burped in front of him last time, and yeah, I’m showering.

“I’ll be five minutes.”

I jump up before Jones can stop me, and even if he tries, I know from practise skates that I can knock him to the ground if I need to.

Luckily it doesn’t come to that and less than ten minutes later I’m jumping into the passenger seat of Jones’ Volvo and resisting the urge to turn the volume down on his rap playlist.

“Do you have food at your house?”

“Don’t worry, if my mom’s there she’ll feed the shit out of you, if not, fridge is always stocked.”

I feel like I should say something, because, as much as I don’t want to go through with this, he is trying to help me and I should be grateful. It’s the gesture that matters, right?

“I uh… appreciate this man.”

Jones coughs out an awkward laugh and slaps me on the arm. “Don’t mention it, seriously.”

He parks on the driveway and I follow him into the house, feeling like some peasant begging for crumbs from the rich family.

“Mom?”

Jones calls through the house. We pass the pool room and head into the kitchen where Nate’s sitting at the table surrounded by books. Jones made me pack my sport’s nutrition books and I set them down on the table and give Nate a shy smile. Fuck, this is going to be awkward.

“Is mom home?”

Jones asks.

Nate shakes his head.

“Sorry Engels, I guess no one’s gonna cook you smores.”

I want to tell him you don’t cook smores but Nate beats me to it.

“You don’t cook smores, idiot. You toast them.”

I have to hold in a gasp. I’ve never seen anyone speak to Jones that way before, but he doesn’t even react.

“Whatever man, where’s the food?”

“Are you going to be hanging around here the whole time?”

Nate asks.

“No, I’m gonna play GTA in the den until you’re finished, then I’m gonna give Engels a ride to practise.”

“Fine, so grab your food and go.”

I don’t know what to say, so I just sit there with my hands on my knees like I’m in the principal’s office.

When Jones leaves, Nate asks me if I’m hungry.

“Uh…”

He ignores me and grabs some chips and a tub of salsa and puts them on the table.

“Don’t be shy,”

he says, “look, I’ll have some too.”

Nate opens the bag of chips – actual branded Doritos – and tries to open the jar of salsa.

“Here, I’ll open that.”

He passes it over and it opens with a pop.

I try not to crunch too much or spill crumbs everywhere as I eat. Nate eats like a little bird. I like the way he chews, all polite and neat.

“Listen, uh, I’m sorry about the other night.”

“What?”

“At the party, I was wasted.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.”

He gives me a weird look and I’d ask what it was all about if I wasn’t so embarrassed.

“Are they your textbooks?”

Nate gestures to the books I’ve let spill out of my bag all over the table.

“Yeah.”

“Can I?”

I nod and he picks the one by Professor Williams up and studies the cover.

“That’s my professor. She’s really smart.”

Idiot. Just be quiet.

I watch him with my hands clasped in my lap while he reads through the introduction and starts flipping to certain pages before putting it down again.

"So what are you struggling with?"

All of it?

“Do you have an essay question or something to work on?”

“Uh… yeah, I think so.”

I open the student app on my phone and login to my course schedule.

“I have to write an essay on protein synthesis.”

“Can I see?”

I pass him the phone and he gets this little frown on his face as he reads, and I tell myself it is not cute, even though it really is.

“Okay,”

he looks focussed as he pulls the book back towards him and flips to a page with diagrams I’ve stared at a few times. “Protein synthesis refers to the biological process whereby amino acids are assembled…” he breaks off as he studies the diagram again, his lips moving a bit while he reads to himself.

“Okay, I think I understand.”

“Already?”

His head snaps up and I feel my face tint.

“Well, the basics. Your essay wants you to answer this question…”

I try so hard to focus while he talks, but it’s not easy. I follow him to a point, but then his words start to meld into one. Maybe he notices I’ve zoned out, because he asks if I want to take a break.

“Thanks.”

He smiles and we sit in silence for a minute, looking around the kitchen.

“Sorry about this,” I say.

“What?”

“I don’t know how Jones, I mean Harrison, convinced you to tutor me, but, I know it’s probably the last thing you want to be doing with your time.”

His face changes and I can’t read it.

“No it’s fine, I don’t mind. I just don’t know how helpful I can be that’s all.”

“You seem to understand things really fast. Like you just looked at that diagram and you got it, and you don’t even study this subject.”

“I have to take chemistry for my major, so I get diagrams, or how they work anyway.”

“What’s your major?”

“Operations Research and Information Engineering.”

I whistle, because that sounds really smart and I have no idea what it means. Nate laughs and actually looks shy as he tucks his hair behind his ear. I try not to think about the fact he looks good doing that.

“It just sounds more complicated than it is, it’s basically just math and research with a bit of computer tech thrown in.”

“Oh just math, research and computer tech, yeah, easy.”

Nate laughs. Fuck that’s a nice sound.

“What made you want to study sport’s nutrition?”

“I didn’t, I had to pick a major if I wanted to play hockey and that was the most sporty thing they had.”

“What’s your minor?”

“Sport’s training.”

“So how come you came to college then? You just wanted to play college hockey?”

“No, actually, I didn’t get drafted like my dad thought I would out of juniors, so when I got offered a scholarship to play hockey, he said I’d better take it.”

I can feel my face getting red and I can’t look at Nate.

“Is that what you wanted?”

He asks, “to get drafted out of high school?”

No one’s ever asked me if I wanted to get drafted. Everyone always assumes if you play hockey then you must obviously want to get drafted. Who doesn’t want to play in the NHL?

“Yeah, sure.”

“But you can still play in the NHL right? Loads of players go in as free agents.”

I smile, “you know about hockey?”

“Actually, no, I put a lot of effort into not learning hockey, but sometimes I fail and pick up bits and pieces of conversation between my parents over the dinner table.”

“Oh man, your parents talk about hockey at the dinner table too?”

“Yep.”

“That must suck for you.”

Nate’s smile fades and I think I’ve said something wrong.

He shrugs. “Do you have any siblings?”

“I’ve got a little sister, but she loves hockey more than I do.”

“Is she going to play?”

“If my dad lets her. He doesn’t think there’s any point for girls.”

“Why?”

“They don’t make as much money as the men.”

“Oh.”

We both look down at the same time, our gaze landing on the open book with the diagrams of protein synthases.

“So do you think I can get a C on this essay?”

“I’ll help you with your essay, but I’m not writing it for you.”

A little flutter of hope works its way up, “I don’t want you to write it for me.”

He blinks at me like I just said something in another language.

“Okay, good.”

My phone buzzes, mom flashing up on the screen.

“You can get that,” he says.

“It’s just my mom, I’ll tell her I’m studying.”

I go into the hallway and tell her I’ll call her back later. Nate’s smiling when I come back in and I blush, realising he must have heard me telling my mom I love her.

“Where do your parents live?”

he asks as I sit down.

“Philly. Can’t you tell by the accent?”

“I guess I hadn’t really noticed, it’s not that strong. Do you miss it?”

I shrug, “I miss my little sister, but I’ve lived away from home for three years now, I can’t imagine going back to live with my parents.”

“So you don’t want to move back when you graduate? Not even in your own place?”

I shrug, “I dunno, I haven’t really thought about it.”

I wait for him to tell me I’d better think about it, like everyone else does. Remind me I’m in my senior year of college with no prospects and no plans, but he doesn’t.

Nate tries to explain that diagram to me again and I sort of get it. I think.

When Jones comes back, I’m zoning out.

“Come on, time for practise.”

I feel like I’m at home with my parents again as I get up and collect my books. Doing homework at the kitchen table, my dad interrupting to take me to hockey practise. Except Nate definitely doesn’t remind me of anyone from back home.

Jones waits until we’re in the car to ask how it went.

“Good,”

“told you Nate was smart.”

I’m glad he’s not looking at me as my face gets hot.

“Yeah, he is.”