“Let’s go, Corey,” Pat said. “I need you to do the length of the mat.”
But I hesitated. I really did not want Hartley to watch me crawl like a drunk, my butt swaying in the air. I met Pat’s eye and gave the tiniest shake of my head.
Pat studied me for a second. Then she called out, “Hartley, I need a favor. Could you please go down to the front desk and collect my mail? I’m expecting something. And there’s still a few more minutes until we start.”
“O-kay…” he said slowly. “Is there anything else I can get you while I’m out? Coffee? Dry cleaning?”
“That will be all,” Pat said.
When he walked out, I lifted my ass in the air and prepared to crawl. “Thank you,” I said in a low voice.
“Not a problem,” she sighed.
“So, Corey,” Dana said, putting on a jacket. “Did you hear about the Screw Your Roommate Dance next week?”
Hartley was setting up our hockey game, but we hadn’t started playing yet. “Those are always fun,” he said. “I set Bridger up last year. I handcuffed him to a tree in the courtyard, and gave his date the key.”
“Sounds…interesting,” I said. “Do you want to go, Dana?” Although, since she’d brought it up, I could assume the answer was yes.
She shrugged. “I think it sounds like fun. Don’t you? What’s your type, Corey? Do you have a type?”
Hartley handed me a game controller. “There’s only one man for Callahan, and he’s pretty unavailable.”
At that, my heart took off galloping like a pony, and I actually tasted bile in my mouth. Because I was sure that Hartley knew how I felt about him, and that he was about to say it out loud.
“The Pittsburgh Puffins probably have a game that night,” Hartley continued, “otherwise, I’m sure the captain would fly up if you asked.”
My heart rate began to descend back into the normal range.
Dana giggled. “The captain of the Pittsburgh Puffins, huh? Now I have to Google him.” She leaned over my laptop computer where it sat on the trunk, tapping on the keyboard. “Ooh!” she said. “I see. Wow.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, while Hartley snorted.
“Hey, Corey?” Dana said. “You’re getting a Skype call. It’s Damien. Should I answer?”
“Sure, thanks.”
Dana handed me the laptop, and my brother’s face materialized on the screen. “Hi shorty,” he said. “What’s shaking?”
“Not much. I’m just hanging out. Are you still at work?” I could see office furniture behind him.
“Yup, it’s a glamorous life.” My brother was working as a paralegal for a year before he went to law school.
Beside me, Hartley plopped down on the sofa, a bottle of tequila in one hand, a cocktail shaker in the other. “Whoa! It’s Callahan! How are you, man?”
“Dude. Why would you be in my sister’s room, and not at practice?”
“Well, Captain, the reason would be the giant fucking cast on my leg. These days I can only play hockey on a screen, and your sister has the sweet TV. This is how we party in the gimp ghetto.” Hartley looked down at the other supplies he’d brought. “Fuck. I forgot the limes. Be right back.” He grabbed his crutches and stood up, ambling toward my door.
Damien waited a moment before crossing his arms and hooking his eyebrows. “Please tell me you’re not seeing him.”
This made me laugh. “I’m not seeing him. But — God, Damian — why do you care?”
“He’s not who I would pick for you.”
Well I’m not who he picked, so it looks like you don’t need to worry. “That’s funny, Damien. Who would you pick for me?”
“Nobody, of course. You’re my little sister.”
“I see.”
“Please stay away from the entire hockey team. They’re pigs.”
“I think you just called yourself a pig.”
My brother’s smile was wide. “I just call ‘em like I see ‘em.”
“I have a video game to win here, bro. I’ll talk to you later.”
Damien frowned. “Don’t let Hartley get you drunk.”
“Really? You’d lecture me about drinking? Ease up, okay? Or I’ll tell Mom what really happened to that bottle of cooking sherry that went missing when you were in tenth grade.”
He grinned. “Later, shorty.”
I won our first game. Afterwards, instead of rubbing Hartley’s face in it, I told him that I needed a little advice.
“Yes, you should trade your goalie to another team. He’s weak.” Hartley was squeezing lime juice into a cocktail shaker. I watched him pour the tequila in, and then add a dollop of honey. He had been told to stop icing his knee, so the plan was to use up the rest of the bag of ice Bridger had brought him on margaritas.
“No, seriously. It’s about the Screw Your Roommate dance. Dana wants me to set her up. But since I live under a rock, I don’t know who to call.”
He shook up our cocktails. “What’s her type?”