He didn’t come, of course.
The game was tough, because the Turner team showed up with a seventh player who was quite the ringer. Big and fast, he seemed always to be in exactly the right place to intercept our passes. And he had absolutely no qualms about dumping me off my tube when I had possession.
Bastard, I thought to myself the fourth time he’d sunk me. And then I laughed at my own hypocrisy.
Fortunately, the Turner goalie wasn’t on his game. With one minute left, I sent a goal into the net from a wide angle, tying up the game 3-3. When the whistle blew, Daniel called it over.
“What? No overtime?” I yelped.
“Someone else needs the pool now,” he said. “So we do overtime in our pint glasses. There’s a pony keg chilling on my windowsill. Get dressed, everyone.”
As I rolled along with the players into the Beaumont courtyard, I realized how long it had been since I had been a member of a team, even one as goofy as this. I’d really missed it.
“This is a great start to our season,” Allison said, bouncing along beside me. “Turner is always tough to beat. We lost to them the last two years running.”
“Who do we play next?” I asked, as if it mattered.
“Sunday we meet Ashforth House. They’ll probably forfeit, because the captain is a pig, and none of the Ashforth women want to get into the pool with him.”
“Icky,” I said.
“Exactly.”
The group stopped in front of an entryway, and I knew exactly what would happen next. Daniel waved his ID in front of the scanner and opened the door. I heard someone say “fourth floor.” So my Friday night would end right there. I could always go home to McHerrin and swap my chair for my sticks, and then come back here and make the climb. That would take about half an hour. But I knew myself. Once I got back into my room, I’d find some reason to sit down and watch a movie instead of climbing those tricky stairs.
My teammates began to file into the entryway, and I turned my wheels toward home.
“Aren’t you coming, Corey?” Dan called to me.
I looked over my shoulder. “Maybe next time,” I said.
“Want a lift?” Bear towered over me. “I think piggy-back would work.”
I opened my mouth to refuse, and then closed it again. It was exactly the sort of weird attention I was always trying to avoid.
“I know how you feel about overtime,” Dan said, opening the door wider. “We’ll park your chair inside the entryway door.”
“Well, thanks,” I said, feeling my neck get hot. “What the hell.”
For a while, it seemed like a fine decision.
Our goalkeeper carried me up the three flights of stairs in about sixty seconds flat, depositing me on the sofa in Dan’s common room. Allison brought me a beer, and I drank it. It was cold, which helped. And it was served in an actual pint glass. Dan hadn’t been joking about that. “A little bit of England right here at Harkness,” he said.
I’d done it. I’d surrounded myself with new faces, and found a Friday night activity that did not involve misplaced lust or digital teammates.
The trouble was that I was stuck there on Daniel’s couch. I spoke to whoever happened to sit beside me, or stand nearby. But without crutches or my chair, I had all the mobility of a potted plant. Sure, I could have scooted around on the floor, but that would have made me look like a freak.
Daniel swung by frequently, refilling my beer whenever it got low. But he was busy playing host, and didn’t linger. Worse, the beer began to take its toll on me. Not only was I tipsy, but I had to pee. Badly.
I had no exit strategy.
Across the room, Bear chatted up Allison with glassy eyes. When I thought of climbing onto his back again for the three flight descent, it seemed about as safe as hopping into a drunk’s car. Without a seatbelt.
More time passed, and I considered my dwindling options. I could scoot on my butt out the door and down the stairs. It would take about fifteen minutes. Probably only a dozen people would stop to witness my humiliation.
I looked toward the doorway, measuring the distance.
From the threshold, I was startled to find Hartley looking back at me. “There you are,” he said, his face dark. “Why is your chair downstairs?”
“I got a lift,” I said, suppressing a burp.
“No sticks?”
I looked down at my hands. “Nope.”
“Wait, are you drunk, Callahan?” He walked in, bending down to put his face close to mine.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I whined, my words slurring a little.
“Jesus, I think it’s time to go.”
“No.”
He looked exasperated. “I’m not leaving you here, Callahan. How are you going to get down the stairs?”
“I don’t know. Someone will help me.” Someone who isn’t you. Anyone but you.
He scratched his chin. “I could go home and get your sticks. But I don’t think you should be practicing stairs right now.” Hartley bent down and put his hands on my hips.