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Shitty calls his mom as soon as he gets the news alert. It's late June but it doesn't quite feel like summer yet; the air is still crisp and he's left all the Haus windows open. Shitty's behind on his LSAT studying, and he has two voicemails from his dad that he's ignoring for the time being, and he's so angry he could punch something.
His mom picks up on the second ring, and Shitty starts right in.
"Can you even believe this bullshit?"
"Hi, honey."
"How could they do this? Mom-- I'm so fucking angry--"
"I know. It's a serious setback."
"That fucking cockhole Roberts... fuckin'-- sidewalk counselors?! That is not what those people do!"
"I know," she replies. "But it's a tough decision. Protecting free speech is equally important--"
"But this isn't about first amendment," Shitty rages. "It's about harassment, and intimidation, and outright violence against women, and the court completely failed to recommend a viable alternative to a buffer zone which they themselves require and uphold for their own goddamn building. The hypocrisy is fucking killing me."
"You're right," his mom says, sad and serious.
Shitty takes a shaky breath. "Fuck. Sorry. I'm a goddamn mess about this."
"Well," she says, and Shitty knows exactly what she's going to say next. "What are you going to do about it, then?"
*
Even in the summer, Shitty doesn't have very much free time. He stays in the Haus and looks after it and everyone's shit inside it, makes sure it doesn't become infested with raccoons, and tends to the lawn. He's studying for the LSAT and researching his thesis, skyping with Bitty, fielding Jack's anxiety-filled phone calls from prospect camp, texting with Lardo, and still arguing with his father about his future on a regular basis. He's also auditing a graduate level summer course on the social and psychological effects of mass media, just because it sounded cool.
The day after the Supreme Court ruling, he gets up early and takes the bus from the edge of campus over to the other side of town. He shows up five minutes after the Planned Parenthood clinic opens, and asks for a volunteer application. The receptionist, a woman in her mid-20s, eyes him warily but hands him the sheet of paper on a clipboard and a pen. Shitty sits in one of the hard plastic waiting room chairs and fills it out in its entirety.
The Monday after Independence Day, he's back at the clinic, sitting in the closet-sized office of the director. She's older and small in stature, with short, greying hair and glasses. Her nameplate says Dr. Mary Strauss. The shelves around her desk are full to bursting with books and binders and clutter. It's a sunny day but there are no windows, and the overhead light is harshly fluorescent. She folds her hands and peers at him from behind her laptop.
"Why do you want to volunteer with us, Mr. Knight?"
There are a hundred answers to that question, and Shitty wrote at least five of them on the application. He tilts his head and collects his thoughts.
"Because protecting access to reproductive health care is essential to gender equality."
"Yes, but why do you want to volunteer with us?" she asks again.
Shitty hesitates, but just for a second. "Real talk?"
She grins a little. "Go for it."
"That shit the Supreme Court pulled last week was ridiculous." Shitty frowns, sits forward a little, and starts gesturing with his hands. "I read the entire ruling, every word of it, and I understand the intent to uphold the right to free speech, but I don't think anyone should have the right to harass or intimidate or threaten someone seeking the assistance and expertise of a medical professional. I might not be able to do much about the laws in our fine state-- not yet, anyway-- but I can be here. I want to be here, I want to help."
Dr. Strauss looks down at his application again. "You're about to begin your senior year at Samwell?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I'll be blunt with you, Mr. Knight," she says. "Volunteering is a serious commitment. We have a rigorous volunteer training program, and we expect our volunteers to adhere to the schedules they've set for themselves. Many Samwell students have good intentions of helping, but unfortunately tend to drop off once their classes start up. How do you plan to fit your volunteer hours into your upcoming schedule?"
Shitty thinks about it for a moment, absently tugging at the corner of his mustache. There's no easy answer. Between his double major, his law school applications, his thesis and hockey, he's already staring down a schedule with very slim windows of opportunity.
"If I say I'm gonna be here," he says finally, "Then I'll be here."
*
The summer goes out almost as quickly as it came in. Shitty completes his volunteer training and takes a few shifts as a clinic escort, ushering patients from the parking lot or the bus stop, past the protesters and up to the front door. Most of the women he walks with are young, some of them accompanied by their moms or sisters. He quickly makes friends with the entire clinic staff, from the skeptical receptionist whose name is Olivia, to the rotating team of registered nurses along with all their assistants, and of course Dr. Mary. The protester turnout stays pretty low throughout the summer, and aside from a few insistent comments and distributed brochures full of false and misleading information, the days pass more or less without incident.
When he talks to his mom, he tells her he wants to be doing something more. She reminds him that the pile of bricks consisting of hockey and his classes are just about to hit. When he accidentally mentions his volunteering to his dad, they end up in an argument over the fact Shitty didn't get a summer internship like his father had wanted him to, which leads to the thousandth installment of the fight where Shitty's dad insists he's throwing his entire life away with his miserable choices, and doesn't want to listen to what Shitty has to say about it at all.
The team returns to campus in mid-August and Shitty is so fucking glad to see his friends again. He gets to meet Mama Bittle in person, and Bitty moves into the Haus, keeping everything clean and baking incessantly, which is nothing short of miraculous. Pre-season practices begin and there are Haus parties and midnight trips to Samwell Superberry and smoking up with Lardo on the Lake Quad late at night, shotgunning long hits that turn into kisses they can pretend don't really count.
Shitty keeps his commitment to volunteering, Tuesday evenings when the clinic stays open until seven, every other Thursday afternoon, and Saturday mornings when he doesn't have mandatory team skates. It's a lot to manage once his full schedule kicks in, but he never once misses a shift, even if it means having to pull all-nighters to write his essays, or trying to cram his reading in while he's on the crosstown bus.
He doesn't mean for it to be a secret, his volunteer work. He just kind of doesn't mention it to anyone. The argument he had with his dad about it means they haven't spoken in weeks, and keeping it to himself means he won't have to be made to justify it. Not that he really believes any of his friends would have anything contrary to say, or that he wouldn't be able to hold his own in a debate over it if he had to. But it doesn't come up, and Shitty is content to keep it that way.
When the rest of the students return, Samwell transforms into a different town, and the clinic gets a whole lot busier. The Saturday after their first full week back, the schedule is booked solid, and the protesters turn up by the dozens.
It actually freaks him out a little bit when he steps off the bus, the crowd of people with signs and literature lining either side of the walkway between the sidewalk and the door, spilling halfway down the block in both directions, chanting and singing. After his initial moment of anxiety, Shitty gets really angry, and then he lets that drive his focus, no different than when he spills over the wall in his skates and wheels out onto the ice.
He puts his orange volunteer vest on, securing the fasteners in the front. It's the same message every time, starting at the bus or the car: you don't have to talk to them. You don't have to take anything from them. I'll stay right with you until we're inside. You can hold on to my arm, if you'd like. They can't touch you, they're not allowed to. We'll walk fast. It'll be okay. Would you like some headphones? Are you ready?
Most patients don't say much to him; sometimes there's a polite thanks after they're through the walkway and into the door. Some of them hold tightly to his arm, some manage to hold their heads up in defiance, and some of them-- because being brave and being afraid are not mutually exclusive-- do both.
Shitty goes back out again and again, until everyone with an appointment is safe inside. He stays until the staff finish up too, just to make sure they get to their cars.
It's pouring down rain on a Tuesday night in October when Shitty gets back to the Haus after his shift. He finds Jack and Lardo watching a documentary together in the front room. His sneakers are soaked all the way through his socks, and he has a mountain of lecture reading to do. All he wants to do is go upstairs, take his clothes off, get his homework done and go to bed.
"Hey Shitty," Jack says, looking over.
"Where ya been?" Lardo asks.
"Eh, working on this... project thing." Shitty's stomach swoops uneasily with the vagueness of his answer. He's never been great with half-truths, which frankly makes him worry about his potential career in the justice system.
He toes his shoes off, then peels his socks from his feet, leaving everything in a pile right by the door. He's almost to the top of the stairs when he realizes he's being followed and looks back over his shoulder. Lardo takes the next few steps quickly to catch up, her Converse tapping louder against the creaking wooden floorboards.
"Sup?" she asks, nudging him toward his room.
"Not a lot," he replies, sliding his jacket off and dropping it just inside the door. He pulls his shirt off next, and tosses it onto a pile that's been building in the corner for a couple of weeks.
Lardo shuts his door and leans back against it.
"I have a fuckton of reading I need to get done," Shitty explains, scratching absently at his bare chest before undoing his jeans, stripping down to his purple boxer-briefs. "You wanna hang out while I read? If I get through it--" he pauses, interrupting himself with a yawn. "Maybe we can smoke up after."
"Cool," Lardo agrees, and picks her way across the cluttered floor, avoiding piles of crumpled papers, beer cans, books and his laptop. "Mind if I use your iPad?"
They settle on his bed and Shitty lies down on his back with his head on Lardo's thigh, so she can tuck her fingertips into his hair, the blunt ends of her nails grazing his scalp intermittently when she's not poking at the iPad. Shitty gets a page and a half into the double-sided twenty-six page photocopy he's meant to read for class in the morning, and then lets it flop onto his chest.
He lifts his gaze, and Lardo is peering down at him, a curious look on her face.
"What're you working on?" he asks, studying her. There's a strand of her dark hair falling forward and he stops himself from reaching up to tuck it behind her ear.
She grins a little, the corner of her mouth turning up. "Just sending some e-mails. Um. About the art show."
Shitty's eyes widen, realization crashing over him. "Dude, you got in?"
"Apparently so," Lardo says with a shrug, but she's grinning bigger, clearly pleased about it.
"You could have fuckin' told me!" he says, sitting up, shifting around so he can pull her into a congratulatory hug.
"Tellin' you now," she replies, resting her chin on his shoulder, folding her arms around him. It's a little awkward, but he holds on to her, and she doesn't pull back right away either.
"Congrats, brah," Shitty says, quiet and sincere, and the hug tapers. "That's fucking 'swawesome. Let me know when it is, yeah? Let all of us know. We all wanna be there."
Lardo nods, meeting his gaze again. She doesn't say anything, but he knows that look, knows her well enough to know there's something on her mind.
"What? I promise I'll make Rans and Holster keep their interpretive commentary to a minimum this time."
She shakes her head a little, amused, but keeps her eyes on his. "They're fine."
"What, then?"
Lardo stays quiet another moment, glancing away before she speaks. "Had to go to that hardware store on the other side of town today."
"Yeah? For what?"
Lardo brings her hand up, touching a fingertip to his mouth, and Shitty takes the hint, presses his lips together.
"Couple things. Chicken wire for a sculpture. Not the point."
Shitty just waits for her to continue, even after she drops her hand.
"So coming back, I saw you at Planned Parenthood. On the sidewalk."
Shitty's heart lurches a little, his pulse speeding up. "Ah. Right. Okay, well, the thing about that is--"
Lardo cuts him off again, with her entire hand this time, the palm of it curving across his mouth. "Shut up, Shits."
He nods slightly, trying to apologize with his eyes. He does that too much, interrupting her. It's probably his worst habit. Her fingers smell like art supplies, markers, maybe.
"I didn't think it was actually you. I thought-- how weird, that dude looks just like Shitty." Her hand twitches a little, fingertips pressing a bit tighter. "Then I realized that it was you. And what you were doing."
She looks at him like she does after he manages to do something good on the ice, a goal or a save or something. He can't help but grin a little behind her hand. Lardo lets it fall away, then leans in close, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
"Thanks, man," she says quietly.
He shakes his head a bit, dismissive. "It's the right thing to do, that's all."
"Yeah, well," she says. "Thanks anyhow. You could have told me, dude."
"Probably, yeah," he concedes.
Lardo settles again, picking the iPad back up. Shitty shifts around to lie back down, sighing quietly and getting back to his reading. He tries to figure out where he'd left off, his eyes quickly scanning the page. When he finally finds it, he rests his free hand on his chest, curled loosely against his collarbone.
When Lardo slips her hand into his a moment later, his pulse takes off like before, and he loses his place all over again. He squeezes her fingers and she swipes her thumb along the ridge of his knuckles. Her nail polish is wine-red and imperfect, chipped around the edges. He has to close his eyes for a moment. He's such a mess.
Well, what are you gonna do about it? he asks himself silently.
There's no answer except the insistent thud of his heart.