Chapter Text
Ram sort of wishes his mom were with him.
Maybe that’s a little wimpy for a guy his age to admit, but whatever. Ram’ll admit it. He misses his mom, and seeing all the other kids buzzing around campus with their parents makes him feel a certain kind of way. Worse, sometimes one of the parents will, in the process of watching their kid, catch sight of him, and make this strange, puckered face as if they know he’s alone. Ram tries to ignore them. It isn’t as if they’re trying to be malicious, and he guesses that there is something sad about a kid moving into college alone. While Ram’s gotten used to doing things solo over the years, it would’ve been nice to have someone here with him.
“Next!”
Ram’s line shuffles forward. He stands up on his tiptoes to see how many more people are between him and the student worker, and then sighs defeatedly when he realizes he’s still two heads deep. He checks his phone. It’s an ungodly hour, the sun just starting to really rouse itself into a late-summer fervor. Ram rubs at his eyes, and they feel gritty. In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have done the drive from Boston to Illinois in a day, but it’d been hard to leave home. Harder than he thought it would be. Maybe it’s because this trip is for real — unlike a hockey tournament, Ram’s not going and coming right back; he’ll be at Fort Elm University until Thanksgiving, and then after that, if everything goes well, he’ll be right back here again, semester after semester, year after year. The thought makes his stomach clench. Christ, he wishes he had some coffee.
“Next!”
Ram rolls his shoulders, then his neck. He squints at Elm’s Activity Center’s fluorescent lights. His whole body aches, which isn’t great given that after today — move-in — and tomorrow — team orientation — he’s going to be thrown into the deep end, spending the whole week before the official start of the semester working his ass off to try and place on Elm’s championship hockey team, the Elks. Ram’s technically on a sports scholarship, a really great sports scholarship if he’s being honest, one he never expected to receive or thought was coming his way, but it doesn’t guarantee him a roster spot, especially on a team like the Elks. While not as famous as other D1 schools, Elm consistently makes the Big Ten Men’s Hockey Conference, battles hard in the Frozen Four, and has an impressive student-athlete to professional athlete pipeline. Elm seems to exist in the same space that Warroad does: a small, half-hidden epicenter of good hockey and great players. It remains to be seen if Ram’s included in the great players part, but his old AAA coaches and the Elm coaches seem to think he is, so here he is, waiting in line to pick up his freshmen dorm keys.
There had been some hope of his mom being here, but it died an inglorious death when Gianna, Ram’s little sister, broke her leg. How she broke it continues to be a mystery, but Mom hadn’t felt comfortable leaving a one-legged Gianna and Nonnino in charge of the bakery. Which, yeah, fair. Ram didn’t feel comfortable stealing Mom away for a weekend, either, not when everyone else needs her more at home. I’m a big boy, he told Mom, I can do this.
I know, Gabe, it’s just —
It’s just that she felt guilty, which is ridiculous. Ram said as much, and his Mom swatted at his arm, clicking her tongue.
This isn’t some road game, Gabe. This is college. I should be with you, moving you in. Making you comfortable.
Ram said that he could make himself comfortable, but Mom hadn’t liked that, either, puttering around his suitcases with a frown on her face. Nonnino eventually convinced Mom to leave Ram to his packing, and Ram made sure to hug her extra long on the way out. It’ll be fine, he said, you’ll see.
And he has been fine. So far, at least. He has the feeling that it won’t stay that way, though. He still has to move all his things into his actual dorm, and there’s still his roommate to meet. Ram isn’t a stranger to sharing a room with someone, not with how many road games and travel teams he’s been on, but he had at least known their names. His Elm roommate is a complete mystery, and Ram, if he’s being honest, is a little nervous about that. The only thing he does know is that the guy is another hockey rookie also likely vying for a spot on the roster. Elm likes to dorm their incoming athletes together — why, Ram doesn’t know. Mom said something about a built-in support system, but Ram isn’t entirely convinced. Regardless, because of Elm’s dorming system, entire blocks become hot spots for hockey, basketball, football, and baseball. If there’s a sport or an athletic team, then there are probably at least two freshmen in a dorm who play it. Ram glances around the Center. Elm’s early move-in is reserved only for freshmen athletes to give them enough time for orientations, camps, and basic conditioning, and he tries to spot other hockey players through the crowd. It’s a losing battle. Without sticks or skates, hockey players look exactly like everybody else.
“Next! Hey — next!”
Ram jerks, moving up to the student worker.
“Sorry,” he says, and the worker smiles.
“It’s alright. It’s all a bit overwhelming, isn't it?”
Ram hums in agreement, then gives his name. The worker finds him on the check-in list, highlights his name, and then sends him away with a small envelope of keys, his campus parking pass, and a sweet, if not slightly rehearsed, “Welcome to Elm!”
Ram bounces the envelope in his palm.
“Thanks,” he says, moving on. He breathes easier outside of the Center, away from all the other people and their parents. He pats his phone, considering calling his Mom, but decides against it. Instead, he opens up the packet of keys, slipping them onto his car fob. Then he finds his car, places the parking pass on his dash, and heads toward the dorms. He ends up being filtered into yet another line. He doesn’t mind too much. There’s some novelty in watching other freshmen blindly wander around, their arms laden with just the strangest stuff. Ram watches one half-jog down the sidewalk with a terrarium and rolls down his window to get a better look at what’s inside, shuddering when he catches sight of the fat, black-brown body of a tarantula. Jesus, he thinks. He crosses his fingers, hoping they aren’t his roommate and therefore, not his circus, not his monkeys. Or, you know — not his roomie, not his spider.
When freshmen-watching gets too boring, Ram turns his attention toward the campus. While not as big as other American collegiate mechas — like Arizona or A&M — Elm exists on sprawling, Midwest acreage, the lawns so green it almost hurts Ram’s eyes. Most of the buildings are big, all dark wood and common Chicago bricks, done in a Neoclassical style, but some of the newer ones are sleek, light grey concrete, almost white-washed, more brutal than beautiful, and if he really tries, Ram can pretend the whole campus is like that: a little slice of Northeast just for him.
He sighs again. Yeah, right.
All the cars edge forward, idling, and Ram moves far enough up to get him to yet another check-in area. He gives his name again, then his new address, and is directed toward a dorm. Then it’s finding a parking spot and — well, everybody knows the rest. There are only so many ways one can move into a college dorm. Ram hadn’t even taken much with him, just a few suitcases filled with his necessities. In fact, Ram has his side of the dorm nearly squared away by the time his roommate finally arrives. A part of him panics when he hears the door’s lock click, but he takes a deep breath, continues to worm his desk and dresser under his lofted bed, and tries to act casual. No biggie. Ram’s good with people. At least, people say he’s good with people; he supposes he didn’t have much of a choice. Growing up, he either engaged with potential customers and convinced them to buy something, or he didn’t, which meant that they didn’t earn enough money to waste on his hockey team fees. So, yeah. He got good at talking.
The door opens.
“Oh,” his roomie says, “it’s you.”
“I — what?” Ram abandons his nonchalant tactic. He shuffles out from under his bed and then squints. His roomie waddles inside, laden down with one big-ass suitcase and an equally big backpack, nothing else. He looks familiar, but Ram can’t place why, when, or where. Still, it seems like his roommate knows him.
“You,” his roommate repeats. Then he mimes some sort of shot, dropping his backpack onto his bed. He turns to stare at Ram, snorting at Ram’s blank face. “Calisse, you don’t remember — but no, why would you? You won the game.”
Ram blinks, then blinks again.
“I won which game now?”
His roommate faces him straight on, sinking into an awkward crouch in the cramped space between their two beds, and covers the lower half of his face with his hand, hiding everything except his eyes. Ram jolts.
“Holy shit,” he says, laughing in disbelief. “You’re the goalie.”
By the goalie, Ram means the one who basically punched his meal ticket into Elm. Ram managed to snag a roster spot on the IIHF World Juniors every other year or so, and his last grab had been his junior year of high school. He’d gone in not expecting much — he’s not much of a superstar, and he knows it; he did good work in the corners and his zone, but nothing spectacular — but ended up getting the goal of the game, this beautiful, short-handed goal to push the USA team above Canada’s into the silver-medal game. If Ram’s being honest, he had no reason to be where he was and shooting like he had been, but the thing about getting the goal is that suddenly people start paying attention to all your goals. Elm and a few other D1 schools apparently liked what they saw, and Ram just followed the money.
He points at himself.
“You remember my face?”
His roommate looks at him like Ram’s just asked the dumbest question in the world. Which, okay, maybe it’s a bit insensitive to ask a goalie if they remember one of the worst shifts of their career, but in Ram’s defense, his roomie started it. He racks his brain for the guy’s name, and something vaguely French comes to mind — Savoy? Vachon? No, no. Those don’t sound right. Ram gives a sheepish smile.
“Sorry,” he says, then he pivots. “Is this all your stuff, or do you need some help bringing things up?”
His roomie shakes his head. “I flew in. Not much room on a plane.” He looks around the dorm. “Not much room in here, either.”
He’s right. The dorm isn’t the smallest room Ram’s ever been in or shared, but it’s cozy for strangers — or, almost strangers. There’s enough space for their two beds and the complementary dressers and desks, but just barely. Ram has managed to carve out a few more square inches by lofting his bed up all the way and shoving everything but his nightstand underneath it, and his roomie keeps looking past Ram at his side’s setup, clearly appraising it. Ram supposes it could be worse. The school or sports department could’ve tried to squeeze a third into the room, and they do have their own bathroom — no communal showers for them, thank God. Ram shifts on his feet, sneaking a look at his watch.
“We’ll make it work,” Ram says. “But, hey — I know you just got in and everything, but do you want to grab something, like food or a coffee? I’ll pay.”
His roomie considers it — considers Ram.
“No pressure,” Ram says. “But, y’know, I’d hate to have my goalie already upset with me before the season even starts.”
His roomie smiles for the first time, his lean, oval face softening into something boyish if not a bit toothy. Some of the tension drains out of his shoulders, too, and he pokes, limply, at his backpack.
“I’m not your goalie yet, niaiseux,” he says, without any real heat.
At least, Ram thinks it’s heatless. Goalies are strange creatures, and Ram doesn’t have much experience interacting with them anymore, not since he was moved from defenseman to forward center in high school. Still, all of his travel and AAA goalies had been mostly introverted, keeping to themselves and their creases, almost always with the team but two steps behind, shooting secretive glances at the rest of the team from over the lip of their chest protectors. Or maybe they had all been two steps ahead, and it had been the rest of the team who were behind. Ram’s not sure. What he is sure of, though, is that an unhappy goalie makes for an unhappy team. He’s not sure if his roomie’s truly bitter about the goal or just playing around. It wouldn’t be the dumbest hockey grudge Ram’s ever heard of if he actually is still upset about it, and Ram doesn’t need to start the semester off with a goalie wanting to settle an old score. No, thank you. Besides, Ram doesn’t want to be rooming with someone who hates his guts over a goal that should’ve never been a goal.
“But I do like free things,” his roomie continues.
“The Student Union might be open. We could go check it out.”
“Super, super,” his roomie says, his accent — pure Québécois, it’s got to be — making the whole word sway, see-sawing: sou-pair, sou-pair. Emphasis on the ou. He nudges his suitcase further onto his side of the room, stretches, and then waves at the door. “Lead on, um —?”
“You remember my face but not my name?”
“It’s a very memorable face. Like Crosby.”
Ram laughs. “I do not look like Sidney Crosby.”
“Do too —” his roomie gestures at Ram’s face “— just, curlier hair and bigger cheeks.”
“Is that meant to be a compliment?”
“Whatever you like, niaiseux.”
Ram shoulders the door open. The rest of the dorm building thrums with other athletes and their families, and Ram and his roommate share a look. What the look means, Ram isn’t sure, but something seems to click. Maybe it’s because they seem to be the only two on their own, or maybe it’s just because they’re both a little travel weary and wired for what they’re going to have to face down tomorrow. Maybe it’s both. Regardless, they both snicker, moving away from the chaos and onto campus proper.
“It’s Gabriel,” Ram says. “Gabriel Rampazzo.”
“Ram,” his roomie says, snapping his fingers. “Everybody called you Ram, non?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it just because of your last name, or is there a story? I feel like there’s a story.”
“Are we close enough for stories already?”
“So there is a story.”
“No,” Ram laughs, “I mean, well, not really. The last name came first, and then I got moved from defense to center, and I guess I still play a little like a d-man.”
“You hit hard?”
“Sometimes.”
His roommate looks him over. “But you’re tiny.”
“I’m not tiny. I’m an average height.”
“Not for a hockey player.”
“Not all of us can be giants, y’know.” Ram scratches at the back of his neck, right where he’s cut his curls close for the start of the season. The two of them turn down Elm’s main road, the buildings vaguely familiar from Ram’s campus tour. He steers them toward the Quad — or where he thinks the Quad might be — and his roommate follows without a fuss. “It must be easy to be a goalie when all you have to do is stand in the goal and block all of it.”
“You think I’m big? Wait till you see the actual goalie — Calisse, talk about big.”
“Really?”
The goalie nods. “They call him Misha. Like, Russian bear.”
“Have you met him already?”
“Non. I had tickets to one of the Four’s preliminary rounds, and he was in net.” He raises his eyebrows. “I suppose we’ll see him tomorrow, won’t we?”
“Please, only happy thoughts today.” Ram beams when his roommate smiles again, and then pokes at him. “And you? Your name?”
“Laurent, but everybody calls me Laurie.”
“Oh, everybody?”
“I’m very popular.”
“Uh-huh.”
Laurie pulls a face, almost sticking his tongue out at Ram, but they hit the SU before either of them can really get going. It’s quiet inside, almost eerily so, the large, windowed building empty save for the afternoon sunlight and a few clusters of students. Ram stares at them without trying to look like he’s staring. Laurie has no shame, though, and leans close to Ram.
“Summer boarders, you think?”
“Probably.”
Laurie shakes his head. “ Calisse,” he says, drawing the word out.
“What’s that mean?”
“Google it,” Laurie says, sniffing, a smile hovering around the edges of his lips. It’s his turn to steer; he maneuvers Ram into the food court, and they take a moment to stare at the paltry handful of options. They both fish around for their student IDs and then try to remember what their dining plan covers. As athletes, they were pre-approved for a dining plan without any effort on their part. No doubt, when the semester actually starts, they’ll scavenge for most of their meals out of the cafeteria, but why not treat themselves now, before their wrists are tied by whatever sports season nutrition plan they might be put on? They share another look and then head for the unhealthiest fast food option. With the SU as dead as it is, they make record time through the line, and Ram christens his ID, Laurie raises his fries in victory when the transaction goes through. Ram knocks his own fry carton against Laurie’s, and they carry their lunch outside, eating as they walk. They take the long way around, mapping out the rest of Elm.
“Major?” Ram asks.
“Psychology,” Laurie says. “You?”
“Business admin.”
“How boring.” Laurie swallows a fry, and Ram’s reminded of the greedy seagulls along Cape Cod’s coast. He smothers a snort into his chicken sandwich, feeling his arteries clog even as he chews. Laurie slows, and Ram matches him. He almost asks what’s wrong, but then he turns and sees what Laurie’s caught sight of: it’s the Elk’s hockey arena. Ram’s body stiffens reflexively, focusing on it like a hunting dog. Next to him, Laurie’s not much better.
“Damn,” Ram mutters. “There it is.”
Laurie nods. Without saying anything, they make their way over, craning their heads back to stare at it. Like most buildings on campus, it’s big and brick. It’s a little grand like UND’s, but has the no-nonsense look of UMN’s Mariucci Arena. Its marquee is dotted with banners of its current players. At the very center of the marquee, right above the main entrance, hangs Elm’s newest Frozen Four Championship Winner banner, the announcement half-covering the painted school crest behind it. Laurie makes a measuring motion with his hands.
“You think it’s big enough?”
“Hm?” Ram tears his eyes away from the player banners. They all look so serious — especially Cody Beattie, the current Elk captain and primary center. He’s half-bent over his stick, almost as if he’s gearing up for a face-off, his brows drawn together over his outrageously blue eyes. Ram hasn’t been stalking the team or anything, but everybody and anybody knows how intimidating it is to square up across from Beattie. He rarely loses face-offs, likely because the other center’s too scared to fight hard enough for the puck. Laurie steps behind him, making a similar noise when he catches sight of Cody.
“Yeesh,” he says. “I’d hate to get on his bad side.”
“Have you —?” Ram stops, biting his lip. His fingers feel greasy. The back of his neck starts to heat up, flushing, and he lowers his voice. “Have you heard the rumors?”
“Hasn’t everyone?” Laurie answers, and he sounds sort of squirmy, too.
Ram forces himself to look away from Cody’s face. There are hypotheses as to why the Elks are so good. Foremost among them is how good the main coaching staff is. The head coach, Aleksandr Morozov, had once been a ferocious NHL defenseman, and the head assistant coach, Erik Svelberg, had bounced around in the minors before breaking through, not in America, but in Sweden, playing good, hard hockey in the SHL. How or why they ended up in Elm remains a mystery, but together they’ve created a hockey powerhouse. They’ve also created something of a reputation for themselves and Elm. Not only do they have an eye for good players — what’s good for Elm is good for every other D1 team — but they also have a wickedly intense coaching style, asking for nothing less than their players’ everything. A sports analyst once remarked that while the Elks might play against more talented teams, they’ve yet to find a team more conditioned than they are. Raw talent only goes so far on exhausted legs. If the Elks can’t outplay a team, they’ll outskate, outshoot, and outmuscle.
As if that’s not intimidating enough — Ram shudders to think of what this week’s conditioning might entail — there’s the coaches’ off-ice reputations, too. Specifically, that they are just as intense and invested in their players’ lives as they are in their hockey. It sounds nice on paper. It certainly sounded nice to Ram when his intention letter came around, but anyone who knows anything about hockey, especially hockey systems, knows what invested means, and now, standing outside of the arena, it’s starting to feel real. Like, really real.
“Do you believe them?” Laurie asks. “The rumors, I mean.”
It’s Ram’s turn to pull a face. His flush grows, jumping from ear-tip to ear-tip. Corporal disciplinary systems aren’t unique in the hockey world. In fact, it’s probably harder to find a coach who wouldn’t give their players some warning swats or drop them in some unfortunate corner — or penalty box, or bus seat, or wherever — than not. Still, there’s a spectrum. Ram, over his youth and junior hockey career, has dealt with soft and hard coaches, and he’s survived both, but, y’know — spankings. Even thinking the word makes his stomach clench, sensing danger. Ram’s always been something of a straight-laced player, avoiding most of the harshest punishments, but he’s also never played for Coach Morozov and Svelberg before, who are, once again, renowned for their hockey system. Or maybe infamous is a better word? Ram’s not sure, which he supposes is the issue. He has no idea what to expect except some distant sense of doom, like his time just skating by and keeping his head down won’t work here.
“I don’t know why anybody would lie about things like that.”
“Sure, but…”
Laurie’s voice drifts away, quieting. Ram rocks on his feet.
“I kind of hope they aren’t,” he says, and he and Laurie share another look, “but I don’t think we’re going to be that lucky.”
“Tabarnak.” Laurie bites his lip after a moment. “I’ve got to stop saying things like that.”
Ram shakes himself out of whatever ominous funk the arena’s put him in, and he turns away from it, nudging his shoulder into Laurie’s side when the taller boy doesn’t move. It makes the goalie twitch.
“So they’re bad words, then?”
“Google.”
“Fine. Keep your secrets.” They start making their way back to the dorm. Behind them, the arena waits, watching. “Maybe you’ll get lucky. Maybe there won’t be another French-Canadian on the team.”
“Maybe,” Laurie says, “but I don’t think it would take them long to figure it out, and then — have you ever had your mouth washed out?”
Christ. Ram feels a little light-headed, but whatever. Trauma bonding is what binds a hockey team together. Or roommates. Or or it’s what binds roommates-teammates together. Yeah, that’s the excuse Ram’s going with when he decides to answer.
“Just once. I said something to my Mom, I think, and my Nonnino, my grandpa, didn’t appreciate it.”
“Just once, huh. That’s all?”
“Once was more than enough,” Ram says. Though it’s been almost a decade, he can still taste the bar soap, bitter and slightly metallic, and feel it sliding around his mouth, bumping into his teeth. He had spat up suds the rest of that night and the next day, and he spent a long time gagging over the sink, rubbing at his spit-slick lips and chin. You’re better than that, Gabriel, Nonnino said. You do not talk to your Mamma that way, ever. Capisci? Ca-fucking-pisci. Ram wouldn’t wish a soaping on his worst enemy.
“Lucky you.”
“Are you — um — something of a soap connoisseur?”
Laurie laughs, the sound sudden and almost barking, and Ram starts laughing, too. They both have something of a hysterical edge lingering in their voices — probably because they’re less than a day from technically not only starting college but also stepping into the hockey program. Also, this whole avenue of conversation is a bit strange, especially for almost-strangers. Or maybe it isn’t? Ram came from a junior league who didn’t talk, let alone joke about these kinds of things. If a player got in trouble, they sorted it out with the coach in private. There would occasionally be a flash of red bare-ass in the locker room, but nobody looked and nobody asked. Ram has a feeling that Elm isn’t going to be the same way. Why he feels that way, he doesn’t know. Call it a premonition.
Laurie puts two of his fingers. “A little. It’s a hard habit to break once you get going.”
“Maybe they’ll be lenient. All hockey players curse.”
“That’s very naive of you.”
“I like to think of it as optimistic, but sure, shit all over me.”
Laurie laughs again, softer this time.
“Careful, careful, niaiseux.”
“See — is that a swear word, too?”
“Non. It’s like a — a nickname?”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
“I’m always sure.”
Ram tosses his trash away when they pass by one of the move-in dumpsters, standing up on his toes to reach. Then he pulls his phone out. He makes sure Laurie can see him pulling up Google.
“How do you spell it?”
Laurie wags a finger at Ram, but doesn’t answer. He just walks away, moving toward the dorm. Ram half-jogs to catch up with him, wiggling his phone in front of the goalie.
“Hey now — hey. How am I supposed to Google it if I can’t even spell it?”
“C'est pas mes soucis,” Laurie says, his nose crinkling teasingly. Ram sputters, acting offended, and they wind their way back up to their floor. They both eye the other kids wandering around. This late in the day, most of the families have either left or are scattered across campus, most likely picking the bookstore spirit shop clean. Ram makes a mental note to visit. His Mom wants something Elm-related to display in the bakery, and Ram supposes he should get something school-related for himself. Although athletes do tend to be showered in team merch, so maybe he just needs to be patient. And, you know, make the actual team and all.
Laurie looks back at him on the stairs.
“You think there are any other hockey players here?”
“Probably,” Ram says, shrugging. Most D1 schools can only offer a maximum of eighteen hockey scholarships, but most D1 schools also try to sign anywhere from twenty to twenty-five new players per class. Ram’s got one scholarship, and even if Elm is on the higher end of intentioned players, he and Laurie already cut the number down from twenty-five to twenty-three. “Maybe they put us all together — uh, hi. Hello!”
They make it down their hall, and Ram turns to the rooms across and next to theirs. Laurie looks half-horrified by him calling out to them, but it gets both rooms’ attention. They murmur a greeting back. Laurie slips back into his and Ram’s room with a suddenly shy half-wave, so it’s up to Ram to make nice. He stays out there for a minute, making small talk with the neighbors, and helps one of them loft their beds. Then it’s back to Laurie.
“Baseball guys,” Ram announces, the door’s automatic lock engaging behind him. “So, we’re not all together.”
“Do you always just —” Laurie gestures out with one of his hands.
“They’re our neighbors.”
“They’re strangers.”
“Well, you were a stranger, too.”
“Non. I was a competitive rival. Big difference.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t exactly call you a competitive —” Ram gets smacked in the face by one of Laurie’s shirts, and he snorts, throwing it back. It bounces harmlessly off the open end of Laurie’s suitcase. Laurie nudges it aside.
“My God, terrible aim. Terrible. How do you ever find the net?”
“I find it plenty. You of all people should know.”
“Keep laughing, niaiseux. That’ll be the only goal you get out of me, just you wait.”
Ram makes a patronizing noise, and Laurie mutters more French under his breath, shooting Ram a smile. The rest of the day sort of unravels from there. Ram helps Laurie finish moving his furniture around and runs to the nearby strip mall to load up on all the things they didn’t bring with them: toothbrushes and toothpaste, soap, hair products, Epsom salt, etc., etc. Laurie’s done unpacking by the time Ram returns, and they bring everything in together. Ram’s knocking around in the bathroom when Laurie appears in the doorway, his phone in hand.
“We got an email.”
Ram stills, sitting back on his ass.
“From the coaches?”
Laurie nods. He clears his throat. “Welcome incoming players. We know today is likely a stressful day with move-in, and wish to offer any assistance we can.” Laurie pauses, his thumb scrolling across his screen. “They give some phone numbers — theirs’ and the older players' — and, here we go — we would like to remind you that team orientation is scheduled for tomorrow morning, and that all players are required to attend. Best wishes, Coach Morozov — Coach Mo — and Svelberg.” Another pause. “Are we…do you think he wants us to call him Coach Mo?”
Ram tilts his head back until it rests against the wall.
“Have you met him?”
“Non.”
“Neither have I.”
“The goalie coach is the one who met with me,” Laurie continues. “Who met with you?”
“One of the other assistants.”
“Second assistant or third assistant?”
“They were one of the scouts.” Ram pauses, suddenly unsure. “Does it matter?”
Laurie puts his phone down on the sink counter and leans against it. “Probably not, non. You’re still here, anyway. We both are.”
“Do you think he’s met with any of the rookies already?”
Laurie shrugs. Ram contemplates. Should he have planned an office visit with Coach Mo or Svelberg? They’d been CC’d on all his emails to the assistant coach he’d been talking with, and they’d both signed off on his intention letter — he’d seen their signatures above his, after all — so they know that he’s, you know, real, but was Ram supposed to meet with them in person? Is he supposed to thank them for the scholarship, too? He has no idea.
“Should we text one of the numbers?” Ram asks.
“I’d rather not,” Laurie mutters. He has the same look on his face that he had when Ram started talking to the neighbors, and Ram bites his tongue to keep from laughing. Instead of looking shy, Laurie looks downright pissed. Or maybe pouty? Maybe both. Goalies, Ram thinks. So weird. Laurie seems to sense Ram’s amusement because he huffs, retreating back toward the beds. “Look, starting tomorrow, we’re going to have people riding our asses. And if we get on the team, they’re going to ride our asses even harder for the rest of the school year. I want to spend my last day with my ass belonging to nobody but me.”
“You think it’ll really be that bad?”
“I think —” Laurie’s voice disappears through the wall. Ram drags himself up and wanders after him, finding the Canadian lounging on his freshly made bed, his hands locked behind his head. His lips are pursed. He looks around the room. “I think we need a TV.”
“Do you have TV money?”
“I just might,” Laurie says. He gestures to the empty space above the door. “How else are we going to watch hockey?”
“Touché.”
“Oh, some français. Very good.”
Ram rolls his eyes, pulling himself up onto his bed. He groans under his breath when he finally lies down, the ceiling bare and beige above his head. He squints. He’ll have to get some posters or something. Pictures, maybe, or those new LED lights he’s seen in other kids’ dorm room reveals. Ram puts his hand over his face.
“I do.”
“Huh?”
“You asked if I think it’s going to be bad. I do,” Laurie says. Ram drags his hand down, letting it rest on his stomach instead. “I don’t know if you’ve looked at any of the Elks’ reviews or anything, but they have a pro-system. Pro. You’ve had to have heard pro stories before.”
“Yeah.”
“Besides, they have the whole partner system here.”
“The what now?”
“The partner system,” Laurie repeats. Something groans. Ram looks over to find Laurie propped up on his elbow, staring over at Ram’s side of the room. “You know about the partner system, don’t you? It was in our intention letters.”
Ram doesn’t say anything.
“Calisse. You don’t know?”
“I know.”
“Crisse,” Laurie says, sounding both disbelieving and disappointed. “Ram.”
“What? They’re practically paying me to play hockey. No other school came even a little bit close to offering me the same kind of thing.”
“Well, sure, but —”
“It’ll be fine.” Ram looks back at the ceiling, taking a deep breath. “I’ll be fine.”
Laurie doesn’t say anything for a short while, but Ram feels the goalie’s eyes on him. He resists squirming around on his bed. He’s a good kid, he thinks; the kind of kid who's never had issues with his coaches before, so why would he have issues with his new coaches now? They’ll either like him or they won’t, and he’ll either play well or he won’t. Simple. His scholarship promises a year of complete coverage, whether he makes the team or not. At worst, Ram gets a year of development and a nice chunk of time to figure out what the hell he’s going to do if he doesn’t make the team. He’ll either pull together a new set of scholarships, make the team next year, or move back home, taking over the bakery early — way early. Ram can deal with that if it happens, and if it doesn’t happen, if he does make the team, then all the better. At the end of the day, it’s just hockey: just three periods of two teams flinging a little puck around, trying to score goals. Ram can do that. He’s been doing it since he was old enough to balance in a pair of skates. Hockey is hockey, and nothing that Elm or the Elks or Coach Mo and Svelberg do can change that, right? Right, Ram thinks, nodding to himself.
“You’re going to die.”
“I’m not going to die,” Ram says, sputtering slightly. “It’s just hockey.”
“That’s what you think.”
“Well, if it’s going to be that terrible, why did you sign your letter? Why are you playing?”
Laurie’s bed groans again. The other boy sighs.
“For the girls, obviously.”
Ram muffles his laughter into his comforter. Lying like he is, he remembers how tired he is and how badly his body aches. He stretches his legs out, rolling his ankles around.
“Seriously, Laurie. Why’d you sign?”
Laurie’s voice grows softer, quieter.
“I guess I just want to keep playing,” he says. “Isn’t that why all of us are here? To play as much and as far as we can?”
“Do you want to go pro?”
“I don’t know.” A beat. “You?”
“Probably not,” Ram says. There’s the bakery, after all, and Ram, if he’s being honest, never thought he’d actually get this far. He doubts he could go pro. He doubts he could even play D1 at any other school.
“Do you want me to tell you about the partner system?”
Ram considers the question.
“It’s alright. I’m sure they’ll tell us all about it tomorrow.”
“God,” Laurie says. “Tomorrow’s going to be brutal. Why did they make the orientation so early?”
“At least it gives us the rest of the day to do whatever.”
“Is there ever a situation where you can’t find the silver lining? It’s very annoying.”
“Pessimist.”
“Niaiseux,” Laurie says, his voice fond around its edges. They fall into a lull, their small room filling with the sound of their easy, soft breathing. Ram blinks.
“You’re right, you know.”
“I often am. But specifically — specifically, what am I right about?”
Ram hums, his eyes closing.
“We really do need a TV.”