Puck, Lust, Love

The alarm shrieks through my ears. I slam my hand down on it, eyes still closed, hoping for five more minutes. Then it hits me, first day of senior year.

"Fuck," I mutter, rolling onto my back and staring at the ceiling.

The smell of my mom's cooking drifts up from downstairs. My stomach growls in response. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and rub my face, feeling the rough stubble against my palms.

I check my hockey bag first, a ritual I've had since freshman year. Skates, stick tape, extra laces, pads, helmet, jersey. Everything's there, ready for practice after school. I run my hand over my stick, the same one I used to score the our last goal in last season's semi-final. Some of the guys got new gear over the summer, but I'm not changing what works.

After a quick shower, I throw on jeans and a faded Canucks t-shirt. Nothing special for the first day. Nobody who matters cares what I wear anyway.

Walking down the stairs, I hear low voices from the living room. One of them isn't Mom's. I recognize it immediately, and something in my chest loosens.

I find Mom in the kitchen first, stirring something on the stove.

"Morning," I say, kissing her cheek.

"Good morning, beta." She pats my face. "You have a visitor. She's been waiting for twenty minutes already."

I walk into the living room and there's Abbie, curled up in the corner of our couch, one of my old hockey sweatpants hanging loose on her hips, sports bra, hair tied up. She's reading something thick, sipping cha from Mom's good cups. She looks up when she hears me.

"Took you long enough," she says, closing her book. "Some of us have been productive this morning."

I cross the room and lean down to kiss her.

"What are you reading?" I ask, dropping onto the couch beside her.

She holds up the book, something with a lot of graphs and long words in the title. "Psychology research. Thought I'd get ahead on my AP coursework."

"At seven in the morning? On the first day?" I shake my head.

"That's why you keep me around, my smarts," She stretches, her body arching slightly. "That, and other reasons."

"Breakfast!" Mom calls from the kitchen.

Abbie unfolds herself from the couch, taking my hand and pulling me up. Her fingers are cool against mine.

The three of us sit at the kitchen table. Mom's made a full spread. It's too much for a Monday, but I know why she's done it. Last first day of high school. She gets sentimental about this stuff.

"How's the new position at the store, Mom?" I ask, scooping food onto my plate.

"Good, good. More responsibility but better pay. The new manager is an idiot, but what can you do?" She turns to Abbie. "Eat more, beta. You're too thin."

Abbie smiles and takes another paratha. "Thank you, Auntie. Everything is delicious."

"So," Mom says, looking between us. "Last year. Are you two ready?"

"Prepared as ever," Abbie replies before I can speak. "My college applications are already drafted. Just waiting on this semester's grades and recommendations."

Mom nods approvingly. "And what about cheerleading? You were working on new routines, no?"

"All summer," Abbie confirms. "We have nationals this year. The squad's strong."

Mom turns to me. "And you, John? Those fancy coaches I worked double shifts to pay for better have taught you something useful."

I feel my face heat up. "They did, Mom. Scouts will be at the first few games. Coach thinks we have a shot at state this year."

"Good." She taps the table decisively. "All those hours at the rink need to pay off. Scholarships don't grow on trees."

"I know, Mom." I try not to sound annoyed. We've had this conversation a thousand times.

"John's the best player on the team," Abbie says, her hand landing on my thigh under the table. "Every scout will see that."

Mom snorts. "He better be. You two have plans, expensive plans. College isn't cheap."

"We know," we say in unison, mine more annoyed than hers. We glance at each other and laugh.

Mom shakes her head but she's smiling. "Finish eating. I'll drive you both to school."

"We can walk," I say automatically.

"On the first day? No. I'm driving you. Finish your breakfast."

I look at Abbie, who shrugs slightly.

Under the table, Abbie's hand moves higher on my thigh, her fingers tracing patterns against my jeans. Her expression doesn't change as she discusses college applications with my mother, but her touch sends heat through my body.

I put my hand over Abbie's, stilling her movement. "We should get going," I say. "Don't want to be late."