Chapter 4: Chapter Three

You know the saying the more things change, the more they stay the same?

I do. In fact, I was living it.

Comparing my first year of university to my fourth and final one seems like night and day. Back then, the classes were large enough to fill the convocation hall, I had no idea what a syllabus was, and the possibility of doing great things was palpable in the air. Now, it was common to have seminar classes with a total of thirteen students, I knew how to read a syllabus like the back of my hand, and you realize—slowly, painfully—that a lot of university students don't exactly know what they're doing at the institution, let alone in their classes.

And yet, over the course of those three plus years, it feels like I've lived this exact night a million times. I'm on the couch, legs stretched out in front and laptop sitting on my thighs, with a full cup of caffeine-free Diet Coke (I'm really fun at parties) brimming with ice on the stool beside me. Even though I've tuned out the sounds from the flat screen on our living room wall, I can tell by the hammering noise that one of those home renovation shows my dad is obsessed with is on. It's how I often spend my Friday nights; home with my parents and doing some of the "lighter" work I have, the kind that doesn't involve too much thinking but that needs to be done in a timely manner. Tonight, I'm emailing potential participants for my thesis project.

"Will, do you mind putting that a little lower?" my mom asked my dad.

They were sitting next to each other, my dad holding my mom's feet, on the other couch in the room, opposite of the one I had to myself. Perks.

"Yeah, sure," my dad responded as he put it a few notches down.

My mom smiled her thanks but instead of returning her attention to her e-reader like I thought she would, she trained her eyes on me.

"What are you working on there, Camille?"

"Just sending a few emails," I murmured.

Neither of my parents were in the academic loop. My mom stopped her education after earning her bachelor's degree whereas my father went to college. Even though they were both more than capable of keeping up with my studies, sometimes it took more effort than it was worth to explain what I was doing all the time. It was tough enough to complete all the work; I didn't enjoy reliving it by telling others about it, as well.

"Can it wait until tomorrow? Let's see which movies are on Channel 100," my mom suggested.

I shrugged, corner of my mouth turning downwards, and looked to my dad for support. I had planned to finish this particular task today and I was a stickler for my own rules. The nap I took this afternoon after lunch was probably the furthest thing from productive, but wasn't life all about choices? Do it now or do it later, and I chose later.

My dad was hard on himself as well—but realistically, still probably not as bad as me—so I expected him to say something along the lines of "Let the girl work, Maia." After all, that was what he usually told her.

But alas, tonight, he was not on my side.

"Yeah, why don't you take a break? I'm sure you can work on that tomorrow," he said instead.

Frustrated, I pushed the top of my laptop closer to the keyboard to show my parents that I was giving them attention but not giving up on my work just yet.

I loved my parents, I really did. They were great people. Fantastic. And for the most part, I loved living with them. I mean, my setup was pretty sweet. I had their love, guidance, and support whenever I needed it, which was pretty much all the time.

But what I also had were their opinions. About everything. All the time.

Why are you doing that now?

Did you talk to your brother today?

Have you emailed your professor yet?

I knew I set myself up for the questions as I had a compulsive need to share whatever was on my mind whenever I had run in to some sort of problem. Some folks have the issue of letting everything simmer inside them. If those people lived in the Arctic, then I set up camp in Antarctica. Maybe it was because my parents were my safe place and my dumping grounds, but geez, it probably wouldn't be the end of the world if they didn't know every little wrinkle in my life.

"I can't," I said, trying to keep annoyance from leaking in my tone. "I planned to work on the Introduction section of my thesis tomorrow."

See? More unnecessary information. And I give it away like candy.

"You planned to work this weekend? You've already been working so hard this week. Take some time off."

See? More unnecessary opinion.

"Mom, please, trust me. I have all the due dates written down and I know when I can and can't afford to take time off."

Thankfully, my dad did take my side this time.

"We trust you to know what you're doing. Come on, Maia, just leave her alone. I know you miss her, though."

They missed me? Oh god. I still lived with them and spent, literally, 99% of the time that I wasn't in class at home with them. Yeah, I got that a lot of that time was spent in my room alone or that if I was in the living room with them, I had my laptop for company, but still, they missed me? I guess now was a bad time to admit that I was thinking of applying to grad school outside of Winnipeg. I hadn't brought it up yet because I wanted to make sure there were actually programs in experimental social psychology that I absolutely loved outside of the province. No sense in giving my dad a heart attack over a hypothetical.

"We do miss you, but it's more than that," my mom said. "I worry that you work too hard and don't enjoy yourself enough."

Well, she had a point there. I'm not alone in this, but somewhere along my educational career, I adopted the mindset that the less fun you were having, the better a student you were. There's no evidence to support that it's true, and in fact, the opposite probably has more truth, but attitudes were hard to change. I would know. I took an Attitudes and Persuasion course two semesters ago.

"I went to the game last week with Ang," I reminded my mom.

Her face lit up.

"Speaking of Angela, why don't you make plans to go spend tomorrow evening with her at her dorm? Get out of the house a little."

I deliberated. All things considered, that was a fair request. Saturday nights were typically my "off" nights, but that usually consisted of resting up so that I could be even more productive on Sunday. A real wild child, I am.

"I'll text her," I murmured, grabbing my phone off the coffee table.

Camille: Hey what are you doing tomorrow evening?

Yes, I texted in full sentences. Non face-to-face communication was already complicated by the fact that there are no verbal cues and body language to go by. No need to further muddy the exchange by using short forms and slang only god understands.

Angela: I have a date! Can you believe it?

Camille: No, not at all. Who is the poor victim?

Angela: Oh, you're a comedian now?

Angela: I'm teasing. It's Lawson! He did end up texting me!

Camille: And you said yes? What am I supposed to do tomorrow night, then? I wanted to come over.

Angela: You're actually allowing yourself to take time off? Are you sick right now?

Camille: Yeah, sick and tired of your sass. My parents want me to "go out more" and "have more fun" and more bullshit like that.

Angela: Well, you know my room is always open to you. Seriously. If you want, you can come over and watch Netflix.

An intriguing offer, indeed. I purposefully didn't have my own Netflix account because I was terrified of getting addicted to a show and having it take over my life.

Camille: Ooh, you know my weakness.

Camille: But thanks. I'll be there at 7. What are you doing for your date?

Angela: Anything for you, my pet. We're going bowling, you know, the place walking distance from campus? We're meeting there at 6:30.

Camille: Have fun and use a condom.

Angela: Okay, we're done talking. Bye pet.

Camille: Bye!!

I put my phone down and smiled to myself. Maybe I should take my parents' advice more often. Guess who just scored a date with herself and the Kissing Booth?

"You going to Ang's tomorrow?" my dad asked.

"Yup!"

That wasn't a lie. He never asked if she'd be there.

When you get drafted first overall in the NHL and have a real shot at pursuing a career as a professional athlete, you don't bitch about not going to university. Only ungrateful jerks probably did that, and I tried my hardest not to be one.

As far as university goes, hockey players are in a unique position. It's one of the few major leagues in North America that recruits their players in their late teens. Other sports, like football and baseball, draft their prospects largely by their performance in college—in the sport, not academics—and go from there. The unspoken understanding in the hockey world is that if you're going to college, you weren't drafted and therefore have a slim chance of making it in the NHL. Don't get me wrong, there are some guys in the league who've done that—Tyler Robinson, who won the Stanley Cup last season, is one of them—but they're few and far between.

All that is to say that I'm not exactly heartbroken that higher education isn't in the cards for me. I can't even say that my path has disappointed my parents because they've always encouraged me to do what's best for me, whatever that may be.

So, the fact that I'm on my way to a university campus on a Saturday night is not something I would have predicted for myself.

"Make the next left," Lawson says from the passenger seat of my Jeep.

I nod and flick the signal as I change lanes.

Lawson's the reason why I'm doing this. He hit me up yesterday to tell me that he has a date tonight and needed a ride to get there.

What's wrong with your car, I asked him.

Nothing, it turns out. I obliged, because my plans for tonight, were, as it turns out, nothing as well.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Lawson's knee buzzing like a bee.

"Will you relax? I swear you've burned more calories in the last five minutes than I do in a weight-lifting session," I tease.

My view of his face is obscured but I imagine that he rolls his eyes to accompany the small groan he let out.

"I'm nervous, man."

I'd ask why, but I'm not that dense. I haven't dated much, but it doesn't always take a chicken to know what an egg is. So I spare him the stupid question and ask a better one.

"How do you know this girl?"

"You know what, I'm not even sure when we first met. We were partnered together for one of our lab courses last year but I wouldn't be surprised if we had a few courses together before that. It's possible, we're both Psych majors."

"And this is the first time you're taking her out?" I ask.

"Mmm hmm."

Lawson doesn't answer the question beyond that and instead proceeds to tap his fingers against his thighs. The tension in his body feels contagious and it's like I can feel the nervous energy seeping into my muscles. I usually don't get nervous. Social situations can make me uncomfortable, I guess, but not panicky. Before a big game I can usually feel my heart thump against my chest but that's not because I'm afraid of something bad happening. The opposite, actually. It's because I'm just so close to achieving something great.

"What are you doing after this?" Lawson asks.

I shrug. "Not sure yet. The plan was to catch the game somewhere, but I'll see where I end up."

It was sort of a lie earlier, when I said I didn't have plans for tonight. I knew exactly what I wanted to do. And what I didn't.

Tonight is the Winnipeg Storm's second game of the season and even though it kills me that I'm not in the lineup, I need to watch it. Consider it a homework, of sorts. I need to get used to the way my teammates—yes, I considered them that—play the game. Practice only tells you so much. You can tell a hell of a lot more about the way a guy plays in a game. Does he have a pass-first or a shoot-first mentality? Does he go into the dirty areas of the ice or prefer his winger do that? I needed to know these things so that when I do start playing for the NHL team I can make them look good and in return, make myself look good. I'm kind like that.

Now, what I didn't want to do, and part of the reason why I agreed to drive Lawson, was watch the game back at my apartment. Living in the same complex as most of the guys on the minor league team is great for when you want to hang out around them, but for the times when you want to be by yourself, you're up shit's creek. Trust me, no one wants to be the teammate that's responsible for a weak morale in the dressing room.

And I certainly didn't. But those guys had a tendency to make me feel uncomfortable. Most of them are what are called career AHLers. Meaning: they've spent the majority of their career in the minor leagues and don't have a real shot in the big leagues. They tend to treat me as The Man, even though I've never played a single NHL game. I know it comes from a supportive place, but the less voices chanting in my ear how great I am, the better.

"Okay, just make a right in this lot right here," Lawson said.

I could already tell that we were approaching our destination by the fact that Lawson's breaths were growing shorter by the minute.

I parked the Jeep into the first open spot I found and turned toward my friend.

"Relax man and have fun," I told him.

He nodded and bit his lip.

"Do you want to walk me inside?" he asked.

My neck jutted forward in disbelief.

"You serious?"

"Yeah, come on. I don't want to walk the hallway all alone like a loser."

I shook my head but didn't bother arguing. It really made no difference to me.

"Yeah, yeah, come on," I muttered.

The sign near the doorway indicated that we were at the Denton Dormitory. As we walked through the double doors a young woman with glasses behind a large desk nodded at us. Figures we can't just walk into the place like we owned it.

Lawson told us that we were here to see someone who lived at the dorm and flashed his student card. Even though I obviously didn't have that, I was able to follow him down the hall with no problem.

"Thanks, have a good night," I nodded at the unnamed woman.

She squeaked out something that sounded like "you too" and ducked her head down shyly.

"I think you just made her night," Lawson muttered as he led me down the hall.

"What?"

He just shook his head as he began scanning the doors for the number he was looking for. A few paces ahead, two girls were standing next to a door. When they heard our footsteps, they turned toward us. When their eyes landed on me, they stayed there.

I was wearing grey sweatpants, a black hoodie, and my black toque. That's pretty much my uniform when I'm not on the ice or in a suit on the way to a game. And both those girls were looking at me like they'd rather see all those clothes on the hallway floor than on my body.

I wish I could say that I was used to female attention and that I had sex as much as I wanted, whenever I wanted, but that would be a lie.

Part of the reason why was because my daily life—the hockey life—didn't afford many opportunities that were abundant with females. A few would come to the games back in Detroit, which was a pretty hockey-centric city, and some of my buddies would scope them out in the stands during the games and seek them out later. I preferred to keep my eyes and mind on the ice, but that's just me.

But I certainly wasn't a virgin, or a saint, for that matter. I've hooked up with a few girls back home in Pasadena during the few weeks I had off every summer, but it was never anything serious.

That wasn't what I was looking for.

As we passed by the two ladies I gave them a small smile and a nod. One of them winked back. I shoved my hands deep in my pockets, just to do something to disrupt the awkwardness I was feeling.

"Okay, this is it. Room 134," Lawson said, slowing his pace.

He paused.

"Knock, Romeo."

He turned to me. "You going to watch?"

I laughed. "Yeah, I don't want to miss this. It's what you get for dragging me."

"Fine," he muttered as he hit the door in three consecutive wraps.

A few seconds later the door opened and Lawson froze. That took me aback. I didn't want to stand there and stare at the girl like a creep, but she didn't seem bad looking, I didn't think. She was a perfectly normal-looking, short brunette.

"Camille, is Angela there?"

So they knew each other.

"No, she's not. She's at the alley. She was under the impression you were supposed to meet her there."

"Fuck, that's right. What time is it?"

She checked her watch. Do people still wear those things?

"It's quarter to seven. You got time," she assured him.

Her voice had a soft quality to it, like she could sense that Lawson was stressed and felt personally responsible to ease it.

"Okay, thanks, I gotta go. Bye!" Lawson said as he turned on his heels and ran down the hallway back to the doors. Literally ran.

I turned towards the girl, who was still standing there in the threshold.

"Doesn't he need a car?" I asked her.

"No, it's walking distance." Her voice was noticeably scratchier than it was earlier.

I was about to thank her, turn around, get back in my Jeep, and get the hell out of here.

But something caught my eye and I didn't do that.

I heard the distinctive voice of SportsCast's host drift from the TV behind her and heard the words "Winnipeg" and "Storm" and "coming up".

The girl made a soft sound like she wasn't sure what was going on. Hell, even I didn't know. For some reason, one that even now I'm not sure I understand, I asked her:

"Mind if I come in?"