Page 47 of On His Mind

“Goalie juice!” Stanley shouts, finishing off his cup.

Stanley throws an arm around my neck and tells the entire kitchen that from this day forward, Hawthorne House will have this concoction at every party.

“Goalie juice!” Stanley shouts.

The upperclassmen in the living room start howling.

Stanley leans in and says, “When we run the team, and Benson becomes captain, we’re not doing the howling thing.” He nods like he’s serious.

Rowan agrees, “It’s cliché.”

Stanley leans back and shouts, “But until then? Howl!”

He howls so loud that my ears start to ring. Benson says something dry that I don’t catch. Blue doesn’t join in on the howling. Neither do I. Everybody laughs.

And I keep looking at the door.

Ivory’s here. I saw her earlier with Drew’s arm around her shoulders, laughing at something by the stairs. Which means she could have come with her roommate.

I don’t ask. I don’t go through the house looking. I don’t text. I stay where I am and watch the crowd get drunker because of my juice.

Near midnight, Ivory walks into the kitchen and sees the empty pitcher. She tells Drew, “Aw, the juice is all gone.”

Drew says, “We can take a shot.”

“No. The juice was so good.”

Drew points at me and says, “Make more next time.”

I glare at him, and then they walk out.

The house is still going at two when I start cleaning the kitchen, because somebody has to. Tonight was different than most. More people came, which means the mess is worse. I stackthe cups. I wipe the counter down. I wash the pitcher. Behind me, Stanley is telling a story to four people about a game from last year. It’s warm in here and loud, and somebody says my name in the other room and laughs.

This was the best night of my life. I had my first minutes in a real game. Ten shots and none of them got by me. Cole looked at my glove hand and told me it was mine. There was a room full of men shouting my name like I was someone.

My phone buzzes on the counter with wet hands in the sink.

It’s Josh.

Josh:Saw you played. Attaboy, kid.

I dry my hands and look at it for a long time.

I don’t text him back.

I set the pitcher upside down in the rack to dry, and I go up to bed.

The puck’s in the side pocket of my bag, where I put it. I don’t take it out. I just think about it for the rest of the night.

Chapter 12

Penelope

Ihaven’trepliedtoPercy, but I don’t think twice about it throughout the weekend. I don’t think about it while I do Pilates, while I fold my laundry, or while Ivory is telling me about how wild Saturday night got at Hawthorne.

I take my sketchbook to the table and lay a sheet of trace over the corner-lot plan, and I get to work, because there’s Whitmore work waiting for Monday, real work, the kind they don’t hand interns. I’m six months in, and they’ve finally stopped giving me door swings. It feels like a win.

At two, my phone buzzes on the far end of the table.