“Haven. There’s a game tonight, but it should be okay if we get there before it ends. Should we call a cab, or are you good to walk?”
Haven is a local bar that’s almost always overrun by CPU students.
“Walking is fine.” I’ll pay for it tomorrow, but my blood runs cold at the thought of getting into a car. It was a struggle to sit in the passenger seat of mom’s car on the way here. Our silence was tense. My leg constantly jigged until she pulled over and let me out in front of my apartment building this morning.
Since then, I walked to campus to register for classes and confirm my financial aid, applied for three jobs near school, and got myself a congratulatory coffee. I missed Willow when I dropped my stuff off earlier, and I definitely didn’t venture farther into our space. I didn’t want to walk down memory lane too soon.
My leg already aches, but I ignore it. Spring semester starts on Monday. I’ve got the weekend to rest and recuperate.
This is my college experience.
So, no, I’m not getting in a car. I smile at my friends and lie. “I could use the exercise.”
Willow scoffs. “Whatever you say, Batman.”
The ten of us gear up for the weather—snow or not, it’s actually still rather mild—and walk two blocks to the bar near campus. It’s a regular hangout known for being lax on IDing college kids, and they have a five-dollar margarita night which usually draws a big crowd.
The oval-shaped bar in the center has a million bar stools. There are televisions mounted on almost every wall, showcasing the pro athlete games. There’s not a bad seat in the house. And after a CPU game finishes—especially if we win? Standing room only.
I considered applying for a job there, but I don’t think I could do it. Serve my friends, I mean. Even if they tip well, some students get weird when they’re drunk.
It’s relatively quiet when we arrive. We stamp our feet in the small vestibule, knocking off loose snow and salt. I blow into my hands, laughing at how ridiculous we are. The others shake their heads and chuckle along with me. Yeah, the lighthearted blame rests on my shoulders. So much for it being mild outside. That was before the sun set, and now it’s colder than a witch’s tit.
We claim a U-shaped booth, everyone climbing in and pressing close. I end up across the table from Jack—luckily—and beside Willow. On my other side is a fellow junior, Jess, who joined the dance team last year.
“Paris just texted,” Amanda says, tapping on her phone. She glances up and leans forward. “Says the team is heading here.”
Willow rolls her eyes. “Place will be flooded with puck bunnies in a matter of minutes.”
“Hockey team?” I clarify. I feel like I’ve lost my sense of time since I’ve been gone. Everyone has moved forward except for me.
Hockey starts sometime in October, and their season goes through the winter and into spring—especially if they’re on a winning streak and make it into the national tournament. We never went to many hockey games in the past because it usually conflicted with the dance team competitions or basketball games.
If there’s one thing CPU has going for it, it’s the D1 sports.
“There’s a new hotshot on the team,” Amanda says. She blushes. “We’ve only lost one game. Some of the girls even started a petition to move our Friday practice so they can go to the home games. They’re probably going to get their way.”
My eyebrows hike. Puck bunnies—the girls who fawn over hockey players—or not, I doubt our coach would let that slide. Perhaps if enough of them protested…
“There’s talk of them being selected to participate in the Nationals tournament,” Jack adds. “Whole school’s been talking about it. They just have to win a few more games.”
CPU hasn’t won a title in almost a decade—not in hockey, anyway. Jack’s team made it to the Rose Bowl last year, but they lost by a field goal. And this year, they didn’t even make it to the playoffs.
That’s a sore subject.
“Well, let’s get drunk before they show up and make us all miserable,” Willow says. She flags down a waitress and orders us a round of tequila shots.
Yep, definitely going to be paying for this tomorrow.
Still, it’s nice to be back. The conversation shifts from hockey to the dramatics on the dance team, and I smile and pick at my sweater as I listen. I’m familiar with most of the names, but a few times I glance questioningly at Willow. She provides context. A freshman, a new transfer, an older girl who finally made it through tryouts.
We get our tequila shots, plus wedges of lime and a salt shaker passed around. I lick the back of my hand and pour the salt onto it, then hold my wedge and shot glass until they’re all ready.
“To Violet’s return,” Willow says.
They raise their glasses and clink them together in the middle of the table. As a unit, we lick the salt, tap the shot glasses to the table, and toss the liquid back. The taste of it is familiar, searing down my throat. I bite down on the lime, and the citrus explodes across my tongue. It mixes with the tequila and makes it actually enjoyable.
“That never gets old,” I giggle, leaning into Willow.