Page 24 of Best Man on Campus

“Right after my organic chem test. No promises on what I’ll have left after that. Those tests are as grueling as playing games.”

Dr. Walt laughs. “If organic chem takes as much out of you as a hockey game, then you’re not playing hard enough.” I laugh too.

“I suppose you’re right, Doc. Look I really appreciate your help. I need a hundred hours for my med school applications, I’m at eighty hours now so I’m cutting it close.”

“You’ll be in the locker room with me for medical evaluations whenever anyone gets hurt at practices and games for the duration. We’ll see what we can do to augment the hours to get you to a hundred. When’s your first application due?”

“March thirty-first.”

Doc blows out a whistle. “Right in the middle of the playoffs.”

“No joke.”

“How’s organic chem?”

I wave a hand. “Metza-metz.”

“I didn’t know you were Italian.”

I give him the finger. It’s his idea of a joke because he normally gives me shit for being a WASP.

He laughs. I like that I can joke with him, that he’s young, but still has a dozen years of experience out of med school.

“You’d make a perfect team doctor someday,” he says.

“That’s not what I’m busting my ass to go to med school for,” I say. “Nothing personal. I’ll probably end up in oncology or medical research. My uncle died of leukemia. My mother’s brother. She would be proud and grateful if I could contribute something to helping leukemia patients either through research or treatment.”

He nods. “That what your dad specializes in?”

“No. He specializes in traumatic injuries and generally saving the world one tragic patient at a time.” I’m more frank with him than I planned to be, but what the hell. From the sympathetic look on his face, I’d say he gets it.

“I know guys like that. Saints, every last one of them. Most of them don’t have families, though.”

“Yeah.” I bite my tongue to stop myself from saying my dad doesn’t act like he has a family most of the time either. “I gotta go. See you at noon.”

* * *

After the organic chem test, which I think I passed although I’d call it a miracle if I got a B or better, I show up and shadow Dr. Walt through lunch. With no time to eat, I rush to my two afternoon classes and then practice. I don’t get back to BMOC House until dinner has already started and I’m starving. But what makes my gut clench is that it’s finally time to face Majik.

Walking into the kitchen while all the guys are in the dining room eating, I fill a plate with food, pull out a chair at the kitchen table and join her there.

“We need to talk,” I say.

Chapter 6

Jazzy

Earlier that day

Without bothering to call because I know there’s nothing more reliable than Majik showing up to cook breakfast at BMOC House, I show up there at seven a.m. It’s late enough for Ben to be gone to his morning skate, but I looked up the schedule at the rink to make sure. Not that I’m chicken to see him, but we’ve already had more than our share of drama. And this is between me and Majiski now.

I park my jalopy a few doors down from BMOC House, not caring if I piss off the neighbors. They’re only a couple of frat houses. Big Man on Campus House is a permanent angry mark on the neighborhood with its silent protest against fraternities. When Jack Hunter, St. Paul University’s most recent alumnus athlete superstar now playing in the NFL, first leased the house five years ago and hired Majiski to cook, he made it clear the house would be for student athletes and it would not be following anything like frat house rules.

The place was half falling apart and the original guys worked hard to fix it up to its current nonglory. But according to Majiski, at least the roof doesn’t leak, the stove works, and there’s plenty of storage in the kitchen.

Jogging down the driveway, I look up at the wood block letters nailed above the front porch, B-M-O-C in unapologetic black. Around the corner I jump up the stairs to the deck and head straight to the back door. I stop. Taking a deep breath, I curse my racing heart because damn, I hate feeling vulnerable. It’s only Majiski. She won’t hate me no matter what I do. But she might make me hate myself if I disappoint her. Fuck. I fling open the door and step inside the kitchen.

She’s standing at the stove exactly where I’m expecting, but I’m surprised to see that she’s done cooking breakfast and has already started baking. Today it’s cupcakes and it reminds me of how she used to bake for me when I lived with her. The scent of chocolate and peanut butter permeates the air, instantly resolving my nerves, calming my palpitations.