The Play
Hunter texts when he’s outside, and I’m not surprised to find a shiny black Land Rover parked at the curb. I slide into the passenger’s side and settle on the sleek leather seat.
“Hey,” he says. He’s wearing a black-and-yellow jersey, his dark hair slicked back from his face.
“Are you wearing hair gel?”
“Are you wearing enormous hoop earrings?”
“I asked first.”
“Yes, I’m wearing gel.”
“Your head is glistening.”
“Yeah, but at least it’s staying in place. Whenever I watch live hockey, I get agitated and run my fingers through my hair until it’s fucking falling out—I figured gel would help prevent that. Your turn.”
“My turn what?”
“The hoops, Semi. I could probably fit my entire glistening head through one of those monsters.” He chuckles faintly. “I guess you can take the girl out of Miami but you can’t take Miami out of the girl?”
“Wrong. I despise these earrings. They’re more my mom’s style,” I admit. “She’s all about the big hoops, and she thinks everyone should dress and accessorize exactly like her. But I prefer tiny studs—you know, so there’s no chance of them getting caught on anything and ripping my ear off, leaving a bloody hole in the side of my head.”
“That’s a really cynical view of hoops.”
“They’re a safety hazard. I stand by that.”
“So you pretend to like them to please your mommy and daddy?” He’s mocking me.
I bristle, but only slightly, because there’s truth to that statement. Especially the daddy part. My father is a scary man. The kind of man who is so impressive you constantly feel the need to impress him back.
“Why didn’t Nico drive you tonight?” Hunter asks suddenly, and there’s a strange note in his voice.
He was using that same tone this morning too. Every time I whispered something to him during Andrews’ lecture, he responded in that weird tone and then avoided my eyes.
I glance over, but he’s focused on the road and his face is devoid of expression. “Nico’s working tonight.”
“People move at night?”
“Sometimes, yeah. He actually gets paid more for night moves.”
“Night moves sounds like the name of a porno.”
“I think it might be a song,” I say, trying to recall. “I could be wrong, though. Anyway, he gets paid time and a half for any jobs after six, so if a late shift comes up, he always takes it.”
“Makes sense.” Hunter nods. A few beats of awkward silence ensue. First time it’s ever happened to us. Then again, we don’t know each other super well, so an awkward silence was bound to make an appearance sooner or later.
“Let me sync up my Bluetooth to your car,” I say, reaching for the touch screen on his dash. “I’ll find us a fun driving playlist.”
He instantly swats at my hand. “No way,” he says. “No woman is allowed to have that much control over me.”
I laugh. “What control? It’s Bluetooth. Bluetooth is harmless.”
“Nope. Maybe tonight it’s harmless. And maybe tomorrow you’ll be remotely controlling my car.”
“How would I even do that?”
“By hacking into the system and driving my Rover off a cliff.” He sounds smug.
“I want to drive you off a cliff now,” I threaten. “Just let me sync up, dammit.” And then because I’m a jerk, I go through the process of pairing my phone to his car. Whistling the entire time.
When I’m done, I graciously ask, “What would you like to listen to?”
He glowers at me. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“If you don’t pick something, I’ll put on Disney soundtracks.”
Hunter capitulates. “Got any old-school hip hop mixes?”
I nod in approval. “Coming right up.” I click on a popular playlist and we spend the remainder of the drive locked in a competitive rap battle to Cypress Hill and Run-DMC. By the time we reach the city, my throat is hoarse, and Hunter’s face is lobster red from laughing.
“You got mad rhymes, Semi!” he says gleefully. “We need to make a YouTube video.”
“Oh God, never. I have zero interest in being in the spotlight. Unlike you.”
“Me?”
“You like the spotlight, no? Won’t you be playing professional hockey when you’re done college?”
Hunter surprises me by shaking his head. “No, I didn’t declare for the draft and I don’t plan on signing with a team after I graduate. Teams have come knocking on my door since high school, but I always tell them I’m not interested.”
“Why the heck not?”
“I’m just not. I don’t want that kind of national attention.”
I wrinkle my forehead. “But aren’t you really talented? The girls at the house said you’re the best player on the team.”
“I’m okay.”
I appreciate the modesty. But all it tells me is that Hunter must be a lot more than okay.
“I’m not interested in the pros, Demi. Not everyone wants to be famous.”
It’s a peculiar answer and I don’t quite buy it, but the British lady on Hunter’s GPS is chirping that our destination is up ahead on the right.
I smile as we drive down the street I’ve called home since I was fifteen. Even after six years on the east coast, my mother still isn’t in love with Boston, whereas I liked it the moment we moved here.
Miami is loud and colorful and undeniably fun, but just because I’m half Latina doesn’t mean I want things to be loud all the time. We lived in Little Havana, a mostly Cuban community full of art galleries and coffee shops and cigar stores on every street corner. It’s a bustling area, almost the polar opposite of Boston’s conservative Beacon Hill neighborhood.
My new city, while not as IN YOUR FACE as Miami, has its own unique character, from its brownstones and tree-lined streets to Boston Common and Newbury Street. Plus, despite contrary opinion, I find the accents downright charming.
“Here we are. Have fun with your parents,” Hunter says.
“Have fun at your game.”
I’m pleased to notice that he waits until I reach the front stoop before pulling away from the curb. Real gentlemen are hard to find these days.
My mother shrieks happily when I walk through the door. She’s the loudest person on the planet. My friends insist that she’s a clone of Sofia Vergara from Modern Family, and they’re not far off the mark. Although Mom’s not Colombian like the character, she’s drop-dead gorgeous with a voice that could shatter every plate in a china store.
Blabbering on in Spanish, she hugs me tight enough to restrict my airflow, then drags me down the hall toward the kitchen. “Where’s Dad?” I ask.
“On his way home from the hospital. He just finished surgery, so expect Grumpy Papa tonight.”
I’m used to Grumpy Papa. Some surgeons ride a high after they operate, but Dad is always exhausted after a long surgery, and he gets cranky when he’s tired. Like a toddler. But he deserves to be cut some slack, because—hello—he just saved somebody’s life. Brain surgeons are allowed a free bitchiness pass, as far as I’m concerned.