“All right, so you’re a Nazi—”
“Fuck that,” he interjects.
“Let me finish, will ya? You’re a Nazi, and Hitler has just ordered you to commit an act that goes against everything you believe in. Do you say, cool beans, boss, I’ll kill all these people for you, or do you say fuck off, and risk getting killed yourself?”
“I tell him to fuck off.” Tuck pauses. “Actually, no. I put a bullet in his head. Problem solved.”
I groan. “I know, right? But this asshole—” I point to the book on the counter “—believes that government exists for a reason, and citizens need to trust their leader and obey his orders for the good of the society. So in theory, there’s an argument to be made for genocide.”
Tuck pulls a tray of chicken drumsticks from the freezer. “Bullshit.”
“I’m not saying I agree with that line of thinking, but I’m supposed to argue this guy’s point of view.” I drag a frustrated hand over my scalp. “I fucking hate this class, man.”
Tuck unwraps the meat tray and places it in the microwave. “The redo is on Friday, huh?”
“Yup,” I say glumly.
He hesitates. “Are you going to play in the Eastwood game?”
I brighten up, because this morning I received official word from Coach that I’ll definitely be on the ice on Friday. Apparently the midterm grades aren’t entered into the system until the following Monday, so at the moment, my average is still what it needs to be.
Come Monday, if my Ethics grade is a D or lower, I’ll be benched until I turn things around.
Benched. Jesus. Just thinking about it makes me queasy. All I want to do is lead my team to another Frozen Four victory and make it to the pros. No, I want to excel in the pros. I want to prove to everyone that I got there on my own merit and not because I happen to be a famous hockey player’s son. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, and I feel sick knowing that my goals, that everything I’ve worked so hard for, is in jeopardy because of one stupid class.
“Coach said I’m playing,” I tell Tuck, who high fives me so hard my palm stings.
“Hell yeah,” he exclaims.
Logan enters the kitchen, an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“You better not smoke that in here,” Tucker warns. “Linda will ream your ass.”
“I’m going out back,” Logan promises, because he knows better than to piss off our landlady. “Just wanted to let you guys know that Birdie and the guys are coming over tonight to watch the Bruins game.”
I narrow my eyes. “What guys?”
Logan blinks innocently. “You know, Birdie, Pierre, Hollis, Niko—if he can stop being pussy whipped for long enough to leave his dorm—um, Rogers and Danny. Connor. Oh, Kenny, too, and—”
I stop him before he can name every guy on our roster. “So the whole team, you mean,” I say dryly.
“And their girlfriends, those who have ’em.” He glances at Tuck and me. “It’s cool, right? Won’t be an all-nighter or anything.”
“As long as it’s BYOB, I’m cool,” Tuck answers. “And if Danny is coming then you better lock up the liquor cabinet.”
“We can move the hooch to G’s room,” Logan says with a snort. “God knows he won’t drink a drop of it.”
Tuck glances over at me with a grin. “Poor baby. When are you gonna learn to handle your liquor like a man?”
“Hey, I handle the drinking part just fine. It’s the morning after that does me in.” I smirk at my teammates. “Besides, I’m your captain. Somebody has to stay sober to keep your crazy asses in line.”