rain ✧ lrh

6. that damn sweatshirt

There were a few things on Luke's mind when he opened his apartment door that night.

He dropped his bag at the door and kicked off his sneakers, making a mental note to circle back and return all of his stuff to his room later that night. For now, all he wanted was a drink.

Water, he reminded himself, no alcohol.

He lumbered to the kitchen and opened the fridge, relishing in the cold air that flooded his system. Being in a heated car had made him feel like he was in an oven, so he welcomed the temperature with a sense of desperation. He grabbed his reusable Notre Dame water bottle from the top shelf and closed the door, leaving himself alone in the empty kitchen that was now enveloped in darkness.

The water was halfway empty in a matter of seconds. Luke guzzled the drink so quickly that he could feel the cold water make its way down his throat and he sighed with relief. He was a hockey player, after all. Like a polar bear, he did better in the cold than he did in the heat. He capped the bottle and walked through the hallway into his room, where he promptly threw himself onto his bed and stared at the ceiling.

His body begged for sleep. It always did after games like tonight, but he couldn't give in.

He sat upright and focused on the wall for a moment, letting the existential dread fill his body before he sighed dramatically and expelled the thoughts of negativity from his head. He had work to do.

Luke Hemmings - and he'd tell you this himself - was definitely not a saint. He drank, he'd gotten high a few times, he'd done a lot of things that he shouldn't have done. But one thing he prided himself in was his work ethic. He was a computer science major. A certified geek, if he wasn't also the MVP of the hockey team. He had made it three years and he'd excelled in all of his classes. It was one of the main reasons he wasn't in a hurry to abandon college and jump into the NHL.

He also liked the idea of having a backup plan. If hockey didn't work out - say he goes too hard into the boards and doesn't get up, he's still got a career to be had.

He rubbed his eyes sleepily and grabbed the laptop that sat at his night stand. It was already close to midnight, but he had to finish his homework before classes tomorrow.

The main thing on his mind was homework. It was the natural way of things; hockey all day, homework at night. That was how it always worked. He'd go through his classes aimlessly, thinking about practice or a game or something. After hockey, no. matter what time of night it was at that point, homework always followed. After homework, Luke usually let everything else happen with a sense of spontaneity; sometimes he'd make himself some form of food, whether it be microwave popcorn or some kind of frozen pizza. Other times he'd simply close his laptop, put his head back on his pillow, and play with himself to alleviate the pain of whatever fight he'd managed to get into during hockey.

That night, he ultimately decided to do both of those things.

So after he finished his homework and cleaned himself off, he made his way into the kitchen, dazed and nothing near level-headed.

He made himself pasta.

He lived with Calum, but he was starting to believe that his roommate was avoiding him, because he barely ever came home anymore. Luke couldn't help but question himself. He didn't think he was a bad person to live with; he kept his shit clean, he never played music too loud unless it was absolutely necessary, and he actually found doing the dishes to be sort of therapeutic.

Although he doubted his lineman would be home that night, he still made extra food and left it in the fridge. He hated the idea of eating alone, but he hated the idea of his best friend not eating at all even more. It was something unspeakable, the appreciation and care he had for his friends. He was an asshole, always was, but he really did love them. And they knew that.