Killinger’s arms didn’t move from where they were crossed over his chest. He didn’t even look at Mike’s hand, which was still outstretched and waiting.
“It’s Harrison,” said Killinger. “Who are you again?”
A thrill of excitement raced up Jett’s spine as he watched Killinger take on Mike. This wasn’t helping his problem of being less attracted to the man, but he couldn’t turn away.
He watched in shock and delight as Mike gave up on the handshake and pulled the front of his jersey to point out the C that had been in plain view this whole time.
“I’m the captain of the Acadia Wolves. You know, the team your cousin plays on?”
Killinger’s expression never shifted from his usual look of mildly annoyed indifference. “You want a gold sticker or something?”
It took everything inside of Jett not to react to the shock on Mike’s face. No one talked to him like that, not even his parents. But all humour vanished when Mike squared up, his expression twisting into a fury that Jett didn’t know he was capable of.
Killinger didn’t so much as twitch, which only made Mike angrier.
“You and your cousin talk a lot of fucking shit,” Mike spat, still looking like he was ready to leap over the low wall to start a fight. “But justremember that I’m standing out here while your crippled ass is sitting on the bench.”
Mike’s words did not have the effect that Jett assumed he was hoping for. He watched as the corner of Killinger’s mouth slowly pulled into a smirk, showing off some of his white teeth.
The smirk goaded Mike into faking a lunge at Killinger, who didn’t flinch or say a word, even when Mike spat on the ice.
“Fucking wannabe cripple,” said Mike, angrily skating away to bark orders at his teammates.
Jett didn’t miss how Mike sped toward Townsend, skating close enough to brush shoulders with him intentionally.
Townsend was as stone-cold as his cousin. He didn’t blink at the aggressive gesture, instead choosing to ignore everything as he focused on putting pucks in the net.
“I hope you know that I’m judging the shit out of you for claiming that tool as a friend,” said Killinger.
Jett frowned as he turned away from Mike’s path of destruction to Harrison Killinger, who was smiling like he’d found Mike’s behaviour amusing.
“He’s not my friend,” Jett admitted, maybe for the first time out loud.
He left Killinger behind and glided back onto the ice to finish his warmup, wondering why it suddenly felt like all the butterflies in his stomach had caught on fire.
Harrison
Harrison was so close to the ice he could almost remember the sensation of his skates gliding over it. He hadn’t planned on watching the game from the bench, but Arlo refused to let him sit anywhere else. And because this was just for fun, no one told him he couldn’t be there.
Physically sitting on the bench wasn’t an option. He didn’t want his mind distracted with random self-pitying thoughts of sitting there as a player, so he chose to stand behind it.
Enough university kids there, both new and graduated, that they could take shifts and allow for breaks. On a full-sized rink in a stadium filled with hockey fans, this game felt more official than it should have been, but Harrison wouldn’t lie and say he wasn’t enjoying it.
The pre-game gossip stopped any chance of hiding who he was, so Harrison decided to sayfuck itand have fun. Both the rookies and guys his age looked at him in awe every time they took a seat on the bench, and Harrison made sure to interact with them as much as he could to keep them from choking. He ruffled a few sweaty heads and shoved water bottles into their hands, and if he felt generous, he gave advice.
“Their goalie is weaker high on his left side.”
“Get out of your fucking head and keep your eyes on Theriault before he puts you on your ass.”
“Look where you want the puck to go and put it there. Stop doubting and pass.”
The players on Arlo’s team were like lost sheep. They were star-struck with Fraser on the ice as an opponent, but Killinger was happy to steer them in the right direction.
He would do anything it took to fuck with Fraser, and it would piss off that Mike guy too.
Win-win.
But Harrison would be the first to admit that watching Fraser was like watching poetry on ice. He was smaller than most of the players theretoday, but he was so light on his feet that it made for a dangerous combination. There was a lot of power in his legs; he was capable of monstrous bursts of speed that could have him clearing ice faster than the taller players. His stick-handling was consistent and accurate, and with him playing center, he was getting the puck in the net more often than not.
