Confused, and feeling oddly hurt, I toss my phone onto my bed and strip down. I’m going to take a shower. Thinking is always easier in the shower.
When I get back into my room, towel tied around my waist and calmer than I was before, I check my phone to see a new and devastating message.
Marcos
Can we just be friends? I don’t think I can handle more than that right now.
The check sendsme into the wall hard. My shoulder cracks against the glass, and my helmeted head whiplashes. Planting my skates, I keep the puck corralled against the boards, while whichever fucker that hit me tries to fish it out. He shoves me in the lower back and a whistle blows. College hockey can be as rough as the big leagues, but most of the refs try and keep things controlled. Everyone—coaches and players included—are aware that NHL goals are fragile, and not worth losing over a bad hit in college.
Bending, I scoop up the puck and hold it out to the referee who skates up to me. When I sit down on the bench next to Max, I lean back when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I don’t even have to look to know it’s Coach Mackenzie.
“Good?” he asks gruffly.
“Always.”
“You’re doing good on the backcheck—keep it up.”
I smile and pop my mouthguard out, tucking it into my glove and reaching for a bottle of water. Beside me, Max is watching the game with the intensity of a hawk. Glancing at the ice, I can see why.
Play is currently in our defensive zone, which means Micky is under fire. He’s been playing well tonight, but the moment that momentum shifts, we’ll be fucked. My friend is his own worst enemy, and it takes almost nothing to nudge him into a downward spiral. The crowd cheers when a Notre Dame player fires a slapshot at our net—already sure that it’s going in—but Micky manages to catch it, gloving it down and holding it on the ice.
“Nice,” Max whispers, before popping his mouthguard back in and getting ready to climb over the boards.
When my turn on the ice comes again, Vas skates up to me before face-off. His face is flushed and sweaty, and I can see curls of wet, brown hair sticking out through the ear holes of his helmet.Cute,my brain screams at me, which makesmeflush.
“They are knowing Max is our best offensive weapon,” he says in a low, accented voice. “Take a couple shots from the blue line, yes?”
“Hell yes.” I hold out my glove and he bumps it with his own. I always feel like such a badass when I score a goal. I definitely don’t need to be told twice to take more shots.
Unfortunately, despite seven attempts, I don’t score a goal. Although my defensive line partner, Vaughn, does, which is nearly as good. The best part of the game, though, comes in the form of Micky. Tonight was probably the best game he’s ever had, and against a team we are pretty well matched with. When I sit next to him on the bus, I grab his shoulder and shake the shit out of him.
“Stop it, Nate,” he grumbles, pulling away and trying like hell not to smile.
“My little baby goalie is all grown up.” I pretend to wipe a tear from my eye. “Please remember me when you’re giving soundbites and signing autographs.”
The blush is immediate and intense, and Micky looks like he wishes he could throw himself out the bus window. I smile at him. He’s so damn predictable—give the man a compliment and he’ll wish he never heard it.
“I didn’t play thatgood.”
“Yes, you did,” I tell him firmly. “And you know you did, so own it.”
Instead of answering, he just shakes his head and leans against my shoulder in the close confines of the bus seats. Facing forward, I watch the tall form of Coach Mackenzie board the bus. Everyone falls silent, waiting for him to speak.
“Nice game tonight, boys.” He holds up a piece of paper. “A few changes to the usual room assignments. Max, you’re with McIntire. Basset, you’re with Vas.”
Micky, face hot enough to fry an egg on, nods at Coach and slides down a bit in his seat, as though hoping nobody is looking at him. He and Ialwaysroom together.
“What, Coach? I didn’t do anything!” I protest, which elicits several snorts from my surrounding teammates. Coach Mackenzie squints his eyes, and fixes me with a stern look.
“On our last road trip you ate seventy-two saltine crackers as fast as you could and spent the night before a game throwing up,” he responds dryly. Laughter rises up from the bus, and I open my mouth to argue. Except, Ididdo a saltine dare at our last away game. I close my mouth and Coach continues. “So, since you apparently need a babysitter, you’ll be rooming with Vas.”
“Oh, goodness,” Vas says, eliciting more laughs.
“I’ll behave,” I promise, giving Coach a syrupy-sweet smile. He doesn’t look impressed.
“Good. If not, next time you’ll be rooming with me.”
I join in on the laughter that time, and I catch a small smile from Coach Mackenzie as he sits down. Beside me, Micky is slouched so low in the seat that only the top of his head would be visible to anyone behind us. He looks mortified at being singled out.
