“What do you see?” I ask.
“I see me being too deep in my crease,” he says, his words clipped with frustration.
“Look at Miller,” I say, pointing to our defenseman. “His left skate.”
Tanner leans forward, squinting.
“He turns his blade,” I explain, tracing the line on the screen with the mouse. “Just as the shot releases. He’s trying to block it, but he actually screens you. For a split second, you lose visual contact with the puck because Miller’s skate flashes across your sightline. You weren’t too deep, Sinc. You reacted a half second late because your brain had to fill in the gap where the visual data went missing.”
Tanner stares at the screen. He clicks forward one frame, then back. Forward. Back.
His shoulders drop away from his ears as he lets go of some tension.
“Shit,” he whispers. “I didn’t see it.”
“You couldn’t. Miller drifted into the lane for a fraction of a second.” I lean back, my chair creaking. “You didn’t fuck it up, Tanner. You weren’t too deep. It was because of physics.”
He lets out a long breath, rubbing his face with both hands. “Technically, everything is because of physics, Lou.”
I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”
A warmth spreads through my chest. Even stuck here with a busted wing, I’m not useless. I see the game. I see Tanner. And sometimes, I can make him see himself the way I see him. I like this version of me: the guy who has the answers when Tanner’s brain is starting to spiral.
The room falls quiet, the only sounds are the hum of the computer and the relentlesstap-tap-tapof rain on the window. It’s weirdly intimate, but it’s got nothing to do with sex and everything to do with being understood.
Tanner slumps back in his chair and stares up at the ceiling.
“My brain feels like it’s going to melt,” he admits quietly. “I just want to turn it off for five minutes. Not think about points, or angles, or the standings.”
“All-Star break is in a week. I think we all need it.”
“Not soon enough,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting shut.
I reach out with my right hand, needing to touch him. The nape of his neck is warm, and I massage gently. He lets out a soft groan, melting back into my touch.
“Fuck, that feels good,” he whispers.
I squeeze gently, trying to ground him.I’m here. I’ve got you.
We stay like that for a long moment, the silence wrapping around us like a blanket. It’s dangerous, doing this where anyone could walk in. But right now, with the rain sealing us in, the rest of the world feels far away.
Tanner leans into me for one more second and then straightens up, his mask sliding into place. He’s back to being the stoic, serious rookie goaltender.
He stands, grabbing his water bottle. “I’m going home to sleep for about twelve hours.”
“Do it,” I say, letting my hand fall back to my lap.
One corner of his mouth ticks up, and that tiny smile feels like a major victory. “See you tomorrow, Lou.”
“Night, Sinc.”
He heads for the door, his movements efficient but weary. He walks with his head down but his shoulders squared, bracing himself to face the outside world.
The door clicks shut, leaving me alone with the hum of the computers and my aching shoulder. I’m tired too, but it’s the exhausting helplessness of watching and not being able to help my team.
The All-Star break is next week, and I don’t want to spend six days alone in my condo while Cookie judges me. I want to spend some time with Tanner where we can be more thanjusthockey players. A couple of people who like and understand each other. And, of course, who have amazing sex.
And then I get an idea. I pull out my phone, ignoring the pain in my shoulder, and open a browser.
