While the other guys began to file out of the locker room, some moving awkwardly in their hockey gear, Bash grabbed his phone. He checked Adonis’s message first.
Adonis: Good luck today! Clarisse and I are sitting in Section 104. I’ll be waving at you!
Bash smiled. He’d unpack all the feelings he had about that text later, because Lotte’s texts seemed more urgent:
Lotte: Call me when you get a chance
Lotte: Dad seemed sick, and Mom finally convinced him to see a doctor. Turns out he had a Silent Myocardial Infarction (I’ve already put a file together about that, please check your email for it.) Doctors don’t want him to be active, but Mom and I don’t think he’ll listen. Call me.
Bash’s jaw clenched as he squeezed his phone.
“Koning!” Kurtzman called, looking back at him. His eyebrows were raised, and there was an expression of concern on his face. “Everything okay?”
The rest of the team had left the locker room.
“Yes,” Bash said. “Sorry.”
He typed back a hurried reply.
Bash: About to play a game. Will call after. Thank you for the update.
He threw his phone back in his cubby and hurriedly followed Kurtzman out to the ice.
——
It was a brutal game. Ashwell played well, but Bellford played better.
Every player on the Bellford roster was at the top of their game. Even Bash, whose shoulder ached and whose mind threatened to go a dozen different places, threw himself completely into the plays.
Cort, unsurprisingly, led the team in goals scored, an honor that used to be Bash’s, almost every game. He tried not to begrudge the rookie his success. After all, Cort’s success was the team’s success.
When they ended up on the bench together, a different player from their line on the ice, Bash bumped his fist against Cort’s.
“Good work out there,” he said.
Cort was flushed and breathing heavily. “Thanks, boss,” he said. His eyes were wild. “Fucking transcendent.”
Bash frowned and watched the ice.
In the end, they beat Ashwell four to two, and the celebration in the locker room was positively primal. The players hooted and hollered, shouting out their friend’s plays and goals, heaping praise on Marco, the goalie, for his incredible saves.
The freshmen gathered around Cort, cheering his name—the way the team used to cheer “Basher.”
Kurtzman said a few words about not getting sloppy even after a good win, then cracked a smile and told them to have a good Thanksgiving break.
Later, in the shower, Bash massaged his sore shoulder. The few times he’d gotten out on the ice tonight, he’d played hard, with little thought for his shoulder.
He heard Lotte’s voice in his head, a snarky internal monologue informing him that if he kept on doing that, he’d be no better than their father.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
Robbie, at the neighboring shower head, looked over at Bash. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Bash said. “Just in my head about something.”
“You played well,” Robbie said. “I’m glad Kurtzman’s getting you back out there more.”
Bash fought the urge to scoff. More, yes. But not enough.
