“Damn skippy.” Knight stretches out on the bench. “I’ve never looked better.”
I collect the parts of my prototype from Knight’s head, and the guys get back to practicing. Tristan blows me a kiss before he leaves. I take my time packing everything safely back into the foam-lined case, then return to the stands for the rest of practice. Marley isn’t here today, so it’s just me.
I settle in and pull out my phone to see what Kepler’s up to, using the live-feed baby cam I set up in front of the play space. He’s sacked out in his bed at the bottom of the play space Tristan built for him, with a contented smile on his face. His lips and nose twitch from time to time in his dreams.
I whisper to him, even if there’s no way he can hear me. “We’re gonna change the world, little man. One impact sensor at a time.”
Chapter Eighteen
Tristan
“Okay, guys, it’s show time.” Coach claps his hands for emphasis. “Just because this is a home game doesn’t mean that we can afford to get comfortable and let our guard down. This is a nationally televised rivalry match with playoff implications. If those dufuses from Buffalo think they’re going to win this game, they have another—”
Minerva’s on my brain, even as Coach amps us up for tonight’s game with a more enthusiastic pep talk than usual. I’ve never played better in my life. The team has noticed. My fans have noticed. I’ve never been this in sync with the other players.
“Dufuses?” Knight interrupts. “Really?”
Coach glares at him. “Focus, Hale.”
“I’m with Knight,” Viktor announces. “‘Dufus is kind of wishy-washy.”
“And anti-intellectual,” Owen chimes in.
“For fuck’s sake.” Coach pinches the bridge of his nose. “What would you like me to call them, then?”
“Keep it simple,” Knight suggests. “How about ‘those fuckers?’”
Viktor shakes his head. “Nah. Lacks pizzazz.”
“Buttfuckers?” Owen offers.
I consider digging through my bag in search of one of Minerva’s pregame snacks to nibble while this plays out. I’m not even hungry, I just want the sweetness of something she’s made on my tongue.
“And what insult, pray tell, would have suitable pizzazz, Abbot?” Coach demands.
“I’m not trying to write your speech for you, Coach. I’m just saying that if you’re gonna chirp at Buffalo, maybe avoid the kinds of shit you’d hear on a middle school playground.”
Bowen holds up a hand. “Go easy on him, Viktor. He’s got a kid at home, and you know how they’re like sponges. As soon as they hear a bad word, it’s over.”
“So he’s not going to swear until my niece turns eighteen? Really?” Viktor throws his hands in the air. “That’s bullshit.”
Camden catches my eye and winks. “Personally, I think an inability to communicate without swearing is a sign of intellectual weakness.”
Viktor makes a rude gesture at him. “Get bent, Beck.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Coach looks like he’s about to go ballistic. “Fine, get out there and show those ball-gargling pylons from Buffalo how real men play hockey.”
“Damn.” Knight scratches his chin. “Hate to say it, but I think you overcorrected, Coach.”
“Also not loving the homophobic implications,” Lenyx pipes up. “Not cool, man.”
Coach mutters under his breath. Pretty sure he’s putting a hex on us. Can’t say I blame him. I pop up from the bench. “Let’s get out there and earn our place in the playoffs.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.” Knight slow claps. “Positive, affirming, and confident. Maybe you should let DuBois write your speeches, Coach.”
“Maybe you should get your ass out on the ice and win the damn game,” Coach growls.
Knight salutes. “On it.”
