“Oh-kay,” Phil said, drawing out the first syllable.“I’m going to need your help cleaning up the kitchen, Ben.”
He levered himself off the couch, unsteady not only from his knee, and moved to grab Ben by the elbow.
“But you have a cleaning service,” Ben said.“We fought about it this morning, remember?”
“They’re not coming till next week, and we don’t want to get ants.”
“Hm.That’s true.”
Phil shut the kitchen door tightly behind him.
“You are a lightweight,” he accused Ben.
“I’m not drunk,” Ben said.“Maybe a little tipsy.”Tipsy enough that the fluorescent lighting in the kitchen was uncomfortable, but not so much that he would have a headache in the morning.
“Well, you’ve gotta watch your mouth, or you’ll start letting on you’re not a real coach.You sound like you don’t even like hockey.”
Ben swayed closer to Phil, who leaned against the counters.“I like some hockey players.”
Phil tensed.“But not the game?”
“I don’thateit.”
He couldn’t read the look on Phil’s face, which was far removed from his usual expression.Phil always seemed just a breath away from smiling, with warm, dark eyes.Seeing him now, eyebrows drawn together and forehead lined, made Ben want to take everything back.But Phil deserved the truth for once.He tried to explain.
“Gives me a headache,” Ben admitted.“Stupid goal horns.I don’thatehockey.I just think it’s a deeply silly sport.”
“Silly.”
“Veeery silly.”
“Okay, please tell me what’s silly about my life’s work.”
Ben had waited for this moment for months.“Number one.Your outfits.”
“Our gear.”
“Your uniform…things.The shoulder pads, the shorts over pants, all these giant guys wobbling around on teeny tiny little skate blades…that is an unserious look right there.”
Phil’s frown deepened, which was the opposite of what Ben wanted, but he’d started now, so he had to finish.
“Number two.The rules.The rules are so silly.No one knows what counts as goaltender interference.You have twelve different penalties for smacking a guy with your big sticks, and sometimes, you fuck up by putting too many people on the ice.But also, you’ve got fifteen guys squished on the bench at all times.What’s the point of that?”
“It’s so—”
“No, I’m not done,” Ben said.“The silliness continues.Number three.Thecellies.I have never seen a marginally dignified goal celebration.And number four.The positions.What even are they?”
Phil blinked.“I feel like Hockey For Dummies—or whatever you read to prepare for this job—should have covered those.”
“I did lots of reading, thanks.But now, people are saying, ‘oh, but this guy is an offensive defenseman,’ which is different from a normal defenseman.And Edwards keeps talking about the third line backcheck and how their offensive defensive abilities need work, and I haveno cluewhat he means.And I’m making you all look bad, and now I feel bad because you’re so great.”
“Maybe you should have thought of that before you took this job, huh?”
“It wasn’t my idea!”
“You are forty fucking two years old!You took a job pretending to be a hockey coach, something you know nothing about when your stepbrother’s uncle—”
“Uncle’s brother-in-law.”
