“Hey, Rossi,” he calls across the room. “Which locker room do you use? Boys or girls?”
His buddies laugh like morons, and one of them claps him on the arm. My teammates turn away from their conversations and tune in to what’s happening.
Before I can say anything, Pack comes bounding over. True to his style, he doesn’t shove the guy or make a scene. Instead, he steps between us, gives the guy that easygoing smile he uses to charm everyone, and says, “Sorry, didn’t catch that. Were you talking to my roommate?”
The guy puffs up. “Yeah. I asked him a question.”
“Okay, here’s the thing.” Packy’s smile doesn’t waver, but his eyes have gone cold. “You can leave now, or you can keep talking and find out how many of us took boxing last year. Your call.”
Our teammates close in behind the red-faced idiot, forming a loose semicircle.
“Damn right,” one of our D-men says.
The idiot looks around and does the math.
Apparently, he decides his joke isn’t worth a broken nose.
“Whatever,” he says, and stomps out.
Later, walking back to the dorm, I ask Pack why he did it.
“Did what?”
“Stepped in. I can handle assholes.”
Pack gives me a shy grin. “I know, but you shouldn’t have to. And you won’t when I’m there.”
That was it. Typical Packy with no big speech and no expectation of gratitude. It was an example of his quiet loyalty, taking care of his best friend.
I’d thought about that night a lot over the years. Sometimes it came back in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep, or when I read about him in the news. Every time we fought during a game, I’d remember how he’d stood up for me with no hesitation. It made the betrayal so much worse. How could the same man who’d defended me without blinking turn around and destroy everything?
Except now, instead of meeting in a game where we were both determined to come out on top no matter the price, we’d spent two days together. Instead of wanting to kill him, I’d wanted that morning at the school to go on. We could have kept laughing, standing close enough for me to feel his warmth.
“Fuck,” I told my empty apartment.
I finished my beer and got another. The smart thing would have been to go to bed early and wake up fresh for tomorrow’s game, but I needed to drink enough to stop thinking about Kirby goddamn Paquette.
Despite turning on the TV, I ended up on Instagram, scrolling through my feed. Right after an ad for underwear that said, “boost your booty,” there was a post from the Atlanta event. Pack and I were grinning like idiots. The caption read:
When rivals become teammates, magic happens. Thanks @NicoRossi19 and @PackyPaquette for an amazing day with our students.
It was magic, for sure. Until we got in the car to leave.
The comments were a mix of hockey fans gushing about how good it was to see us getting along, and people using hashtags I refused to acknowledge. I scrolled past without reading them.
I went back to the top of the post, and my finger hovered over Pack’s handle. One tap, and I’d be on his profile. I could see his posts and learn more about his life now.
Bad idea. Very bad.
I closed the app and tossed my phone onto the coffee table.
We’d have more events in Denver and Kansas City next week. That meant smiling for cameras, pretending we didn’t hate each other, and acting like life since college hadn’t happened.
My phone buzzed, and I grabbed it. Marissa had sent a message to Packy and me.
OUR TORMENTOR: Look for the Denver details in the next couple of days. I also want to thank you again for the great job in Atlanta and Houston. The engagement numbers are through the roof, so keep up the good work.
I stared at the message until the screen went dark, then woke it again. Pack didn’t reply, so neither did I.
