I danced around an opposing player, feeling the scrape of his stick against my shin guards, and wound up for the wrist shot. My focus narrowed to the weight of the puck, the angle of the goal, the goalie’s position.
I fired.
The puck pinged off the goalpost with a metallic clang that made my stomach drop.
Fuck!
Andrzej whipped around and slammed it in on the rebound, but before we could celebrate, he was crushed against the boards by two defenders.
Shit!I joined the fray, only for Rami to haul me off by my shoulders. “Not worth it,” he grunted in my ear as the refs descended upon us.
We won 2-1.
It sucked.
“Good game, good game, good game.” The litany of Coach Caruso congratulating us grated on my nerves as we filed into the locker room. “Baptiste,” he said when I passed him, “you’re up for press today.”
Well, fuck.
I changed quickly, my aching muscles protesting. The press room was too bright, too loud, too everything as the adrenaline from the game wore off. Haruto was already there, looking as happy as I felt. We took our places beside Coach Caruso, and I forced my expression into blank professionalism.
“Tough game,” a journalist said, his recorder thrust forward. “How are you all doing without Cole Carter and Aleksandr Novikov?”
Caruso leaned forward to take the mic, and I wondered how he’d handle the question. “The team’s been through a lot of change in a short period, but they’re excellent players, they’re resilient, and I’m confident we can go all the way this year.”
“Tristan, you and Cole were close. Do you have anything to say about his absence?”
Fuck.No, I didn’t have anything I wanted to add about the fact that Cole Carter was a fucking martyr, and I hated that he’d sacrificed himself, and so had Alek, and now, wewere all paying the price.
“Cole’s a strong player, and he’ll be missed, but we have a great team, and I’m proud to be a Marauder.”
Coach Caruso’s warm approval washed over me. I didn’t want to like him, didn’t want to compare him to Alek, but I liked the way he ran the team, despite myself. It only made the hole Alek left feel bigger.
By the time I got back to Alek’s, it was almost eleven.
Me
You doing okay?
Cole
No.
But I’m not drinking, if that’s what you’re asking.
Me
It’s not what I was asking.
The living room was warm, softly lit by a single lamp that cast everything in amber. Alek had rustled up some blankets to toss over the backs of his couches and added rugs to cover the bare tiles. The apartment looked more inviting than it used to. I wondered if he was trying to make it more comfortable for Eva.
Eva looked up from where she was curled up against Alek on the couch, wearing an oversized grey sweatshirt I didn’t recognize—probably one of his. She balanced her laptop on her knees, and her hair was pulled into a messy knot on top of her head. She looked soft and sleepy and perfect. Her feet were bare, and suddenly, I understood the new rugs.
Alek had his reading glasses on, one arm stretched along the back of the couch behind her shoulders, his other handholding a book. He looked up at me over the top of his frames.
“Good game,” he murmured. “And well done at the presser.”
His quiet approval meant more to me than anything Coach Caruso had said, maybe more than the win we’d barely eked out.
