I look at Patel. “Take a Camdenth. Get the puck.”
I look at Walsh. “I need you on Saturday. Don’t be stupid.”
That’s it. They back off. The scrimmage resumes.
Coach blows it for the last time at seven-fifty. We line up on the blue line for stretches. Coach says four sentences about the home opener, three sentences about effort, one sentence about not being late for film at six o’clock tonight. We stretch and step off.
I grab my phone from my cubby on the way through the tunnel. The lock screen has three notifications. Group chat. Group chat. One text.
Madison:Hey, you around this weekend?
I look at it for a second, lock the screen, and drop the phone in my bag. I think about Madison for about as long as it takes to walk from the cubby to the locker room door. I hooked up with her twice last spring. I haven’t thought about her since May. She’ll randomly text me from time to time, but they never mean anything.
Stanley has his phone synced to the speaker, which means he’s about to pound some rap music that I’m not in the mood for. Walsh is already half out of his pads, yelling somethingacross the room at Tomasetti about a TV show. Tomasetti, our backup goalie, is yelling back. Patel is in the shower. Two of the freshmen are sitting on the bench, staring at their phones. Rowan is by his cubby, towel around his neck, talking to Hayes.
I hear Rowan say, “—and then Coach kicked me out of the drill, and I had to do bag skate by myself for ten minutes while everyone watched, so—”
Hayes laughs nervously.
I drop my bag, sit down, and start pulling at my skate laces.
Stanley comes out of the bathroom holding his phone. He looks around the room. I keep my head down.
“Reeve.”
“What?”
“I need your phone. Mine’s on YouTube, so I can’t close the app. I have a vibe to maintain.”
He doesn’t wait for my permission. He walks over and grabs my phone off the top of my bag. I reach for it, but I’m still halfway in my skates.
“What do you need my phone for?” I ask as he looks at the screen.
His face changes. “Madison,” he says, at full volume, “is texting you.”
The room reacts in a wave.
“Madison from last spring?” That’s Tomasetti, from across the room.
“She’s still around?” Walsh, leaning back against his cubby, half a sandwich in his hand from the protein tray.
“She is texting our captain, Walsh. What is the appropriate response?”
“Give him his phone back,” Rowan calls from across the room.
“Et tu, Laurens?”
Percy glares. “Stop saying et tu.”
I am up off the bench. “Stanley. Phone.”
“Are you going to engage?”
“Hell no.”
The room makes a sound. It’s a collective, knowing, half-impressed sound.
“Atta boy,” Stanley says, and hands me the phone. “Captain. Discipline. Restraint. The wisdom of a man with a Stats class to pass.”
