My face burned hot enough to melt ice, but Tolrek’s hand found mine under the table we sat behind.
“Anyactualquestions?” my father asked, but he was fighting a smile.
No one else raised their hands.
“Good. Get out of here. Practice in twenty.”
The team filed out, players clapping Tolrek on the shoulder as they passed. A few nodded at me, and I found respect in the gesture.
Brashe had been insufferable about his win for two weeks until Tolrek threatened to check him into next Tuesday.
Living together had been Tolrek’s idea, though he’d framed it as a practical suggestion.
“My lease is up next month,” Tolrek had said one morning over coffee, his tone too casual to be casual. “Your place is bigger.”
“That’s true.”
“Beau already thinks he lives there.”
Also true. The dog had claimed my couch as his throne within three days of the announcement going public. He’d also discovered that my apartment got better morning sun for napping and that my neighbor, the single mom with the twelve-year-old, had an endless supply of treats she’d give him whenever we walked out into the hall.
“So you’re saying Beau is making real estate decisions for both of us?” I asked.
“I’m saying Beau has opinions, and we should respect them.”
“Very diplomatic.”
His mouth twitched. “I’ve been practicing.”
The frames Tolrek had bought me held sketches now. Some of Beau, because Beau was an excellent model who would sit still for treats. Some of Tolrek when he wasn’t paying attention. One of my father behind the bench during a game, his attention completely focused on the ice.
I’d started drawing more. Tolrek had started teaching me about orc hockey history in the evenings when we were both too tired to do anything but sit on the couch with Beau between us.
He would’ve made an amazing teacher.
“You could still teach,” I’d told him one night.
“Maybe when I retire.”
“That’s not for years.”
“Then I have time to practice my lectures on you.”
On the ice, the puck dropped and the game started.
I did my job, hyperaware of every shift Tolrek played, a dual focus that had become automatic over the past six months.
He read a developing play in the first period and adjusted his position before their forward could exploit it. This created space for Crim to intercept the pass and drive into their zone for a goal.
My father’s voice came through the headset. “That’s what we need. Keep it tight.”
Tolrek’s line cycled through again midway through the second period. The other team’s power play deployed, and our penalty kill held. Tolrek called out an adjustment to Brashe that tightened the formation enough to force a turnover.
The press around the league had stopped calling the trade a gamble somewhere around January. Now they called it a steal. Tolrek’s stats weren’t flashy, but anyone who understood hockey could see what he did. He made everyone around him better.
The third period started with the score tied 2-2.
Tension ratcheted higher with each shift. Players moved faster, hit harder, and fought for every inch of ice like their careers depended on it. Playoff hockey was different, and this was as close to the playoffs as the regular season could get.
