“I know what the question is.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“No.”
He grins. He picks up his own roll of tape and goes back to his stick.
Walker, two stalls down, is doing the small careful suppressed-laugh shoulder shake of a man who would like to be in on the joke and knows better than to participate. Tate has put his AirPod back in. Rowan, at his stall, is grinning into his elbow pad.
Benson is in a good mood. I watch him from the corner of my eye while I do my second wrap of the blade. He’s humming. Benson does not hum. Benson is the captain of this team, and the captain of this team does not, in my two years of knowing him, hum in the locker room before a Hockey East matchup.
Benson is humming a song I almost recognize.
I narrow my eyes at the toe of my skate. “Reeve.”
“Golding.”
“You good?”
“I’m great.”
“Why are you great?”
“I am playing hockey on a Thursday night with my best friends. Why wouldn’t I be great?”
Rowan scoffs, “First round, fucker.”
Walker chuckles.
Benson sticks his tongue out like he knows he’s top dog.
“Blue. I am a man in love. I’m always great.”
I shake my head. “Disgusting.”
Stanley adds in, “You make me sick, Reeve.”
“You’re going to make somebody sick someday, Stan.”
“Doubt it.”
“Statistically speaking.”
“Reeve, I’m going to die alone. Hawthorne House rules for life,baby!”
I look at him, recalling what he said at the bar the other week. He asked how serious the rules are, and now he’s saying this. “Yeah, right,” I mutter.
Stanley widens his arms. “And I’m at peace with it.”
Walker laughs out loud this time.
I look at Benson.
He winks at me.
