"One shift," he said.
I was on the ice before the words left his mouth.
We won.
Because hell yeah we won.
Not gracefully, the Boston Wardens never did anything gracefully—which was part of our brand at this point, lean into it, put it on the merch—but we won, and the locker room afterward was exactly what happened when twenty-three guys who'd been clenched for sixty minutes all let go at the same time.
Music loud as fuck. Gear everywhere. Jenkins was doing something on a bench that I was going to call dancing out of respect for our friendship. Chappell was crying, which happened every win and which we all collectively pretended not to see, and also because Chappell was six-foot-three and none of us were stupid.
I was at the center of it, which was where I kept myself. Feeding the room, laughing when I was supposed to, absorbing the contact and sending energy back out at a markup. It was a skill, same as any other skill, and I'd put in the reps.
The last five minutes of the game, I had almost forgotten what I was doing. I wasn't sharing that part.
It had been maybe ten seconds, this gap, this skip, where my hands and legs kept doing the right things but whoever was supposed to be home had briefly stepped out. I'd come back to myself mid-shift with the puck on my stick and zero memory of how it got there, and I'd laughed and kept going because what's the alternative? By the final buzzer, I'd mostly landed onfatigueas an explanation, or the hit. Or the energy drinks that had lapped each other and were now fighting.
Definitely one of those things. I wasn't taking questions. Comments closed.
I was halfway out of my gear when Jenkins materialized at my elbow, still vibrating at a frequency only dogs and very excitable rookies could achieve.
"Okay so Searcy wants to go to Broderick's," he said, "and I want to go to Broderick's, and basically everyone wants to go to Broderick's, and Big Morrison"—he pointed at Dylan across theroom, who was already shaking his head—"is being lame about it, so you have to come."
"Jenkins." I put a hand on his shoulder. "I was born to go to Broderick's."
"Hell yeah!" He pumped his fist. "Okay, but also, no offense, do you think you could maybe not, like, hook up with someone tonight? Because last time you left with the bartender at O'Connor's, and he keeps asking me about you and—"
"He was so hot," I said, and then immediately heard myself say it and winced. "Okay, you’re right. I'll go, I'll have a drink, I'll go home alone like a person with functional decision-making skills."
"Morrison."
The locker room didn't go quiet, it was too loud for that, but the guys nearest the door realized it. I felt the ripple, and I turned around.
Cross was standing in the locker room doorway with his tablet, which meant he had something to tell me officially.
I grinned at him. "Miss me already, Doc?"
The Ice Doc looked at me—not the quick professional sweep he usually gave me, but actually looked, straight on. Ice-blue eyes like lasers aimed directly at me.
"Training room," he said. "Seven a.m."
"I'll be there," I said. "I'm a morning person."
That was a complete lie, and we both knew it.
Cross held my gaze for one beat too long, and then he turned around and walked back into the training room and let the door shut behind him.
“You think he’s got bodies buried somewhere?” Jenkins whispered. He followed it with a fake shiver. “Or maybe he’s one of those vampires who play baseball in the rain. He’s at least thirty-something, but I don’t think he’s—”
“Shut up,” I whispered back.
The locker room kept going around me. My head was making a sound I had decided was the alcohol I was going to consume in approximately forty minutes.
Going out, I decided, was a genuinely great idea. I was going to go out, and be loud, and be twenty-three, and everything was going to be totally fine.
Totally fine, I thought, as I left the locker room.
My head rang when the door slammed behind me.
