The drills might have come easy to me, but it’s just now that I realize Nate’s skates are rubbing my heels and pinching my toes in an uncomfortable manner, and his stick doesn’t provide me with the flexibility I’m used to.
“Hoff! Move your ass back, boy!”
I glower at the Assistant Coach who’s yelling at me from the sidelines. He reminds me of a bulldog with the way he has been yapping at our defense for the past few minutes. I’ve quickly realized that Nate’s line is moving slower than what I’m used to. The Bats aren’t the fastest skaters, but they work as a kind of fortress, playing a very compact game. Our own blueliners and I have a mutual understanding that I don’t interfere in their defensive zone until I absolutely have to, and I’m happy with that. Knowing I have a strong defense at my back provides me with a lot of freedom for my own forward game.
Not so much here.
Taylor has been throwing his hands up at me for the third time in under two minutes. I want to remind him about both our roles in this game but bite my tongue instead. It’s not like I have scored a goal yet.
“Sorry!” I call out instead, trying to look sheepish even though my chin juts out in defiance. Taylor calls something back at me, but I ignore it. As soon as the puck collides with my stick I turn around to fly down the ice. I send a pass to my left when I see Hart has caught up to me, expecting him to return the favor when I use the time to maneuver myself into a better shooting position, but he has already taken the chance on his own.
The black rubber disc goes flying into the glove of the goalie, and I seethe.
“Eyes?” I call out in annoyance. “You have those, right? I was free!”
Our team wins the scrimmage with a lucky shot from Baker. I’m a bit smug since I was the one to provide him with the assist, but overall, I just feel exhausted. The whole game is so obviously tailored to Hart. I knew that from endless hours of tape watching, but it feels worse when being expected to seamlessly fit into the machinery of feeding him passes. Getting sacked by the Rebels would almost be a relief under these circumstances. I can’t imagine having to put up with his entitled ass every day.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout at you,” I grumble half-heartedly as we come together at the end of training. I fully meant it, but unfortunately for me, Nate would never.
“Don’t sweat it,” Hart waves me off, but his blue eyes observe me with caution. I turn my head away. The stare is unnerving, like he’s trying to x-ray my brain with it, those blue irises sifting through its layers until he finally discovers that I’m not just having an off day.
At the end of practice, I expect a summary of our shortcomings, but as we shuffle off the ice, I get a pat on the back from the Head Coach.
“Nice assist, Nate. Keep it up,” he tells me, not mentioning my lack of backward movement that had our defense so upset.
I blink, then mumble a quick “Thanks” as I follow the rest of the team to the showers.
Nicko, October 17th
Iloiter around the showers until everyone is packed up and ready to go. Everyone, except for Hart, who sits on the bench waiting for me when I exit the showers with a towel wrapped around my hips.
“Hurry up, beauty queen. I’m hungry!”
I roll my eyes even though I can relate. After only taking a few bites of the spicy noodles, I feel ready to collapse.
“What are we ordering?” I have my back turned to Hart while toweling off. The surgery scars on my right knee are the only visible difference between Nate and me. Since they can’t be fixed with some hair products and contact lenses, I’d rather give Hart a chance to look at my ass than have him discover them.
I haven’t paid much thought to my knee during training, but now I’m suddenly aware of the subtle strain in my upper leg. Maybe I pushed too hard during the last play, but I really wanted Baker to make that goal.
“We still have ramen,” Hart points out while scrolling through his phone, probably to give me some privacy while changing. Hisconcentration on the screen is a bit too intense, but the gesture is familiar.
I’m not fully out to my team. Some guys know I’m bi because I mentioned it at the start of my freshman year, but most of them have graduated by now. It’s never been worth an actual conversation and I think—or at least hope—it wouldn’t be a big deal for my current teammates. Nevertheless, I catch myself trying to pointedly avoid looking at even their hairy toes inside the locker room. I can’t imagine how that must be for someone who is openly out as gay, especially after reading what the internet has to say about him.
The rage about Resnikoff’s leaked video footage and the Rebels’ media intervention with Hart died down quickly. But with us being in our final year of college, people start to remember that the first openly gay player is about to enter the NHL. And I’ll be there right beside him if everything goes according to plan.
The thought alone is enough to give me a massive headache.
“I need some real food,” I grumble as I pull a St. Bernard’s hoodie over my head. The dark green looks so unfamiliar on me, I scrunch up my nose when I catch my reflection in the mirror. I should probably put some kind of gel in my hair, but I don’t have the patience to sort through Nate’s stash of jars and tubes. So I opt for a beanie to tame my damp strands instead.
“What’s unreal about noodles?” Hart finally puts his phone away, frowning at me.
I want to argue when I remember that he’s at St. Bernard’s on a full ride. I don’t know much about his family except that he has two mothers, whom I saw at the draft, and that money seems to be a sensitive subject. It’s also the reason why my brother hasn’t moved out of the dorms after freshman year.
“I don’t think my stomach is up for hot sauce yet,” I point out, which is not a lie. My stomach definitely isn’t up for hot sauce again, now or ever. “My treat?”
“I don’t need a treat,” Hart huffs as he stands.
Good to know that we agree on some things. Unfortunately, I can’t tell him that.
