Page 94 of Puck Me Back to Life

Nobody argues.

Mostly because arguing with Coach before practice is like arguing with weather. It might make you feel better for a few seconds, but the outcome remains exactly the same. Players begin sorting themselves into teams.

Dante ends up on Kai's side.

I end up on the other.

The second I realize we're playing against each other, Kai glances across the ice. Then he smiles. Almost challenging. The sight sends an embarrassing amount of excitement through me. Apparently, I've reached the point where being challenged by Kai Hayes improves my mood.

That's probably something I should examine.

I choose not to.

The scrimmage begins. The pace is fast immediately. Nobody likes losing, even when the scoreboard doesn't matter. Especially hockey players. Half of professional athletics is just finding socially acceptable reasons to compete with your friends.

The puck drops.

Dante wins the opening draw through what I can only assume is divine intervention. Lane collects the puck and sends it back toward Kai. The shift develops quickly after that.

Across the ice, Hayes immediately looks different. I've noticed it more and more over the last few weeks. Most days Kai skates like somebody carrying a weight nobody else can see. The talent is always there, but there is usually something holding him back.

Some invisible pressure sitting on his shoulders.

Today it seems lighter. The thought lingers longer than it should. Because I'm starting to realize how much attention I've been paying.

Kai cuts through the neutral zone with the puck on his stick. Thomas Lane steps up.

Kai slips around him effortlessly.

The move earns a whistle from one of the assistant coaches. “Atta boy, Hayes.”

Kai doesn't react. Never does. Most players thrive on praise. Kai treats compliments like suspicious packages.

The play continues.

Dante skates hard down the wing beside him, making enough noise for three people. I can hear him yelling from halfway across the rink. Some things never change.

Lane closes the gap. Kai dishes the puck wide. Dante nearly loses it immediately.

I close my eyes. Briefly. The man possesses elite hand-eye coordination. Unfortunately, he occasionally forgets to use it.

The puck bounces awkwardly off his stick and nearly escapes the zone before he recovers.

“Nice save,” I yell.

Dante lifts one finger in my direction.

The scrimmage settles into a rhythm after that. Players rotate through lines. Coach yells at everyone equally. A rookie, Alastor Foley, gets caught cheating toward the offensive zone and receives a lecture loud enough for neighboring states to hear.

Across the ice, Hayes keeps finding ways to draw my attention. Not intentionally. That's the problem. The things that catch my eye are small. A quick laugh after Dante says something ridiculous. The way he taps his stick against a teammate's shin guards after a good play.

Ordinary fucking things that I’m finding adorable. The kind of moments that reveal who somebody is when they stop thinking about being watched. I shouldn't enjoy seeing that side of him as much as I do.

A whistle sounds. Line change. Kai glides toward the bench.

Dante says something to him making him laugh. The sound doesn't reach me through the distance and noise. I still know exactly what it sounds like.

Whatever this thing is between us, it's supposed to be simple.