Page 23 of Fly

Lionel kneaded my thigh, purring like a small engine, and for a few quiet seconds, the world narrowed to coffee, dust, and the warmth of a cat. And Cam was close enough that I caught the clean scent of soap and coffee when he shifted, steady warmth at my side, I pretended not to notice. I was still anxious. Still embarrassed. Still carrying the echo of that man’s voice in my head, but I stayed, and that felt like something.

We passed an hour in there without really noticing the time. Just… sitting. Chilling. Talking about nothing and everything—road trips, the weirdest superstitions Cam had seen in clubhouses, the difference between hockey tape and baseball grip tape as if it were a serious academic debate.

Cam didn’t revisit what had happened on the sidewalk or the way I’d lost control. He didn’t ask about my dad, or my name, or what it was like growing up with all that noise. He let the silence exist when it wanted to and filled it when it didn’t.

At some point, we made plans—loose ones, easy ones—and I caught myself wanting them to happen sooner than necessary, which I immediately reframed as enthusiasm for normal human friendship. Coffee again. Maybe food next time. Something low-key. Something I didn’t have to armor myself for. I didn’t realize how quiet my head had gotten until he stood to leave. I could do this. I could have a friend who didn’t need explanations. Who didn’t need me to perform, confess, or justify myself.

Someone who just let me be me.

Now, if only I could come to terms with wanting to hug or even kiss my new friend, everything would be fine.

New Jersey had us by the balls.

Again.

This was our second pre-season game against them, and we'd already lost to them two nights ago, a tragic five to nothing in their barn. But now we were home, and when I’d skated out for warm-ups, my first time as one of the Railers, the noise had hit me full in the chest.

Loud and grating boos rolled down from the stands.

I’d expected it. No one wanted me traded here. To them, I was the mistake, the question mark, the reason we’d lost to New Jersey despite neither of us fielding our best teams because, yeah, pre-season. I kept my head down, did my laps, told myself it didn’t matter—but the sound followed me anyway, a low, ugly reminder that home ice didn’t automatically mean welcome. Cap made sure he was right by my side, Noah, Trick, Becks, Mules, they all made a show to the fans that I was wanted, whether they believed it or not.

I hadn’t shone in the first pre-season game—and tonight wasn't any better. Three to them, nothing to us on the board, and it felt worse than the score suggested. New Jersey was everywhere—on the puck, in the lanes, on our sticks before we could even think about making a play. Every rush died early. Every breakout turned into a scramble. Nothing flowed.

I didn't flow.

For a second—no warning, no reason—I was thirteen again, standing in the kitchen in my skates, still damp, still smelling like the rink. My dad hadn’t even glanced up from the paper.

If you were any good, they’d notice.

I’d tried to explain. About the assist. About the coach playing favorites.

He’d snorted. Excuses. You want to make it? Be better. Otherwise, don’t embarrass me.

The memory hit hard and fast, like a punch to the ribs—the same tightness in my chest. The same instinct to shrink, to disappear, to stop giving anyone a reason to look too closely.

I shoved it down where it belonged and focused on the ice.

On my line, it was undeniable why we were fucked up. It was all on me, and I wasn’t connecting with Becks and Mules the way I needed to. I was a step off on the forecheck, drifting into space that was already covered, arriving just late enough to be useless. Becks carried wide, searching for support that didn’t come. Mules went hard to the net, banging for position, but the puck never followed him there.

Frustration crept in fast. I started gripping my stick, forcing plays that weren't there. New Jersey fed on my fuckups.

A TV timeout gave us a breather, and I headed to the bench with my line, my chest heaving, sweat running down the back of my neck. The crowd was buzzing, clearly torn between booing me or booing the entire team whenever we fucked up. The music blared, but on the bench, everything narrowed to our little pocket of space. Cap gripped the back of my neck for a moment—reassurance, I think, but it was Coach who had words for each line, leaning in, voice low. No yelling. No theatrics.

“Relax,” he said first, eyes moving between the three of us forming the fourth line. “The three of you are rushing everything.” He tapped his clipboard. “I'm seeing some good stuff,” he lied. “But tighten your triangle. One touch, then move it. Stop chasing.”

His gaze settled on Becks. “Carry it in wide. Make them back up.” Then Mules. “Straight to the net. Don’t look for pretty. Make their D hate you.” Finally, me. ”And you—trail the play. Be the second wave. Don’t force it. Let it come to you.”

I nodded, the instructions cutting through the noise in my head. Simple. Clean. Doable.

Coach straightened. “Next shift—clean exit, clean entry. That’s it. Worry about the rest later.”

“Yes, Coach,” we chorused.

The horn sounded again. Helmets went on. Becks caught my eye and gave a short nod. Mules tapped his stick once to the boards. We weren’t broken. We were just out of rhythm—and it was time to fix it.

When it was our turn Becks took possession deep in our zone, shoulder down, skating it out instead of rimming it blind. I stayed inside, close enough to be an option, close enough to matter. One New Jersey D-man stepped up, then hesitated.

Becks hit me with a short, safe pass—tape-to-tape. I didn’t dust it off. One touch back to him as he crossed the blue line, exactly where he’d expect it. Mules was already going. Straight line to the crease, dragging a defenseman with him like dead weight. Becks drove wide, just as Coach said, pulling their coverage toward the boards. I trailed the play, head up, letting the gap open instead of crashing it. When the puck kicked loose, it came to me clean. For a split second, everything slowed. I snapped a low shot on net—not trying to pick corners, just putting it where something could happen. Their goalie kicked out his pad, the rebound spilling into traffic. Mules got a stick on it, hacked once, twice before it squirted free, and New Jersey finally cleared the zone.