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“Fuck.” Remy glanced up at Jed with hollow eyes. “Sorry. Again. I mean—”
“Shut it.” Moreau jumped in before Jed could respond. It was true that he preferred to use the ten minutes it took him to undress to process the low points of the game and move on—hence the fine for speaking to him that Hal had not-quite-jokingly instituted a few years ago—but he also didn’t like the way Remy was hunched in on himself.
Apparently, Moreau didn’t like it, either, because he sent a steady stream of chatter in Remy’s direction. “Dude, we all sucked tonight. Except, you know, Hal and Monty. Work it off on a bike, and then get in the shower. You smell as bad as you used to before my mom introduced you to deodorant. I thought you were better than that now.”
Remy finally looked up and cracked a half-hearted smile. “I almost forgot how much you talk. I don’t know how anyone here puts up with you.”
“It’s because every single one of my words is a priceless gem. And I score goals, obviously.” Moreau gave Remy a shove, and Remy shoved him back and finally began undressing while Moreau narrated his plans to show Remy around town after practice the next day.
Jed took his time with the rest of his gear, listening in. He could pretend it counted as keeping an eye on Remy to make sure he was acclimating well.
“Hey, you have a real place to stay yet?” Moreau was asking. “Living out of the hotel is going to get old fast.”
“No, I need to figure that out. I think I need something short-term, though. I’ve still got my place in Montreal, and I don’t exactly know how long I’ll be here—”
“Hey, no thinking like that,” Moreau interrupted. “But if you’re looking to save some money, me and Jake have an extra room right now. We wouldn’t mind you crashing while you figure out what you wanna do. Right, Jake?” he shouted across the room at McBride, who was on his way to the shower.
“Whatever you want, Petey,” McBride shouted back.
“That’s Jake’s way of saying it would be awesome.” Moreau bumped Remy with his shoulder, hard enough that Remy brushed against Jed, bare arm against bare arm, and Jed froze for a moment.
“So that’s a yes?” Moreau nudged Remy again, and Remy shifted away from Jed with a shake of his head.
“Yeah, thanks, Petey.” Remy’s voice was still rough.
“You got it.” And then Moreau winked at Jed, because Jed wasn’t even pretending that he wasn’t listening. “Hey, look, Monty’s done with his gear. Gonna say sorry properly now?”
“Don’t worry about it. It wasn’t the first time my own defense has scored on me, and it won’t be the last.” Jed meant it, too. The bad rebound was just one of those flukes.
Remy didn’t look convinced, though. He opened his mouth, then closed it again and bit his lip, and then shook his head and said, “That goal was on me, and it won’t happen again. I’m gonna do better. And I’m gonna stop talking now, too. I’m sorry about that again. You don’t have to say anything.”
Jed felt like maybe he did, because Remy seemed pretty damn upset, and that made Jed think Hal was right about things getting weird. But Remy was off to the bikes before Jed could figure out how to make them any better.
By the time Jed finished his post-game workout and stretches, saw the trainer, and showered, Remy was gone. That was for the best, because Jed didn’t have a plan yet. He pulled on his suit, waved at Hal—who was chatting with Bakesy, Remy not being the only d-man who’d had a tougher-than-hoped-for game—and headed out to his SUV.
Soon enough, he was back in his kitchen, flicking the switch on his electric kettle. The guys who knew about his tea habit laughed at him for being an old man, but he wasn’t giving it up. It was a lot healthier than beer.
Even though it was late, his phone pinged as he waited for the water to boil. Jed ignored it in favor of stripping off his suit jacket and tie and emptying his pockets onto the huge, granite-topped island that separated the kitchen from the rest of the living space. Concentrating on his post-game routine was part of how he wound down—pulling out his favorite hand-thrown ceramic mug, picking out a spiced decaf black tea, and grabbing the oat milk from the fridge.
When his phone pinged again, he picked it up with a sigh, wondering who it could be. The team chat didn’t usually blow up after a mess like tonight’s game, and Jed had few friends and even fewer family members—make that no family members—who would text at this time of night.
He should have known it was Hal.
Hal
What did you say to Lads after the game
I saw you talking
Then he left
He looked miserable
Did you mess up fixing the weird
Christ. Hal knew exactly why Remy looked miserable, and it had nothing to do with Jed.
Grant
