Chapter 17 #2
Outside, the day was gray and drizzly. But Phil had few passions in life, all of which were extremely boring, so Tom let him have it.
Plus, a roofed part of the patio protected the grill.
Tom could take the chill, and he’d rather this than Phil’s other favorite hobby.
Fishing in the bay would be a million times more annoying in the rain.
“Is Morris joining us?”
Phil shook his head, scowling. “He’s apartment hunting with his nephew.”
The way Phil spoke gave the impression Morris was committing a heinous crime.
Tom had no idea what to do with that. He hadn’t known Morris had any family in the area, let alone any he was close with.
Apartment hunting sounded innocuous to Tom.
Coach Morris couldn’t stay in Phil’s guest room forever.
Eventually, he’d let the pause go on for too long and couldn’t address it anyway. “The PK’s doing better,” Tom said instead.
Phil flipped their steaks and stirred a bunch of vegetables in an aluminum dish. Soaked in oil and herbs, they would be so much better than Tom’s lunch. “Yeah, it’s looking decent. Mazetti’s gotta stop trying so hard to make his passes pretty though. He’s only gotta make ’em work.”
“You should tell him.”
Phil snorted
“Seriously,” Tom said. “Your advice has been great so far. And no one is taking Trout or Morris seriously anymore. Anyway, it’ll mean more coming from you.”
“Morris too?”
Tom picked at a fingernail. Before stalking Jax on social media, he’d tried to be productive by looking up info on their coach.
All he could find were two grainy photos of an intramural college hockey team with a very young Ben Morris on right wing.
The accompanying article from the school paper didn’t so much as mention him.
Reports about his previous coaching career were also thin on the ground.
“I think he lets us make too many decisions,” Tom said. “Promoting Luca to first string—Jax and I suggested it. And getting the team to gel again, Breezy and Jax’s shelter plan. Keeping us fired up in the locker room when things were going to shit—you.”
Phil took the steaks off the heat and covered them with a lid. “Taking rookies out for lunch and talking them through existential crises—you.”
Tom flushed. “How’d you find out about that?”
“Howie told Breezy. Breezy told me.”
Last year, Tom and Dmitriyev, their goalie, had gotten invited to the All-Star Game.
Tom kind of hated it. Not only did it ruin the one week off he had during the season, it meant hours and hours of socializing even after the games were over.
If he didn’t show his face, he would be talked about; if he did, he’d be talked at.
Dmitriyev, who drank enough to be mildly tipsy—an amount which made Tom feel sick just watching—had said a Russian grandmothers’ knitting circle had nothing on the NHL in gossip.
Tom was starting to think he had a point.
“When I’m gone—”
“Phil.”
“You should give Breezy the A.”
“You’re not gone.”
“I will be eventually. And he should have it.”
Before this season, Tom would have laughed at the idea. In the three years since he’d made the team, Tom had known Breezy as a goofy jokester, always ready for a good time, never someone to think too hard. It might have been true once. But this season?
Tom paid attention this season. Breezy stood up for Luca; he got Jax started on the shelter idea.
He kept up the energy and good spirits in the locker room when everyone else fell apart.
As players, he and Luca were the only ones whose conditioning was on par to keep their stats steady despite Trout’s insane workload.
He wasn’t sure if Breezy had always had this potential or if he’d grown into it, but Tom knew for a fact he’d have never seen it if Jax hadn’t made him open his eyes.
Still, he wouldn’t let Phil go without a fight. “We’d have to start listening to music from this decade in the locker room, then. I’m not ready.”
Phil snapped the tongs he’d used to flip the meat at Tom’s nose. “Someone had to be in charge of it. If I let you do it, all we’d listen to would be your Canadian indie shit.”
“Hey! The Barenaked Ladies are in the Canadian Music Hall of Fame.”
Phil gave him a pointed look.
“At least I’ve updated my playlists since high school.”
“Who has the time?” Phil asked. “We hear enough new shit when the rookies drag us to the clubs, and honestly, I’m not into it. Like, Migos? What is that? You can’t even dance to it. How’s it supposed to get you pumped up for a game?”
Tom had no idea whether “Migos” meant a band or a solo artist, let alone what kind of music they might make, so he just shrugged. “This is why we’re the old guys on the team.”
“I like being old. If I had to keep up with the charts to be an A, I’d pick the letter off my jersey myself.”
“Do they even still do charts?” Tom asked. “Isn’t everything streaming now?”
Phil considered. “You know what? I have no idea. Breezy would know though. Or if he didn’t, he’d look it up. Maybe he’ll even let the other guys pick a song for the playlist too. Give him a chance, and he’ll make something of it.”
Tom sighed deeply. “You’re right. But I’m not ready to take the A away from you yet.”
“Good.”
“And I’m not ready for Russian techno in the locker room.”
They ate in the living room, thankfully, because even Phil had to admit it was too cold to eat outdoors.
Phil put the game on—the Winnipeg Pirates against the Minnesota Fury.
The Fury’s goalie was on fire, and the Pirates had been struggling as a whole this season.
By the second intermission, the score stood four–nil with the Fury headed for a shutout.
“Brutal,” Phil said, wiping up the last of his steak juice with garlic bread.
“Don’t remind me. We haven’t played the Fury since they got their new tendy.”
“Eh.” Phil wobbled his hand back and forth. “You’ll be okay. Dmitriyev isn’t quite as good yet, but with the defense tightened up, he should be okay. And you and Jax can decimate their defense easy.”
Tom’s face did something between a smile and a grimace.
What cruel joy that he and Jax were so good together on ice.
On the one hand, it filled Tom with pride.
They were playing some of the best hockey of his career, both as a team and him individually.
On the other, he wanted to hide their chemistry, protect it from the world, so no one could see how good he and Jax were together, not when they couldn’t be together the way they were supposed to be.
The way Tom wanted to be.
As the TV went into an ad break, Phil pressed mute and turned to Tom, maneuvering to keep his leg stretched out straight. “So.”
“Hmm?” The TV ran an ad for men’s shampoo, the same brand Tom had done that stupid sponsorship deal for five years ago.
With the color scheme all dark and red and the sound off, it really brought to the fore the ridiculousness of the industry gendering soap of all things.
But Tom couldn’t help thinking about Jax and the supply of body wash he didn’t particularly like but felt duty-bound to keep working through.
Maybe he should buy a different brand, just to switch it up. Just to make it easier on them both.
“What happened with you and Jax?”
Tom jerked away from the TV to stare at Phil.
“See, last I checked, you two were tearing it up on the ice and actually becoming friends off the ice for once in your life. But then today, I get a text from Jax telling me to invite you over because you need to, and I quote, ‘Get out of your head,’ but not to ask why.”
Tom’s throat closed up. Jax couldn’t help but always take care of him.
“I made friends with you,” Tom pointed out.
“Nice try, but no.” Phil flicked his ear. “We were road roommates before the NHLPA bargained their way into single rooms, and I wore you down by proximity. That’s not the same thing as going out of your way to spend time with someone.”
Tom forced a laugh. “I wasn’t that bad.”
“Oh, buddy, you were worse. You’d have stayed in every night of every road trip if I had let you. The first month sharing a room, the only things you would talk to me about were how to fix your back-check and the weather.”
It had been a long time since Tom had thought about his first season.
He’d been eighteen and brand-new in the NHL.
Everyone had expected great things from him, but the nerves caused by heightened expectations combined with the grueling travel schedule and the media attention made him so anxious it took a month or two for him to hit his stride.
A slow start meant everyone called him a draft bust both in the press and sometimes to his face, which didn’t help.
To top it off, he still lived in fear that each new day would be the one Sean slipped up and told someone about the time first-overall-pick Tom Crowler got drunk and sucked him off.
All he had going for him were the texts from his mom after every game, telling him honestly whether or not he’d done well.
“I was so scared,” Tom said, caught up in the memory. He’d only felt safe on the ice or holed up in the huge apartment the team had organized for him.
“Of me?” Phil frowned.
Belatedly, Tom remembered the things hockey media said about Phil.
People still called him an overpaid draft bust, even though he’d been a solid wall of a defenseman for a decade before his knees started giving out.
Whenever he took a penalty, they called him a goon or, worse yet, a dangerous player.
Tom could name twenty guys off the top of his head who played a much more dangerous game than Phil—Vanderbilt and Howie among them.
Anyone could play hockey, but most who did were straight white men.
“No, not of you.” Tom took a deep breath. “More of you…finding out about me.”
Phil’s brow furrowed. “What about you?”