Chapter 7
Nick traveled with the team on the road trip. His leg was stronger—it had come along quickly—and he’d lifted weights and kept the rest of his body in shape during rehab. He wasn’t sure what day he’d play again—the coach was keeping his thoughts to himself as he watched Nick’s progress—but it felt good to be on the ice again.
Boarding the plane as they left Detroit was a different story. Everyone very carefully didn’t look at him as they filed on. He hung back, trying to be the last guy on, and they let him do it. They were all hyperaware of him—very accommodating. He was appreciative and irritated.
The last time he’d gotten on a plane, it had crashed in a field, at night, and he had been in absolute darkness for an hour before the first responders found them. He’d shouted to the other guys but no one had answered. And then he’d screamed for maybe half an hour. By the time the fire trucks rolled in, he’d stopped making noise except for the ragged breaths he drew in as he clutched his ruined leg. He’d never lost consciousness and it was a damn shame. He didn’t want these memories.
When he’d signed with Detroit, his dad had driven him to the new city so he wouldn’t have to get on a plane. It was dumb and took two days and he loved his dad for it.
Now he lingered by the cockpit, fiddling with a bag while everyone else got settled. He’d told Devin the day before that he’d like to be the last guy to choose a seat. Devin had quietly spread the word. The last time he’d chosen a spot on an airplane, it was the only seat someone could survive in—at least, it was the only seat someone had survived in. Which meant that when he’d chosen his seat and sat down, he’d condemned everyone else to death.
Other people wouldn’t see it quite that way, he knew. But they hadn’t been there.
So once his teammates were settled, he chose his spot—on the left, halfway back. Not where he’d been on the last flight, but maybe this was his new place. Takeoff was uneventful except for the guys carefully not paying attention to him, and the team trainer moving to sit across the aisle from him. For no particular reason, obviously. Did they think he might freak out and need to be sedated mid-flight?
Jesus. What if he did?
He kept himself busy playing a game on his phone. It was a stupid game. Ridiculously cheerful gnomes ran around with pickaxes cutting gold and gems out of tunnel walls. They jumped up and down every time they finished a vein—and squealed. He had to play with the sound off because of the squealing and because it was an embarrassing game to play. It was probably made for ten-year-olds.
His friend Luka had introduced him to it and had played it with the sound up, fist pumping when his avatar, the gnome in the green hat, amassed enough gold to advance to the next level. That gnome had looked like Luka too—they both had a mess of yellow hair. Nick had bought him a bright green hat as a joke, and the idiot had worn it—proudly. There was nothing that could embarrass Luka.
Since his death, Nick played as the green-hatted gnome, helping him chisel gems and dodge the occasional ghost whooshing past in the tunnels. No matter how much gold he amassed, though, he never won. Not really. Luka never came back, so the ghosts won anyway.
Just before the plane started its descent, Devin and André leaned forward from their seats behind Nick. Devin put a hand on his shoulder. The pilot announced that they should buckle up. Nick was already strapped in—he’d stayed that way the whole flight. “Hey, you know any good restaurants in St. Louis?” Devin said. “I want to make sure we eat someplace good while we’re in town.”
Nick swiveled to look at him. “There’s a lot of good restaurants in St. Louis.”
André had a hand on his other shoulder now, and Nick turned the other way. “Are we talking ambiance or the quality of the food?” André said. “Because I am a man of discernment and require both.”
“You will literally eat a cold hot dog,” Devin said.
“True,” André said. “But we need something elegant this week, to start preseason. Some place with fancy-ass garnishes.”
The plane touched down. The brakes locked with a squeal, and it decelerated sharply.
Nick swiveled to look at them both, the faintest of smiles in the crook of his mouth. “The team obviously made all the arrangements already. Like it always does. But thanks for the distraction, guys.” André lightly bounced his fist off Nick’s head, and Devin gave his shoulder a soft smack.
When the plane had taxied to a stop, the other guys began fiddling with bags and phones and pretending to tie shoes. Letting him get the hell off there first. Thoughtful enough to do it; thoughtful enough to pretend they weren’t. He took advantage of it and shot down the steps to the tarmac, touching one finger to his forehead as he passed the pilot. The man nodded to him.
Detroit had been at the first brush of fall—time to hang a jacket by the door. But St. Louis was still in late summer, and the sun glared off the tarmac and the glass in the terminal. When they walked into the building, Coach caught up with him right as the smell of the terminal hit him—plastic and carpet and bodies and faint food smells, and underneath it a sharp hit of aviation fuel. “Nick, I was thinking, if you have a good practice tonight, I might start you Wednesday in Boston.”
He looked up sharply at that.
“Just keep you out this first game, then turn you loose. The timing would be right for your leg, I think. But what do you think about returning to the ice there?”
Nick took a second. What did he think? “They bet against me,” he finally said. “That’s what it comes down to. The GM didn’t think I could come back.”
“Which is how we got you.” Coach looked at him closely. “You want revenge? Or you want to wait another couple of days?”
Nick stopped walking and turned to face his new coach. “I want revenge.”