Chapter 7
Seven
A Master’s Degree in Overthinking
Beck
“Okay,” I say to myself during practice the next day.
“Okay,” I repeat while showering afterwards.
“Okay. Okay. Okay?”
That’s what Forest had said before ending our text conversation. The problem is, I have no idea what it means. So I stare at that damn text message a thousand times over the next few days, until the word itself ceases to have meaning.
What kind of okay was it? Like, okay-I-give-up-you-can-suck-my-dick?
Or, more likely, okay-I-agree-to-pretend-to-think-about-it.
A whole week of my life is spent in deep speculation. So, on the evening of the game against the Plague, I try one more trick. I ask a chatbot what “okay” means in this context.
This is the answer I receive:
Based on extensive linguistic analysis, “okay” in this context could mean:
1. Acceptance of your sexual proposal.
2. A panic-induced typo.
3. A subtle rejection.
4. An emotionally repressed yes. Or no. Possibly a maybe.
5. An agreement to engage in further discourse at a later date.
6. A glitch in the matrix.
7. A sign he’s been replaced by an alien pod person who doesn’t understand flirting but is trying to blend in.
8. A cry for help in Morse code. But just the "K."
Given how unhelpful this response is, you’d think I’d chuck my phone out the window of my Jeep. But I need my phone to navigate to the rink where we’re playing the Plague.
And also, I need it to play my pump-up song, which is “Just Can’t Get Enough,” by Depeche Mode.
On the way, I remind myself to focus on goaltending instead of dissecting Forest’s intentions. As if my brain even worked that way—I’ve got a master’s degree in overthinking.
So I sing along to Depeche Mode and hope for the best.
The Red Mountain High School looks like most high schools—a cross between a hospital and a prison. A severely pissed-off mountain goat is pictured on a sign over the rink’s entrance. I assume it’s Red Mountain’s mascot.
After yanking my hoodie over my cap in the parking lot, I walk inside. Their rink is an echoey, low-slung barn with flickering fluorescent lights, just like so many others. But the ice looks smooth, and I feel the familiar itch.
Which dressing room is ours, though?
That becomes obvious a moment later when I find that one of the doors has the enemy’s sweater taped onto it. It’s a generic black jersey with “PLAGUE” spelled out in a dripping red font. Real subtle.
I find the other dressing room and heft my gear bag a little higher on my shoulder. For this game, I dug out my old juniors gear. No Ice Cats logos anywhere. The last thing I need is someone recognizing me and asking why a pro player is slumming it in the beer league.
For a team called the Stickhandlers.
“You made it!” Scully’s voice booms as soon as I open the door.
He and Forest are pulling on their gear, and just seeing Forest makes my stomach do that fizzy thing.
He’s removing a flannel shirt, because of course he is.
So I get a glimpse of a broad chest with exactly the right amount of fur on it.
Oh man. If this is as close as I get to Forest’s naked body, it’s almost enough.
I give them an awkward wave with my stick. “Hope that mountain goat outside isn’t an omen. They’re actually pretty aggressive animals. Did you know they can climb trees? Which seems like showing off, honestly. Like, pick a lane—are you a goat or a squirrel?”
Forest just stares at me for a moment, then shakes his head and grabs his compression shirt.
Right. Shutting up now.
The locker room smells like every other locker room I’ve been in—that unique blend of equipment funk and determination. The Stickhandlers are joking around as they dress. They’re a mix of ages and builds that somehow works together.
“Boys, tonight changes everything,” Scully crows. “Barkley’s ankle is healed up, and we found ourselves a goalie who can actually stop a puck.”
“Unlike Marcus,” someone adds.
“Hey, that child had skills!”
“That child was wearing Crocs!”
Javier tosses me a red Stickhandlers jersey. “Here, buddy. Make us proud.”
“On it.” These guys feel right, somehow. Like maybe I could belong here, if I wasn’t…well, me.
As I strap on my gear, I sneak a glance at Forest. His arm muscles bunch beneath his compression shirt as he tugs up his socks, and my heart starts beating wildly with a singular question: do I have a chance with him tonight?
Probably not. But a guy can dream.
When we take the ice for warmups, I hear the chirping start immediately from the other bench. Real creative stuff about rainbows and fairies. I tune most of it out—five seasons in the minors teaches you that much.
But then one of them skates by our bench and calls out, “Hey, Sugar Plum! Nice pads. They come in men’s sizes?”
I can’t help myself. “Oh, you’re chirping me? That’s cute. Like a bunny growling.”
The guy actually stops skating, probably trying to figure out if he’s been insulted or not. His teammate skates into him from behind, and they both go down.
Forest, gliding by, actually cracks a smile, and it feels like a win.
I stretch carefully during warmups, because I can’t afford to pull something. God knows how I’d explain that to management.
Soon enough, the puck drops, and I’m in my happy place. Between the pipes, everything makes more sense. The world narrows down to angles and trajectories. I concentrate on reading players’ intentions via their shoulders and their stick blades.
Unlike my usual competition, none of these guys are very good at disguising their intentions. Regardless, they’re not afraid to shoot, or to crash the net.
Five minutes in, their captain tries to deke me on a breakaway, but I’ve seen better moves in juniors, and my glove is there to snag it. He swears—real creative stuff about my mother and a moose.
“Sorry,” I call after him. “But your stick handling is giving me secondhand embarrassment. It’s like watching someone try to eat soup with a fork.”
His face turns purple, and now I’m really enjoying myself. The first period ends scoreless, which seems to really piss them off.
“Looking solid out there, Beck,” Forest says during the break.
I light up inside like a Star Wars droid. “Thanks. I’d say I’m trying to impress you, but that would be desperate. And I’m saving my desperation for later.” I wink at him, then immediately regret it because I probably look like I have something in my eye.
But he laughs, soft and low, and the sound goes straight through all these pads and right to my dick.
We head out for the second period. Unfortunately, the Plague scores early—a garbage goal off a scramble in front. I should have had it, but there were three guys in my crease, and I couldn’t find the puck.
Those assholes celebrate like they just won the Stanley Cup.
“That all you got?” their center sneers as he skates by.
“Nah, I’m just getting warmed up. Like your mom at a truck stop.”
“What did you say?”
“Sorry, was that too complicated? I can draw you a picture. Though you’d probably eat the crayons.”
His friend hauls him away, which is probably for the best. If I blacken some chump’s eye, I’d have to explain that to management.
Besides, our fortunes have turned. A minute later, Scully draws blood with the first goal for our side.
“There it is!” Forest yells.
Both teams seem to draw energy off the goals, and the game becomes a blur of saves and chirps.
The Plague play dirty, but they’re not as good as they think they are.
I make save after save. It’s like I’m back in high school, except everyone has better facial hair.
I feel completely competent for the first time in months.
And our skaters? They’re playing like they’ve got something to prove. With two minutes left, we’re up 3-1, and the Plague is getting desperate. Their captain takes a run at Forest, boarding him hard. He goes down, and I’m halfway out of my crease before I remember I’m supposed to be anonymous here.
Forest gets up slowly, shaking it off, and I force myself to stay put. But when the same guy comes in on a breakaway ten seconds later, I’m ready. He tries to go five-hole, but my pads are already there, and the rebound rockets into the corner.
“Sorry,” I call after him. “This goal is closed for business. Try us tomorrow between the hours of nine and five. Or leave a message after the beep.”
The buzzer sounds, and just like that, it’s over. We won. The Plague players slam their sticks against the boards as they leave, but the Stickhandlers don’t even notice. They’re all at center ice, slapping backs and exchanging high-fives. Like they’ve never been happier.
It’s the most useful I’ve been to anyone in months.
Afterward, I hurry to the showers. I need to be clean, just in case lightning strikes and Forest lets me follow him home.
By the time I’m dressed, guys are headed for the doors. I would have thought that “beer league” involved actual beer after a win, but our game started at nine, and it’s already eleven. They make plans to celebrate tomorrow night.
But I’ll be on the road, which sucks.
The parking lot is almost empty, just a few cars under lights that flicker like they’re beaming messages into space.
“Great win, boys!” Scully calls out, jangling his keys with way too much enthusiasm.
“Oh shoot, Forest—I forgot to mention. I promised Javier a ride home. His car’s in the shop.
” He turns to me with a broad grin. “Beck, you wouldn’t mind giving Forest a lift, would you? He’s out in Erie. It’s on your way.”
My heart does that thing where it forgets how to beat normally. “No! I mean, not at all. That would be... if you want?” I glance at Forest, trying not to look desperate. But also trying to look reliable. And attractive.
Forest could totally call an Uber. He’s probably going to call an Uber. But then he nods, just slightly. “Yeah, thanks. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Trouble? No way. I mean, Erie’s on my way home.” I fumble my keys like I’ve never held keys before.
Scully gives Forest some kind of meaningful look before heading to his truck. Like, super meaningful. The kind of look that should come with subtitles.
I show Forest to my Jeep. “It’s kinda rough. Sorry.” The inside probably smells like hockey gear and desperation.
“My truck is a POS, Beck. I don’t think you need to apologize.” He tosses his bag in the backseat and climbs into the passenger side, looking relaxed.
As soon as I start the engine, my playlist starts up again. This time the song is “Obsession” by Animotion and I quickly shut it off.
Oops. “Your address?” I ask, as if that didn’t happen.
He tells me, and I tap it into my phone before easing out of my parking spot.
“So that was fun, right? I mean, watching those guys lose their minds when we scored that last goal? That winger looked like he might spontaneously combust. Which would have been interesting to watch, actually. Like a hockey-themed superhero origin story. The Human Torch, but make it winter sports.”
His chuckle is low. “Yeah, it was a blast. You were amazing tonight.”
“Yeah?” I glance at him quickly, then back at the road because a car accident would really ruin this moment. “I mean, it wasn’t anything special. Just some basic positioning and…”
“Beck. Take the compliment.”
“Yessir.”
He takes a slow breath.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. “So... your place? I mean…”
The question feels huge. Like, planet-sized huge. The kind of huge that makes you wonder if Pluto got demoted from being a planet just to make room for this moment.
Forest is quiet for so long that I start composing my own rejection in my head. Thanks for the ride, kid, but dream on. See you at the bar, if you’re even brave enough to show up again.
But then he speaks, his voice low and a little rough. “I want you to know that if I hadn’t sworn off hookups, you’re exactly my type.”
My heart actually stops. I’m technically dead for like two seconds. “Really?” I blurt eventually. “That’s just mean. I finally met a guy who likes awkward blonds with a lot of dental work, and you’re like, nah. I decided blowjobs are overrated.”
He laughs.
I clamp my mouth shut and think about what he said, though, and realize I’m probably missing something important. “Why did you swear off hookups? Because I really doubt blowjobs are overrated.”
He sighs. “It’s complicated.”
“Try me.”