31. Chapter Thirty-One
Percy
Stanley’s answer is still sitting in me, five days later, and it won’t move.
You give everything to the net, or you give some to a person. It’s not fair to her.
He’s right. And it’s a problem. I’ve got a real shot at the net if I do nothing else but chase it for four years. Stanley laid it out plain, in good faith, that a guy who wants what I want has nothing left over to give somebody. Scraps. Years of coming second to a sport for a maybe.
And if all I’ve got to give her is scraps, the decent thing is to not give her the scraps.
She’s got a life, a future, and a plan. She’s a good girl.
She doesn’t need a foster kid with no room in him dragging her through years just for a maybe to the NHL.
The kind thing, the right thing, is to step back before I take anything from her I can’t give back.
I’m on the ice at six every morning that week. I let myself in with the code, and Blue and Benson are already there, half-dressed, because the three of us have been the early group since September, and nobody ever says a word about it — you just show up.
Benson shoots. Blue shoots. They take turns feeding me pucks off the wall while I work the high glove side, the half-inch that beat me back in October, over and over — glove up, track it, catch it in the pocket and not the heel.
Benson picks up on what I’m doing without me saying it and starts putting them there on purpose, high blocker, high glove, the shots I hate, and I stop them.
He grunts and does it again harder. Blue works me post to post until my legs are shaking.
By Thursday, I’m sharper than I’ve been all season. Coach Fuller watches me for a while from the bench and says, “Stay on that.” I do until the building’s empty and my legs are done and there’s nothing left in me to feel anything with.
Thursday night I almost break.
I start typing on my phone.
I can’t stop thinking about Sunday.
My thumb is over the arrow, and I want to send it so bad that my hand aches with it. I delete it and put the phone down. Instead, I sit down and do my homework because I’m determined to reach a 4.0 this semester. Nothing’s going to stop me from that.
Halfway into this report, and there’s a flicker of doubt that maybe Stanley’s wrong. There are guys that do both, aren’t there? And maybe I could have the net and her.
The thought is gone just as fast as it came because I can’t do it. It would mean breaking the Hawthorne House rules, and I don’t have it in me to betray the one place that has come to feel like home.
Tonight is a home game. We’re at the rink by four for a seven o’clock puck drop — tape and stretch and video, then the long slow dress-down where everybody’s got three hours to kill and nothing to do but get in each other’s business.
I’m in my stall pulling my gear on in the order Josh taught me.
Two down from me, Stanley’s already going.
“I’m serious, Marsh. Roll the tape. You had the whole lane—”
“I didn’t have the lane.” Theo doesn’t look up from his skate.
“You had a highway. You had all day. I’m cross-ice screaming for it and you walk into two guys like it’s a dare.”
“You were covered.”
“I was open.”
“You’re always open in your own head.” Theo pulls his lace tight. “That’s not the same as being open on the ice.”
Stanley points a roll of tape at him. “We lost that game by one, and it’s because you’d rather stickhandle into a wall than make the simple pass. You know how many goals you’ve cost me this year holding it too long?”
“I’m not passing into a double-team,” Theo says, still on his skate.
“You’re not passing, period. That’s the whole problem.” Stanley’s got the room and he knows it. “Fuller’s got it on tape, man. Third period, you had Reeve backdoor with a tap-in and you tried to go five-hole through two D.”
“He did,” Benson says, not looking up from his elbow pad. “I was standing at the post. I could’ve walked home and back.”
Theo’s jaw works. He doesn’t have an answer for it. “Course you’d say that.” He pulls his laces tight. “Hawthorne boys. You all live together, you all cover for each other. Must be nice.”
It lands flat. Nobody bites.
Drew leans back on the bench, defenseman-big, already grinning. “Marsh needs to get his dick wet. Man’s been a miserable prick for a month.”
“Don’t start,” Theo snaps.
Drew stretches his arms over his head. “Lucky for you, I’m on it. I’m back with Ivory.”
“Again,” Stanley says.
“It’s for charity. For this sad son of a bitch.
” Drew tips his head at Theo. “Ivory’s roommate.
You remember the roommate — architecture girl, quiet, smells like money.
Marsh had that going, and then it went cold.
She picked him up last weekend and bailed on him halfway, right? He’s been a bitch about it all week.”
“Shut up, Drew. I don’t need you running my shit,” Theo snarks back.
“Somebody’s gotta. You’ve been unbearable.”
“Fuck you.”
Stanley laughs. “She’s too good for you, man.”
They keep bickering, but I’ve tuned them out completely.
My jaw clamps down as I finish the strap on my second pad.
My hands keep working, finishing the pad.
My fingers get hot; the way they used to when Mike would tell me there was no food in the house.
Drew keeps talking about Ivory, but I don’t listen and focus on the game ahead.
I don’t have a right to this feeling. Penelope isn’t mine.
I finish strapping my pads and roll my neck. Then I mentally prepare myself to watch a game from the bench with the weight of this on my back.
Hutch plays the entire game. I’m dressed and on the bench with my mask on my knee.
I watch it closely, and all I can think about is the fact that there is only one net.
It’s a tight game. 1–1 into the third and both benches yapping.
Stanley’s line is out against Theo’s matchup half the night and they’re still at it, on the ice now instead of in the room, cross-checks after the whistle, faces close.
It boils over on a shift in the third. Theo takes a run at somebody, or somebody takes a run at Theo. It happens fast, and then gloves are down. Theo’s got a fistful of a Bridgeport sweater and he’s throwing. He’s good at it, mean and controlled, same as he is at everything.
And Blue’s right there. Somebody comes in on Theo from the side and Blue’s on him before he’s got two steps, gloves off, and now it’s two fights at once. Everyone’s on their feet, shouting, and the refs are letting it go for a second longer than they should because the whole building wants it.
They finally haul them apart. Theo skates to the box wiping his mouth, not a mark on him, blank-faced. Blue’s got a welt coming up under his eye, and he’s as calm as a Sunday. Five and five, both benches howling.
We win it 2–1 on a Benson point shot that Stanley tips with four minutes left. Stanley loses his mind, skating to Benson and jumping on him. The bench empties. Guys jump over the boards, and the lot of us pile on. I’m in the middle of it, and it’s good.
Half the team’s not coming back to Hawthorne. They’re going to Drew’s thing, and that’s fine. I don’t need to see Drew’s plan in action.
I go home with Blue. The welt under his eye’s gone purple. He doesn’t say anything about the fight, and I don’t ask. We walk the whole way back in the cold, not talking. I’m glad for the fifteen minutes of silence because what’s waiting for us at Hawthorne is going to be a headache.
The house is loud by eleven. The half that didn’t go to Drew’s thing is here, the music’s going, and the juice is gone in the first hour the way it always goes.
Stanley’s re-scoring his goal for anybody who’ll watch, slower each time, more heroic.
Benson’s got a girl laughing in the corner.
It’s warm, loud, and becoming my favorite pastime after a game.
I sip at the beer I coddle almost every weekend to keep the questions at bay.
It’s been a long week. I’ve been up at six every day.
My phone buzzes near midnight when the house has simmered down to a drinking game in the living room. With half the team gone, the night has felt more intimate. Sam Reichel and Walker Owens have even gotten a few words out of me.
In the middle of the game, I pull out my phone and glance down.
Penelope: I’m drawing again.
Three words, and they land warm, right in the middle of the loud room.
My thumb’s moving toward the screen before I’ve decided anything.
I want to answer it, keep the conversation going, and see what she’s doing later.
But that thought stops me cold. Is she with Theo again and that’s why she’s texting me?
I look up and the whiteboard is staring back at me, taunting me.
I glance down at my unfinished sentence: What are you…
I delete it and put my phone back in my pocket.
The phone sits heavy in my pocket the rest of the night, and when I’m finally in bed, I pull it out and read the three words again in the dark. Maybe it’s the beer. Maybe it’s that I’ve been holding the line all week and I’m tired. I type back.
Me: That’s good.
I put the phone face down and don’t turn it back over. Two words is all I have.