Chapter 20 Oceans
OCEANS
The next morning, it’s like a bomb went off in my pocket.
I don’t move.
I lie there, staring at the cracks in my ceiling, feeling the ice pack I should’ve swapped out three hours ago leaking cold sweat down my neck.
The only thing louder than my phone is the sound of my own pulse, a drumbeat of dread that makes it impossible to breathe, let alone function.
I finally roll over, check the group chat. It’s a full-on meltdown.
O’Doul: "what the fuck is happening"
Raz: "is this for real or is someone fucking with us"
Tommy: "ash just broke the internet"
And then, in a cascade, dozens of teammates, ex-teammates, even a few from rival teams, dropping in with the same question: "You okay, D?"
I stare at the screen, thumbs hovering, but I can’t bring myself to type anything. I keep scrolling, letting the avalanche bury me, until I see Ash’s name at the bottom, no message, just the little avatar, unread, as if he’s not even in his own story.
The real show is in the PR channel.
Five new threads, all variations of "contain," "monitor," "official response." The PR manager has scheduled a Zoom for noon, mandatory for all first-stringers.
Coach Vasquez is already in the thread, all-caps, demanding that no one talk to media until further notice.
I shower in under three minutes, dress in what passes for business casual, which is really just my cleanest compression shirt under a black windbreaker and drive to the practice facility with both hands glued to the wheel.
I don’t turn on the radio. I don’t need to hear the city talk about me like I’m a car crash they can’t look away from.
The parking lot is ringed with vans, TV logos on every panel, reporters clustering in small knots by the entrance, their cameras trained on the glass doors like they expect a perp walk.
I cut through the loading dock, keep my head down, and badge in through the staff entrance.
The locker room is a war zone.
A couple of the guys are already there, slamming Red Bulls and trading rumors. No one looks up when I come in.
They’re too busy doomscrolling, reading headlines out loud like play-by-play:
"STEELHAWKS STAR COMES OUT, CALLS OUT TOXIC LOCKER ROOM CULTURE"
"ASHER ROSEN: 'I WON'T BE YOUR SCAPEGOAT'"
"HOCKEY'S NEW HERO? OR LOCKER ROOM CANCER?"
I take my stall, pull my phone, and scroll the text chain with Ash. Still nothing since last night. I type "You good?" then erase it. Type "Here if you want to talk," then erase that, too.
Coach calls us in early. Her face is stone, but her voice is steady, the kind of controlled calm you get from years of dealing with drunks, assholes, and the kind of injuries that make strong men puke.
"Phones off, eyes front. We have a situation."
She waits for everyone to settle, even the rookies in the cheap seats. Ash is the last to arrive, ducking in with his hood up, the bruise on his chin purpled and the cut above his eyebrow held together by four little white steri-strips.
His phone is still buzzing, even in his pocket, and the sound is so loud it’s like a second heart beating next to mine.
Coach starts: "You’ve all seen the posts. I’m not going to insult your intelligence by pretending this is business as usual." She paces in front of the whiteboard, her hands balled into fists. "But if anyone thinks this is going to tear us apart, they’re dead wrong."
She stares at each of us, long enough to make you sweat, then zeroes in on Ash. "We’ve already lost four of our own. We are not losing another to the goddamn internet."
A silence follows, the kind that hums in your bones. Then Raz claps once, sharp and loud. Tommy follows.
Then the whole room, every guy on the roster, even the ones who wouldn’t give Ash the time of day last season, join in, a steady rhythm of hands slapping together, a percussive fuck-you to the world outside.
Ash doesn’t smile.
But he stands up a little straighter, lets his hands fall out of his pockets, and for a second, the buzzing stops.
Coach lets it go for a beat, then snaps back to business. "We’re going to practice. We’re going to win. And no one," she says, "is going to let a bunch of cowards hiding behind a keyboard define who we are."
There’s a moment where it feels like everything is back to normal.
Guys start gearing up, the air filled with the chemical stink of sweat and tape, voices rising as they chirp about the morning skate, the new lines, who’s on power play.
But when I look up, I see Ash across the room, head down, fingers tapping at his phone like it’s a panic button.
He catches me staring, holds my gaze for a fraction too long, then looks away.
The ice is a relief.
Out there, the noise dies, replaced by the familiar scrape and thud of skates and sticks, the shouts of teammates as they chase the puck up and down the rink.
Coach runs us through drills with no mercy, as if she can sweat the drama out of us by sheer force.
I stonewall every shot, my body moving on autopilot, but my mind is stuck on the tunnel vision of Ash’s face, the way he looked at me in the locker room, like he wanted to say something and couldn’t.
After practice, I try to disappear. The plan is to shower fast and get out before the media can camp the exit.
But as I hit the tunnel, Ash is waiting, one foot up on the wall, helmet dangling from two fingers. His eyes are red but his voice is steady.
"D, can we talk?"
I stop, halfway past him. My chest tightens so fast I almost lose my breath. "What’s up?"
He shifts, runs his tongue over his teeth like he’s bracing for a punch. "I just…I wanted to say thanks. For not letting me get destroyed. For reading it first. For…" He trails off, then lets the silence fill in the rest.
I stare at him, really look, and for a split second I want to reach out, to grab his shoulder, to tell him that it’s going to be okay, that none of this matters as long as we keep each other standing.
But I don’t.
Instead, I say, "I need space." The words come out colder than I mean, flat and final. "Just—give me a minute, okay?"
He nods, but the confusion on his face is like a knife to my gut. He blinks twice, steps aside, and lets me pass.
I don’t look back. I can’t.
I get to the car, slam the door, and sit there for a long time, hands locked on the steering wheel, forehead pressed to the cold glass.
I replay the look in his eyes, the way his voice cracked just before I shut him down. I want to scream.
I want to punch something, anything, just to feel the pain on the outside for once.
But I don’t.
I just sit there, alone in the silence, waiting for my heart to start again.
And when it does, it’s slow, and steady, and so fucking hollow it echoes.
———
The bar is half-empty, which is the only reason I agreed to meet him here.
It’s the kind of place that never made it past the late 90s, all fake brick and dust-coated whiskey bottles behind the counter, the lighting so dim it makes every face look like it’s been run through a photocopier.
I’m already one beer in when Vincent walks up, silent, wearing the same thin smile as the last time we met.
He doesn’t shake hands.
Just sits, signals the bartender with two fingers, then leans forward, elbows on the sticky table. His shirt is open at the throat, no tie, the suit jacket fitted so close it looks sprayed on.
I get the sense he doesn’t own a single piece of clothing that isn’t tailored.
"Didn’t think you’d show," he says.
I shrug. "You said it was urgent."
He tips his head, as if scoring a point. "It is." He pulls out his phone, sets it on the table between us, face up. "I know you care about him. That’s why I’m telling you instead of printing it."
I stiffen, but don’t answer. He unlocks the phone, opens a photo, and slides it across the table. "Take a look."
It’s a screenshot. At first, nothing special—just a group of guys, college party, plastic cups and half-eaten pizza. But then I see the banner behind them. White, hand-painted, with the logo of an alt-right hate group, l I know too well from every hate-crime headline of the last decade.
Vincent doesn’t flinch. "It’s from a party at Ash’s freshman dorm. Two of the other guys in this shot are now serving time for a racist attack in Spokane."
My jaw clenches. I force myself to breathe through my nose, in and out, slow. "He’s not one of them," I say. "Ash isn’t like that."
Vincent raises an eyebrow, his smile inching wider. "Maybe. But it’s a bad look, especially now. I have more."
He scrolls.
Another screenshot: a Facebook comment thread, Ash’s name tagged, someone joking about "keeping it pure" in the Steelhawks locker room. The timestamp is from sophomore year.
Vincent lets it hang in the air. "I’m not saying he’s a Nazi. But you know how these things go, especially for athletes. A photo like this, plus the right spin…"
I feel the anger boiling up, but it’s got nowhere to go. My fingers dig into the coaster, bending it in half, beer sloshing in the glass as my hands start to shake.
"You said you weren’t going to run this," I say.
"I’m not," Vincent says, voice flat and plausible. "But someone else might. I thought you should know what’s out there. Before it gets worse."
I want to flip the table. I want to reach across and break his nose, but I don’t. I just sit there, letting the doubt drip into my brain, corroding the tiny bit of certainty I have left.
I try to remember if Ash ever mentioned these guys, this party, this fucking photo. I can’t.
All I remember is the look on his face after the last game, blood on his chin, laughing at the ref’s expense, like he was daring the world to knock him down again.
Vincent pockets the phone, finishes his beer in one long swallow, and stands. "I’m sorry," he says, and for a second it almost sounds like he means it. "You deserve to know who you’re trusting."
He’s gone before I can respond, leaving me with the empty glass, the broken coaster, and a head full of poison.
The next few days are a blur. I ignore Ash’s texts, all variations on "Can we talk?" and "D, please."