Chapter 12
Sasha
Aaron Kelly looks distractingly good in his jersey and I can’t stop looking at him.
He looks like someone I want to put my hands on, and I can’t, because there’s a microphone on the table and a man named Ed Roberts sitting across from us who looks like he can’t believe his luck.
“Alright, boys.” Ed leans back in the booth and adjusts his headset.
He’s got a beard, a Top Shelf hoodie, and the energy of someone who’s had four coffees and is about to have a fifth.
“We’re almost rolling. Sound check was beautiful.
Levels are great. I just need to —” He tilts one of the ring lights and the glare shifts off the napkin dispenser. “There. Perfect.”
The burgers in front of us are dead. Diego got us booked on Top Shelf — the biggest college sports podcast in America, two million subscribers, the interview every athlete wants — and the setup took forty-five minutes.
Two Buddy Burgers, two sodas, ordered hot and now cold, sitting on the Formica like props in a commercial.
The buns are stiff. The ice has melted to nothing.
Behind the counter, the grill hisses and someone yells an order and classic rock is playing low on the radio.
Linda Kowalski, the owner, is wiping down the soft-serve machine and pretending she’s not listening to everything.
I don’t care about any of it. Aaron’s thigh is pressed against mine under the table. The booth is narrow enough that there’s no way to sit without touching, and neither of us has tried to make space.
“So here’s my concern,” Ed says, pointing between us.
He’s got that look — the sports podcast guy look, half serious, half hoping for content.
“I’ve put the two biggest rivals in college hockey right next to each other in a booth.
If this turns into a brawl, we’re going to go viral, but Linda over there is going to kill me. ”
“I’ll behave,” I say. “I’m a professional.”
Aaron snorts. “Since when?”
“Since your agent started paying me to sit next to you.”
Aaron almost smiles. He fights it and loses. The corner of his lip curls up and he looks down at the dead burger and I watch that almost-smile like it’s the best thing I’ve seen all week. It is the best thing I’ve seen all week.
Ed taps his phone. “That’s the energy I want. Alright — we’re live in three, two —”
He does a hand signal instead of saying one. The red light on the camera goes solid.
“Welcome back to Top Shelf. I’m Ed Roberts, and today I’m coming to you from Buddy’s Burgers in Hartley, home of the Ashford University Sentinels and the best burgers I’ve ever had — don’t tell my wife.
” He gestures at us. “Sitting across from me are Aaron Kelly and Sasha Vorontsovsky, co-captains, same-team rivals, and the two guys who just put up the most dominant season in Ashford hockey history. Gentlemen. Welcome.”
“Thanks for having us,” Aaron says. That voice.
Easy, warm, the All-American media voice that makes every interviewer relax.
He has a talent for making people feel like they’re the most interesting person in the room.
I’ve watched him do it a hundred times — with reporters, with coaches, with Diego’s brand partners.
He tilts his head, he listens, he gives exactly enough.
It drives me insane. Because I know the other voice. The private one. The one that cracks and goes rough when I put my mouth on his neck.
Under the table, I press my knee harder against his thigh. He doesn’t flinch.
“So let’s get into it,” Ed says. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and the booth creaks under the ring light stand.
“Last year. Thirty goals for Aaron, twenty-eight for Sasha, conference championship, a run to the Frozen Four. What the hell happened? How does one team produce two guys putting up numbers like that?”
“We push each other,” Aaron says. “When your co-captain is putting up points like Sasha does, you can’t take a shift off. Every practice, every game, you know the guy next to you is trying to beat you. It forces you to be better.”
He means it, too. That’s what gets me about Aaron — the rivalry isn’t fake. Not on the ice. He wants to beat me as badly as I want to beat him. It just means something different off the ice than what Ed thinks it means.
“Sasha, same question,” Ed says. “What does it feel like competing with your own teammate for the scoring title?”
“It feels like winning,” I say. “Every game, I look at the stats and Aaron is right there. One goal behind me, two assists ahead. It makes me angry.” I glance at Aaron.
He’s watching me, that careful neutral expression, but his eyes are bright.
“Angry is good. Angry means I score four points the next night.”
“And I score five,” Aaron says.
“You scored five once. I scored five twice.”
“I had a hat trick in the conference final.”
“I had two hat tricks in the regular season. And I set up three of your goals in the conference final. You’re welcome.”
Aaron turns to me. His expression hardens and his eyes narrow and it’s the competitive face — the one he makes on the ice, right before a faceoff, when he’s about to do something that makes me want to check him into the boards and kiss him at the same time.
“I scored thirty goals as a junior transfer in my first season at Ashford,” he says. “Nobody’s done that in twenty years.”
“I scored twenty-eight and set up half of yours. Same season. Same team. Same building.” I shrug. “But sure. Very impressive.”
His ears go pink. Just the tips. Nobody would notice unless they were looking for it.
I’m always looking for it.
“See, this is what I’m talking about,” Ed says, grinning so wide his headset is shifting. “This is why college hockey fans are obsessed with you two. It’s not just the skill — it’s the fact that you’re on the same bench and you still want to destroy each other.”
Under the table, my foot finds Aaron’s ankle. The side of my shoe presses against his. Slow. Deliberate. He doesn’t pull away.
“I wouldn’t say destroy,” Aaron says. His voice is perfectly even. “I’d say motivate.”
“I’d say destroy is accurate,” I say. “I want to beat him at everything. Always.”
Ed pulls up something on his phone. “I’ve got a stat here — you two combined for sixty-two goals last season. That’s more than some entire teams. And you’re on the same line. First line, right? How does that work? Does the chemistry just happen, or is it something you had to build?”
Aaron’s ankle hooks around mine. My pulse ticks up. His face gives away nothing. He’s looking at Ed with that open, thoughtful expression, the good student answering the professor’s question.
“It took time,” Aaron says. “When I transferred in, we didn’t click right away. We had different styles, different backgrounds —”
I put my hand on his knee. Under the table. My palm flat against his thigh, just above the joint. His quad tenses hard under my hand.
“— different approaches to the game,” he continues. Not a single break in his voice. His thigh is rigid under my palm. “But once we figured out how to read each other on the ice, it just worked. We know where the other guy is going to be before he gets there.”
That half-second. The one where his muscle jumped under my hand and his jaw tightened a fraction and he kept talking like nothing happened. I live for that half-second. The whole interview is worth it for that.
“Sasha?” Ed prompts. “When did you realize Aaron was going to push you?”
“When I watched his game tape before he transferred.” This is true.
I watched every clip I could find of Aaron Kelly from his time at the New York program.
I watched the way he moved — fast, fluid, the puck on his stick like it was born there — and I thought this one is going to be a problem.
“He is annoyingly talented. Quick hands. Good vision. He reads the ice better than anyone I’ve played with. ”
Next to me, Aaron shifts. I feel it through my palm on his knee — a small adjustment, his weight moving. He’s looking at the table. The tips of his ears are still pink.
He can take every piece of trash talk I throw at him without blinking. But a genuine compliment shuts him down every time. I keep that information very close.
“Wow,” Ed says. “That’s a real compliment from a guy who just said he wants to destroy you.” He looks at Aaron. “How does it feel hearing that?”
“Suspicious,” Aaron says. “He’s setting me up for something.”
“I’m being honest.”
“That’s what makes it suspicious.”
Ed laughs. The grill behind the counter sizzles and someone calls out an order — two Buddy Melts, onion rings — and outside the window, students are walking past on Main Street, backpacks on, first week of school. None of them look in. We’re just two guys in jerseys at Buddy’s. Nothing to see.
I squeeze Aaron’s knee. His hand drops to his lap. His fingers close around my wrist — not pushing me away. Holding me there. The pad of his thumb presses into the inside of my wrist where my pulse is hammering.
My chest tightens. Fuck.
“Let’s talk senior year,” Ed says. “What’s the goal? Back to the Frozen Four? National championship? Both?”
“Both,” I say.
“National championship,” Aaron says at the same time. We look at each other.
“Look at that,” Ed says. “You can’t even agree on how to say the same thing.”
“He said both. I was more specific.” Aaron’s eyes are bright. That green that shifts with the light — gray in the fluorescents, gold in the sun from the window. “That’s the difference between us. I know exactly what I want.”
Do you, Aaron Kelly?
I turn my hand over on his thigh, palm up. His fingers, still wrapped around my wrist, slide down. Our fingers lace together on his leg. His thumb traces the inside of my wrist and my breath catches. I cover it with a cough.
“Sasha? You good?” Ed asks.
“Fine. Never better.”
Aaron’s thumb keeps moving. Slow circles on the thin skin over my pulse.
He’s looking at Ed. Relaxed. Open. Camera-ready.
Meanwhile his thumb is drawing circles on my wrist and I am sitting in a diner booth on a nationally syndicated podcast trying not to lose my mind because Aaron Kelly is holding my hand under a table and his touch is so gentle it’s making my throat tight.
“Quick fire round,” Ed says. “I say a topic, you each answer in one sentence. Ready?”
“Ready,” we both say.
Ed glances between us. “Best goal you scored last season.”
“The overtime winner against BC,” Aaron says. “Top shelf, glove side, from the left circle.”
“The shorthanded goal against BU,” I say. “End to end. Nobody touched me.”
“Most underrated player on your roster.”
“Cooper,” Aaron says without hesitating. “Best defensive defenseman in the conference and nobody talks about him.”
“Robertson,” I say. “Works harder than anyone. Never gets the credit.”
Ed leans toward the microphone. “Okay — player you hate playing against most. Not on your team.”
“Marchetti from BC,” Aaron says. “Cheap hits and he never gets called.”
“Davies from BU.” I lean back in the booth. “Talks too much. Scores too little.”
Ed’s eyes light up. “Now the fun one. Player you hate playing against — on your team.”
“Each other,” we say at the same time.
“Aaron keeps me on my feet,” I say. “Every practice, every game.”
“On your toes,” Aaron says without looking at me.
“What?”
“The expression. It’s on your toes, not on your feet.”
“Feet, toes, same area.” I wave my hand. “English has too many of these.”
Ed practically falls out of the booth.
“I’m using that as the episode title,” he says. “Okay, last one. Prediction. Scoring title this year. Who takes it?”
“Me,” Aaron says.
“Me,” I say.
Same word. Same beat. We look at each other. Aaron fights a grin. Under the table, his hand tightens around mine.
Ed is shaking his head, laughing. “Unbelievable. You two are the best interview I’ve done all year. I mean that.”
He wraps up — closing remarks, thanks to Buddy’s, a plug for the Sentinels’ home opener in October. He taps his phone. The red light goes dark.
“Seriously,” Ed says, pulling off his headset. “The dynamic between you guys is magic. My audience is going to eat this up. The push and pull, the competitiveness — you can’t fake that.”
“Thank you,” Aaron says. Polite. Warm. Reaching across to shake Ed’s hand.
Our fingers are still locked under the table.
Ed’s crew starts packing down. Ring lights, mic stands, the camera rig. One of them reaches across the table to grab a light and Aaron leans back to give him room and his shoulder presses into mine. He doesn’t move away when the guy is done.
The diner fills back in around us. Linda turns the radio up.
Classic rock, something with guitar. The grill is going again and the smell of fresh burgers drifts over, so much better than the cold ones sitting in front of us.
A couple of students come through the front door and slide into a booth across the room without a second look.
Our hands separate slowly. His fingers drag across my palm.
“That was fun,” Aaron says. Quiet. Just for me.
“It was.” I look at him. The ring light is gone now, but the afternoon sun through the window is better. It catches the gold flecks in his eyes, the clean line of his jaw, the fading pink at the tips of his ears. He’s smiling. Not the media smile. The real one. Small, warm, just for me.
I spent all summer trying to remember that smile. I got it wrong. The real thing is better.
“Diego’s going to lose his mind when he hears the download numbers,” Aaron says.
“Diego is going to book us on every podcast in the country.”
He picks up his warm soda, takes a sip, makes a face.
“More interviews. More cold burgers.” I nudge his knee with mine. “More of this.”
He looks at me. The smile shifts. Softer. “Yeah. Me too.”
Ed’s crew is almost done. In a few minutes we’ll slide out of this booth and walk down Main Street and go back to being co-captains. Back to the separate rooms and the careful distance and the performance of two guys who only compete.
But senior year is ahead of us. More of this — more interviews where I get to sit next to him and say true things disguised as trash talk. More trips to New York with Diego as our excuse. More nights in hotel rooms where nobody knows our names. More mornings at the gym where it’s just us.
More of Aaron Kelly looking at me like that, sun on his face, holding my hand where nobody can see.
I can’t wait.