7. Timothy
Chapter seven
Timothy
Coach’s clipboard taps once against the boards.
I lean forward, ready.
He calls someone else for the defensive-zone shift.
The player hopping over the boards has a shiny new contract, fresh legs, and a faceoff percentage I don't have.
The stick settles across my knees, heavy, familiar and disappointing. The crowd's noise swells, but the bench is quiet. I keep my face neutral.
The puck drops.
Their winger cycles low, dragging our coverage toward the corner. The guy who took my spot drifts half a step too far from the net. I see the opening immediately.
A commentator in my head begins narrating the breakdown.
He is neither neutral nor kind.
My grip tightens around the stick until my knuckles ache beneath my gloves.
Coach barks something sharp from farther down the bench.
It does not help. Coach might as well be standing in a burning kitchen and pointing out the flames.
I know how to fix the problem.
I am the fire extinguisher.
Still sitting on the bench.
Finally, mercifully, Coach calls my name.
I am over the boards before he finishes saying it.
My first stride drops me straight into a battle along the glass. My shoulder slams against the boards, pain flashing through the old injury, but the puck squirms loose beneath our skates.
I dig it free on stubbornness alone and chip it cleanly up the wall.
Safe.
Simple.
Exactly what Coach asked for.
It is a good play.
No one will put it in a highlight reel.
Doing the job right is a lot like plumbing. Essential. Invisible. Appreciated only when something goes terribly wrong.
Lungs burning, I glance down the bench and catch two guys actually watching me. I get a head nod.
Back on the bench, Jonah bumps my shoulder with his. Shane taps my shin pad with his stick.
"Good shift," Maxon says.
I shrug it off. It doesn't mean anything.
Between whistles, my mind wanders straight back to aisle four.
Bethany with frozen peas pressed to her forehead.
Bethany staring at the chicken like I had placed a live grenade in her cart.
Bethany smiling before she remembered she was not supposed to.
I catch myself smiling too.
I wipe it away and focus on the ice.
Coach already thinks my head is drifting.
It definitely cannot be wandering through a grocery store with Bethany Bennett.
The final horn sounds.
We win.
The bench pours onto the ice in a collision of helmets, gloves, and noise.
I join the pile, even when most of the cameras are already turning toward the forward who scored the highlight-reel goal.
Someone smacks the top of my helmet. Another glove lands between my shoulder blades.
By the time we reach the tunnel, reporters have formed a wall around Maxon.
The equipment manager is the only person who looks directly at me.
He gives me a nod.
I nod back.
Apparently, tonight’s recognition package includes one compliment, three taps on the pads, and acknowledgment from a man carrying a bucket of wet towels.
Not bad.
Not good, either.
***
The burger place is packed with postgame traffic, and our booth seems to be permanently sticky. It must have survived too many teenagers.
An absolutely enormous basket of fries lands in the middle of the table. Jonah immediately claims half of them by dragging the basket three inches closer to himself.
Conversation circles the game. Maxon’s goal. A missed call in the second period. The defensive breakdown that nearly cost us.
Nobody mentions the shift where I got to play.
Which is fine.
I peel the paper from my straw and twist it around one finger while the noise rolls over me.
Across the table, Shane says, “Whoever left protein powder all over the lodge kitchen this morning is cleaning it up.”
“That was Maxon,” Jonah says.
“It was not.”
“It looked like a crime scene,” Shane continues. “Bethany’s going to lose her mind when she sees it.”
“She shouldn’t have to clean it up,” I say.
The table goes quiet for half a beat.
Jonah slowly lowers the fry halfway to his mouth.
I reach for my drink, but the cup holds nothing except melting ice.
“She is not a cleaning fairy,” I add. “You are a grown man. You make a mess, you clean it.”
Jonah’s eyebrows rise.
I hear how invested I sound.
Unfortunately, so does everyone else.
Jonah’s mouth curves.
“It’s about fairness,” I say.
“Of course it is.”
I point at him with my empty cup. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
The conversation moves on, but his grin remains firmly in place as he reaches for another fry.
I stare down at the table.
This is exactly how trouble starts. First, I remember Bethany smiling in the grocery store. Then I defend her honor against spilled protein powder. Next thing I know, I'll be telling Jenna I’m in love with her best friend, and Jenna is choosing flowers for a spring wedding.
No.
Absolutely not.
My place on this team is hanging by a thread. Bethany is Jenna’s best friend. And I have enough trouble keeping my head in the game without letting one smile derail the rest of my life.
I do not have room for Bethany Bennett.