Chapter 33 Colt
Colt
The sports bar we decided to come to tonight is packed almost to capacity. Which doesn’t come as a surprise, since the NFL playoffs started and the Eagles play tonight. We decided to forego Ale Mary’s in favor of a more low-key environment.
Sitting at a long table with nearly half the team, sans most of the underclassmen, we wait for the game to begin as the waitress takes our orders.
“Did y’all hear the new nickname people have given to Drake Kingston?” Gally asks Drew, Will Fischer, and Simmons, who are sitting near him.
“Dude,” Booker intercedes, giving him the hand-across-his-throat gesture that universally translates to “shut the hell up,” which causes the five of them to look down the table at me.
“Sorry, Cap. Sorry, Crosby. I wasn’t thinking,” Gally apologizes, looking sincere and adequately scorned.
“You’re not bothering me, Gal. I’ve already seen it,” I say in a placating voice. I take a sip of my Diet Coke and go back to watching the television.
“What’s the nickname?” I hear Will whisper.
“People online have been calling him ‘Skullcrusher’,” I answer before the awkward silence can get any longer. Only my answer seems to cause a denser silence to fall.
Drake Kingston is the University of Maryland player who decided to take his shoulder to my face mask.
He’s known for being an aggressive player on the ice.
I’ve played him before, multiple times, over the last few years.
Kingston loves to instigate fights and spends more time in the sin bin than nearly any college player on any current roster.
“That’s so fucking stupid,” Beau comments, breaking the silence, not looking up from his phone. “He probably started calling himself that to pretend he’s a badass.”
The boys down the table laugh and throw in their two cents on the nickname, the consensus being that it’s corny as hell.
We sit at the restaurant long after the food’s all been eaten, enjoying each other’s company. Simmons, unsuccessfully, tries to get the waitress’s number, and we tease him about it the rest of the night.
Just as the game on the TV is wrapping up, the Eagles pulling through with a win—Go Birds—a loud group of people walks into the building.
Heads swivel in their direction, ours included.
Standing at the hostess stand is none other than Drake Kingston himself, along with a few other guys.
I’m not entirely sure what they’re doing here, given that we won’t play them at home again for another few weeks.
We also may face them when tournament games begin, but that isn’t until March.
The group of them claims a high-top table along the back wall of the restaurant, and it doesn’t appear that they’ve noticed us. Or, if they have, they don’t care to acknowledge us.
Some of the guys at our table get up to pay their checks and leave now that the football game’s finished. Beau and I rode together, so I let him know I’m going to use the bathroom before we leave.
Maybe it’s egotistical of me, but I had a feeling Drake saw me when he walked in, and that he’d, for whatever reason, jump on the opportunity to talk to me alone.
I know he’d taken a lot of heat after the hit, both from the league and the schools.
Legally, he didn’t get into any trouble, though, because the whole thing was chalked up to an equipment malfunction.
Just as I expected, I hear the door to the bathroom open as I’m washing my hands.
Looking up into the mirror, Kingston is standing just inside the door, looking at the back of my head.
Hair won’t grow on the scar tissue, but the rest of my hair is long enough now that the jagged line is mostly covered.
“How’s the head, Crosby?” Drake asks, not moving from his spot by the door. His presence isn’t giving off any malicious vibes, so I’m curious to see what he’s got to say.
“Better,” I respond, finally turning to face him.
I meet his dark gaze, neither of us saying anything for a tense minute. He’s as tall as me, though not as big as Beau, and he’s covered in tattoos. The man can be intimidating when he wants to be, but that’s not what he’s doing now.
“It…it wasn’t on purpose,” he finally says.
I raise an eyebrow, hopefully conveying that his apologizing skills could use some work, but he doesn’t seem to care about my forgiveness.
“I was in the process of transferring…to Saint Augustine’s. Before the game.”
It takes me a full minute to comprehend his words. “Why?” I ask.
“Personal reasons. I was going to finish out this season and then start St. A’s at the beginning of senior year.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans: the only sign that this conversation is as nerve-wracking to him as it is to me.
“I’m not sure what you want me to say to that,” I reply truthfully.
The boys would have a conniption if Kingston joined our team—Beau in particular.
Although it doesn’t take a genius to see that’s why he’s approached me.
If he apologizes to the person who actually got hurt, the rest of the guys don’t have any grounds to stay mad on.
He’s silent for another moment, thinking over his words carefully.
“Look, Crosby, I can’t really explain. But I need to move.
Going to St. A’s ensures I can still pursue hockey.
” He looks over at the far wall, as if it has some sort of answer for him.
When he brings his gaze back to mine, I can see the sincerity—and the pain—residing there.
His grief is palpable, and I recognize it in the same way I would recognize myself in a mirror.
“Please. You’ll be Captain. You have a say in whether or not they let me join the team. ”
He squirms under my gaze, knowing he’s put himself in a vulnerable position and not being used to surrendering that control to someone else.
I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m guessing the reason you’re in Pennsylvania right now is for the same reason you need to move?” He nods. “And why can’t you move somewhere else? Connecticut? Florida?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your fucking business,” he grits out, his short-fused temper finally making its appearance.
I go to move past him without a response, but he grabs my arm. “Wait. Sorry. Fuck.” He lets go of me and steps back, running a hand through his hair the same way I do when I’m upset.
“My dad’s a cop. A fed, actually. FBI. He’s been following a case, and it led him here.
I swear to God, that’s all I can say. But I have to come with him.
I can’t stay in Maryland. If the investigation’s here, I’m here.
I’m moving here whether I play hockey or not; I was just hoping I wouldn’t have to give it up. ”
Slowly, I nod my head. Sure, this guy caused a lot of damage in my life: a physical and metaphorical headache. But I’m not an asshole, and I’m not the type to kick a man when he’s down.
“No promises they’ll accept you—that’s above my pay grade, even as Captain—but I won’t stand in your way when you try out for the team.”
Drake nods that he understands and steps to the side. He doesn’t say anything else or try to stop me as I leave.
Beau is leaning against the wall outside the bathroom, waiting for me.
“I saw him go in there after you. I was going to come in if I heard yelling, but he didn’t sound like he wanted a fight.”
“No, he didn’t,” I reply, nodding for him to follow me away from the bathroom before Drake comes out.
In the car, Beau starts the engine and heads toward the apartment, waiting a whole thirty seconds before asking me about what Drake wanted.
I’m unsure how much to share. Kingston’s secrets aren’t mine to tell, not that I really have any information, anyway.
“He’s transferring to St. A’s next fall,” is what I decide to say, and Beau looks at me in astonishment that quickly turns angry.
“No way in hell,” he says.
“Watch the road, damnit, B,” I say, gripping the Oh-Shit handle as he hits the rumble strip on the shoulder of the road. He straightens out, looking sheepish.
“My bad. But seriously, hell no. He’s not playing with us.”
“He’s a good player,” I counter, not knowing how to balance this situation. I knew it would be ugly.
“I don’t give a damn how good he is. He’s a loose cannon. And an asshole.” Beau stops at a red light, taking the opportunity to look at me without endangering our lives. “Please tell me you told him to go fuck himself.”
“I can’t stop him from switching schools, B.
” I throw up a hand in defeat, knowing how pissed Beau and everyone else will be when they see Drake at tryouts this summer.
“Don’t tell anyone yet. I don’t want everyone freaking the fuck out about it before tournament time.
We’re still going to have to play him while he’s at Maryland.
I don’t want him getting into everyone’s heads. ”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry, I won’t say anything. But, fuck, Colt. Are you really going to be able to play alongside him? After everything?”
I bite the inside of my cheek and shrug. “Don’t know. Guess we’ll find out when the time comes.”