Chapter 21 Grady
Grady
Three hours later, I’m on my way to the arena, Shelby is still on my couch watching some show about turning pretty in the summer or something ridiculous, and my mom and dad have texted me to tell me they’re on their way with Harlow and will see me after the game.
I pull into my parking spot as Landon is getting out of his truck a few spots down.
He immediately tucks his chin, keeping his eyes glued to the stained and scarred concrete.
I haven’t had a second of alone time with him since the argument after dinner with Abbott.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he replies coolly.
“How was Christmas?”
“Decent. Cheap. I didn’t have to buy a ton of stuff for a girlfriend. You?”
“Okay,” I hesitate and then blurt out the truth. “I was kind of bummed you weren’t around. I came back early from Silver Bay to see if we could… make up?”
I should probably see a shrink about how hot I find it when Landon is vulnerable and open with me, but how being the same way with him feels like I’m waterboarding myself.
We reach the door to the arena, and he pushes it open.
His head turns slightly toward me. “I usually never go to Callan’s games, but I seem to be doing a lot of things I never do…
maybe this will work out and Callan and I will become closer. ”
Ouch.
He opens the door and steps into the curving hallway, and I step in beside him as my phone pings. It’s a text from Coach Larue telling me to meet him in his office before I get changed. My heart plummets. I let Landon walk off alone and make my way to Coach’s office.
Coach Larue is sitting behind his desk with the door open and his feet on his desk. I like Alex Larue. He’s a great coach, actually. Very laid back and intuitive. Very fair.
“I’m just going to rip the band-aid off,” he says as I step into his office. “I’m starting Tyson.”
I open my mouth to tell him my family is coming tonight. That I’m feeling great. That I know I’ve got this one and that my record against the Saints is solid. But no words come out because my brain knows what my heart won’t accept—it doesn’t matter. He’s made his call. I nod and turn to leave.
“I know what it’s like to be the guy who has to work for it. All the time. No days off. No coasting,” Coach says before I can slip out the door.
“I’m a Garrison. I have it easier than most. I’m not complaining.
” I’ve read a profile on Coach from his playing days, and I know he grew up in foster care and fought like hell to be in the league.
He was never a star, he was traded a ton, but he’s never not made an impact on a team. Everyone praises him.
“Yeah, but Grady, I know that being the kid of the brother that didn’t make it is its own unique pressure.
” Coach drops his feet from his desk. I just stand there, staring at him, expressionless because I’m kind of shocked that he said something no one else dares to.
Not to my face. He gives me a sympathetic smile.
“I was the kid with the chip on his shoulder from foster care, in case no one told you.”
“I read up on you.”
“Yeah, and we… the players that have something to prove. Something substantial to prove,” he says, “not the fun stuff like ‘I have to beat my dad’s record’ but the stuff like ‘I have to prove I’m just as good as everyone else’.
Those kids like us, we take it all too personally.
I know me starting Tyson feels like a slap to your ego, but shake that off.
In my head, you’re the number one. It’s yours to lose, so don’t lose it because you got all stuck in your head. ”
Shit. That’s blunt. I kind of appreciate it. He stands up and walks around his desk, and claps me on the shoulder. “You got this, Garrison.”
I nod, because I can’t think of a damn thing to say. I’m still processing his little speech.
As I walk to the locker room, I text my parents and tell them to turn the car around if they’ve already left for the game, and not waste their time.
I text Shelby and tell her I’ll reimburse her if she goes out in downtown Portland instead, or takes Mom and Dad and Harlow out on the town instead of coming here.
I hate sitting on the stupid stool at the end of the bench, knowing they’re up there, staring at me while I do nothing.
And then afterward, they’ll try and say some stupid motivational shit, because they mean well, but I’ll want to crawl out of my own skin.
I walk as slowly as possible, but I end up in the locker room anyway.
I know in my head the coach is right. I’m better than Tyson Michaels.
The world knows it. I just have to focus on showing them when I get to start again.
There should be solace in the fact that the coach considers me his starter, and I’ll find it later tonight, after the sting of sitting out wears off.
“Why the scowl?” Abbott asks.
“I… umm… I’m not starting,” I mutter.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Landon’s blond head tip up as he stops loosening the laces on his skates and stares at me. Abbott gives me a soft smile. “You can’t start them all, Grady. You know what Tay Tay would say.”
I can’t help but smirk. “Shake it off.”
“I’m thinking that should be our playoff song, when we make it,” Abbott muses, and now I actually bark out a small laugh.
He grins, and I move by him and across the room to where my clean gear is hanging. I shrug out of my suit jacket as my phone pings.
SHELBY: You get our support whether you’re on the ice or your ass.
Shit. I sigh and frown and shove my phone into my jacket pocket and start to tug my tie loose.
Warm-up is depressing. Tyson gets the majority of the time in net because he’s starting, and when, toward the end of warm-up, we switch spots, so I’m a little stretched out just in case, he smirks at me as he passes. “Get used to the bench, GG. I’m claiming my throne.”
“Whatever you say, Joffrey.” I roll my eyes, but my fists tighten in my glove because, lord, do I want to punch him.
I notice Landon doesn’t take a shot on me, isn’t even cycling the puck for most of the time I’m in net, taking shots.
He just stands by the boards. First, he aggressively tapes his stick while staring at me.
Then he glares while he drinks water as Abbott does a silly deke move and tries to go top shelf.
“Did that to Tyson and it went in,” Abbott says as he skates by and fists bump my shoulder.
I smile.
WHACK.
A puck hits me square in the chest. I teeter but quickly regain my balance and slap the puck away with my stick.
Our eyes lock through my mask and his visor.
He’s furious like I’ve never seen him before.
And I’m suddenly completely pissed off myself.
What the hell is his problem? Like I haven’t jumped through hoops and bent over backwards to stay out of his way, mind my business, and even help him if I thought I could.
“Hey, Garrison!” Conner calls out, and I snap back into goalie mode, stopping his five-hole shot and immediately lifting my glove to stop another shot from our rookie defenseman.
“Let the big boy play now.” Tyson’s taunting voice fills my ears as he glides behind the net and circles to come to a stop by the crease.
“I have three inches on you shorty,” I mutter.
I turn and skate to the corner. Landon skates away from the boards, clipping my shoulder with his as he passes. I grind my teeth and leave the ice before warm-up is even over. The coaching team watches me go, I can feel all their eyes on me, so I mutter, “Skate issue.”
I’m in the locker room when the team trickles in.
As soon as Landon enters, our eyes meet, but he yanks off his helmet and turns toward the equipment room with his gloves tucked under his left arm.
I follow even though I know absolutely no good can come of it.
I walk slower than him because we both still have on most of our gear and our skates, and my gear weighs more than his and makes it harder for me to walk.
But Landon and I both have the same superstition: we don’t take off our skates once they’re on.
They stay on and laced from warm-up until the end of the third period.
I used to think it was some kind of sign or a connection that we both did that because I’d never met another player who did. Most unlace them between periods at the very least. Now I think maybe I was nuts to think we ever had any kind of bond.
The equipment room is narrow, the walls filled with skates and gloves and helmets and extra visors, and cages that can be attached to helmets if players get injured during games and have to come back out with extra protection, or their visor cracks or breaks.
There’s even full sets of pads and gear for both Tyson and me.
It’s a cramped space, and two suited-up hockey players are like sardines in it, but here we are.
Landon turns when he hears me enter. “Hey Pete, I—”
Pete is our equipment manager. “We alone?”
“Yeah,” he replies, his tone icy. “I’ve got to go find Pete.”
He takes a couple of steps, and I stand like a brick wall, blocking his way out of the room. He waits, takes another step forward, but when I don’t move, he stiffens.
“You’ve hooked up with Abbott.” He blurts it out, but thankfully, his voice is low, almost a whisper.
Still, my head swings to look over my shoulder at the door anyway, ensuring we’re alone, before I reply, “Shut up.”
He blinks, eyes widening, and then he juts out his chin. “I fucking knew it. I could feel it. Fuck.”
“It wasn’t recently. In fact, I was a rookie and he was entirely single,” I whisper as fast as I can while still making sense. Clearly, he thinks I go around wrecking relationships or something. “I don’t fuck around with married people. You two were the exception. In more ways than one.”
“We weren’t married.”
“Close enough.” I pause and glance around the empty room, and to the door again. I can hear voices, but nothing close by. People in the hall and locker room. “You’re jealous?”
He looks down at the glove he’s holding. “Don’t bother lecturing me on the fact that it’s not my place to be jealous. We’re a random, sporadic hook-up at best. I don’t need to hear you say it.”
“My sister asked me if you were single today,” I interrupt, and when he looks up at me with those blue eyes wide with vulnerability, I melt. “I told her no.”
“You lied and said I was still with Angie?”
I shake my head. “I said she was out of the picture, but you still weren’t single. And then I basically banned her from shooting her shot with you. She thinks I’m trying my hand at being the overprotective Neanderthal brother. But I just refuse to let you be with someone else.”
He stares at me. His expression is unreadable.
I think he’s still processing, but his brain is glitching.
I’m trying desperately to control the adrenaline, making my heart pound in my ears and my limbs feel like they’re made of linguini.
I don’t let myself have feelings, because I feel like this when I do. Vulnerable.
“I don’t want to be with someone else,” Landon says.
I step closer, so our jerseys brush.
“Hey, boys!” Pete’s cheerful, deep voice fills the tiny room, and I turn to face him as Landon takes a step back and holds up his glove. “Stitching on this won’t last a period. Need a new set.”
I turn sideways so Pete can move past me, and I start toward the door. “Grady, what about you?”
“Nothing,” I reply. “Unless you have a cushion to make my stool more comfortable. I’m not playing.”
I leave the room.
As I head back and sit at my locker, my head is swimming. Did that just happen?