Chapter 5 - Boone
~
Boone
If I wasn’t worried about my brother’s fast-approaching mental breakdown before, I was now.
Ever since Saturday, when we arrived back home, Dawson had been even more uptight and anxious than usual.
Even Gage gave him a wide berth, and he was the most temperamental member of the team.
That alone was a sure sign that something was seriously wrong.
Home games were usually Dawson’s high points; the guy just played better on familiar turf, but today he was wound tighter than his tape stick, pacing the locker room with stiff, serious commitment.
I watched him from the bench as I laced my skates, taking note of all the little details that alluded to his frayed mental state.
For example, he had re-laced his own skates at least twice, then once more for good measure.
His pacing also had Gage feeling agitated, and Dawson nearly bit his head off when the burly guy slammed a locker just a little too loud for his liking.
It wasn’t like the two of them to snipe at each other.
They usually preferred to team up and take out their frustrations on me.
I almost missed the usual dog-piling that took place right before a match.
I would have taken their rolled eyes and rampant hair ruffling over whatever the hell this was.
Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore, not being the center of attention and all, and I sidled up beside Dawson when he paused his pacing for a moment. “Are the New Jersey Devils really that threatening, or is there some other reason you’re about to explode?”
Usually, Dawson would have rewarded a comment like that with some long, wordy breakdown of why the New Jersey Devils could never be a threat, but not this time. This time, his gaze only traveled upward, to the ceiling and the thundering stands beyond.
I didn’t need X-ray vision to know exactly where he was looking, or who, specifically, was out there. Carissa and Henry had come to watch the game, and the presence of one (or both) spectators seemed to be driving Dawson mental.
“They’re both doing fine out there if that’s what you’re worried about.” I nudged his shoulder, and our gear came together with a clack. “I saw them on the way in. Henry’s got his foam finger on backward.”
Dawson’s eyes didn’t budge from the ceiling. “And… Carissa?”
“She’s never set foot in a stadium before, and it shows, but she’s putting on a brave face for Henry.” I grinned, remembering Carissa’s appalled expression when the spectator beside her downed an entire beer in one long chug. I patted his shoulder. “Exposure therapy will be good for her.”
“Right.” Dawson’s jaw twitched once.
When he clearly wasn’t going to add anything else, I sighed and wrangled him toward the bench. “Dawson, my dude, sit down. Your bad mood is affecting Gage, and that guy's already fragile as is.”
“You know I can hear you, right!?” Gage, standing only three feet away, shouted over the locker room chatter.
“Yeah,” I blew him a kiss. “That was the point.”
While the big guy stormed off to go punch a gym bag or something, I sat down beside Dawson. His leg was jumping the way it always did when he was nervous, and his jaw was set tight under his helmet.
I gave a low whistle, eyeing him with mild concern. “Oh man, you’re really not doing well.” When my darling brother did nothing but glare at me, I rolled my eyes. “Is this about Henry or Carissa?”
He didn’t answer right away, jaw working overtime like he was trying to grind his words down to dust. Typical. The guy was stubborn as hell. So I waited, watching the rest of the team suit up and soaking in the sweaty stench that plagued every men's locker room.
Eventually, Dawson blew out a breath. “It’s difficult… knowing he’s here. Knowing Henry is watching.”
I gave him my best bombastic side-eye. “So you’re worried about letting him down? Dude, you could eat shit out there on the ice, and Henry would still treat you like a hero.”
That chipped the tiniest smile on his lips, so I went on. “Look, I know I wasn’t sold on the idea of having him around, but I’ve gotta admit the kid’s grown on me. He kicks ass at video games, and he clearly adores you.” I clapped a hand on his back. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
I already knew where that particular concern of his came from, even if I would never fully understand it.
Dawson had always been the shining star of the family.
He would bend over backward trying to appease our father, while I simply…
hadn’t bothered. I gave up trying to impress the old man early, and I always wished Dawson had done the same.
I could see how much trying had hurt him.
Dawson’s decision to foster some kid he met once at an ice rink was clearly some sort of attempt at healing his own inner child. And while I thought it was a downright stupid idea, Henry was a good kid, and Carissa was a welcome addition.
Speaking of. I leaned my hands on my knees, edging forward to catch his eye. “Did something happen between you and Carissa? You’ve been avoiding her for the past two days.”
“Nothing happened,” Dawson answered, all too quickly, and all the missing pieces finally fell into place.
“Oh, I see.” I nodded solemnly.
Dawson’s head snapped up to glare at me. “See what? There’s nothing to see.”
“You’re into her,” I poked him in the ribs, or at least, I would have had he not landed a jab at mine first. “I never thought I’d see the day,” I wheezed, gripping my side where his elbow had bruised me.
“You’re delusional,” Dawson said, standing up abruptly. “And you need to be focusing on the game. We’re on in five.”
“Whatever you say, Captain.”
I hauled myself upright to follow him, only to have my helmet knocked askew by a whack from behind. I turned to see Gage sauntering past me. The bigger guy threw me a glance over his shoulder, a smug little grin on his face.
“Well then,” I huffed and gathered up my equipment. “At least things are back to normal.”
*
By the time the puck dropped and the game began, Dawson was all business. With Henry in the crowd and a desperate need to impress his number one fan, my brother took to the ice like his life depended on it, and I followed suit, ever the reliable hype man.
The two of us slid into position like we’d done a hundred times before. He played right, I played left, and Gage barreled down the center between us. It was a combination that worked better than anyone could have predicted, and the New Jersey Devils didn’t stand a chance.
Called it twins’ intuition, but Dawson and I worked best when we were mirroring each other, operating with a synchronicity that had every other player outmatched.
It took only a moment of eye contact, and it was like we could read each other’s minds.
So we flowed, handling passes, pivots, and shots like a singular organism.
Midway through the second period, the puck slid toward Dawson, and I watched him curl around a defender, stick handling with that same cool, lethal intensity he always carried on the ice.
I took the pass, skated hard along the boards, and snapped a shot past the goalie.
I could see the Devils seething in their skates and offered a shit-eating grin for their efforts.
Gage was out there too, a hurricane in his own right. Sure, the guy had a habit of visibly fuming whenever someone got in his way, but he had his moments of brilliance, throwing all that muscle and fury where it counted (not that I would ever pay him a compliment to his face).
We kept the puck moving fast, with swift passes between Dawson and me that would have had me singing had I had a moment to catch my breath.
Then Gage exploded past the blue line, juking left and right, and landing the perfect shot.
That was how it went. Gage’s violence to complement Dawson's pragmatic calls.
And me, the speedy assurance. When the strategy worked, it was devastating.
At some point, a Jersey Devil sent the puck out of bounds, and during the stoppage, I glanced up at the stands, scanning the booths for Carissa and Henry.
Henry’s foam finger was flailing wildly, still facing the wrong way, but the kid couldn’t have cared less.
He had his eyes trained on Dawson, hopping up and down like he’d eaten nothing but candy all morning.
Carissa sat beside him, clearly confused as to what the hell was going on but seemingly enjoying herself, regardless.
I caught her eye and offered a wave, then had to examine the little thrill that traveled through me when she smiled and waved back. Hell, the woman was cute, and it didn’t help that she knew how to use it to toy with me. I was into her; I had to admit, though that came as no surprise to anyone.
When Carissa’s gaze traveled past me, my eyes flicked to Dawson, who was already getting into position.
Though his head was still in the game, his eyes were fixed on the stands, and he was staring at Carissa like he didn’t quite know what to make of her.
I mashed my stick against the ice, listening to the din of the stadium, muffled slightly beneath the helmet.
So Dawson was into her, too. Now that was the surprise of the century.
Not that my brother would ever admit it.
Dawson handled intimate relationships like a hand on a hot stove.
He pulled back the moment someone turned up the heat.
A nudge from my teammate pulled me out of my head, and I hurried to get into position, offering a final wave to Henry and a wink in Carissa’s direction.
The rest of the game went off without a hitch, and we had the win in the bag with seconds to spare.
Gage kept his stick glued to the ice, bullying his way through the neutral zone.
A Devils defenseman tried to step up and got flattened for his trouble, skidding on his ass while the crowd roared its approval.
Gage didn’t even spare the poor guy a glance; he dished the puck right back to Dawson coming up on the right wing.
Dawson took it in stride, skating wide and forcing the goalie to track him.
Two defenders collapsed on him with the brutal force of a brick wall, but that was a rookie mistake.
I was already flying down the left, timing my entry perfectly.
An ex-girlfriend once told me I always knew how to make an entrance, and you best believe she was right.
Dawson glanced up once, saw me in all my speeding glory, and threaded a pass clean across the slot.
I wound up and ripped it, wishing only for a snapshot of that glorious swing, and sent the puck screaming past the goalie’s head. Top shelf.
The red light flashed, the horn blared, and the arena erupted.
I had only a moment to rip my helmet off before the full weight of the Golden Knights team came crashing down on top of me.
Gage hooked a beefy arm around my neck, damn near choking me in the process (his own unique take on a pat on the back).
Dawson came skating up last, cool and collected as always in the presence of adoring fans and butt-hurt rival teams. He tapped his stick against mine in quiet celebration. He wasn’t looking at me.
I followed his gaze back up to the stands, where Carissa was on her feet, cheeks flushed pink in the cold, and cheering along with the rest of the audience.
Henry was bouncing beside her, both of them clearly screaming their lungs out.
I glanced back at my brother and caught him smiling, like there were not a few hundred people watching him; only two.
I sidled closer to murmur in his ear, some advice only he could hear. “The game might be over, but it’s not too late to shoot your shot.”
Dawson lifted a hand to wave at Henry, but his eyes flitted back to Carissa. “I could say the same to you.”
“It’s not a competition.” I shrugged, pumping one arm up to join in the celebration. “Why don’t we just agree that whatever happens, happens?”
“Sure,” Dawson lowered his hand and looked at me, serious as a heart attack, like usual. “But Henry and the hockey season must come first.”
“Of course.” I skated after him as he turned to rejoin the rest of the team, but I spared one last glance up at the stands. A part of me had to wonder if either one of us could stick to that promise.