16. Nolan
NOLAN
An eight-second video of Pope staring at me has earned our entire line a ring light.
The social staff waits until after practice, when we’re sweaty and tired enough to cooperate, then plants three stools in front of Pope’s stall.
A sign taped to the wall behind us says HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW YOUR LINEMATES?
in team colors. Most of the guys could be halfway home by now.
Instead, they’re hanging around their stalls to watch us suffer.
Sindre is still in the no-contact jersey he’s worn since Nara let him join team practice.
Bobby grabs one of the whiteboards and draws three columns on the back.
“They said this isn’t scored,” I remind him.
He writes KESSLER over the first column. “They don’t want anyone’s feelings hurt.”
The producer lowers the question cards in her hand. “I said it isn’t a competition.”
“That’s because you don’t understand professional athletes.” Bobby adds FRASER and POPE, then looks across the room. “Nobody helps. If you shout an answer, it doesn’t count.”
Caleb leans against his stall with his arms folded. “We’re not playing.”
“You could still compromise the integrity of the game.”
“There is no game.”
Bobby points his marker at him. “That’s exactly what someone planning to cheat would say.”
The camera operator laughs. Pope doesn’t. He’s on the stool beside mine, forearms braced on his thighs, studying the blank board in his hands like the correct answers might appear if he glares hard enough.
The first interview got clipped before we made it out of the arena.
Pope said I was where he expected me to be.
I demanded a thank-you, stepped into frame, and gave the internet eight seconds of material it apparently couldn’t live without.
At the time, I wanted to know what his eyes were doing when they dragged over me.
Two weeks of sleeping with him cleared that up.
Pope won’t look at me at all.
Normally, I’d say something filthy and make him look at me. I don’t. He’s holding himself too still, like the camera might catch him screwing up, and I want him to relax.
“Ready?” the producer asks.
“We were born ready,” Bobby says.
Pope uncaps his marker. “You weren’t.”
That gets a laugh from the stalls. Bobby turns toward him slowly, already offended, and I bite the inside of my cheek. Pope stares down at his board again, but the corner of his mouth gives him away.
The room is laughing with him. Pope usually stands at the edge of this kind of shit waiting for it to end. I’m stupidly pleased to see him in the middle of it, so I keep my mouth shut and let the laugh stay his.
The producer checks the first card. “What does Nolan order when he gets coffee?”
“An apology to his bloodstream,” Anton calls from across the room.
“Disqualified,” Bobby says.
“Still not playing.”
I look into the camera and hold up a hand. “For legal reasons, Anton has never seen me consume more than the recommended daily amount of caffeine.”
“You had two coffees before the plane took off last road trip,” Sindre says.
“Those were travel coffees. Different rules.”
Pope writes without hesitation. Bobby thinks for another second, then hunches over his board so nobody can see. The producer waits until he presses it to his chest. “Answers.”
They flip them around.
LARGE COFFEE, TWO SUGARS is written on both.
“Point for each of you.” The producer looks at my questionnaire. “That’s exactly what Nolan put.”
Bobby marks the scores before she can stop him. He gives himself a much larger tally than Pope gets.
“Same point,” I say.
“Home-ice advantage.”
I reach across him and fix Pope’s tally. Bobby tries to block me with his shoulder, which turns it into a brief wrestling match over the whiteboard. The producer tells us both to sit down. Behind the camera, somebody starts chanting my name until Caleb tells him to shut up.
Pope shifts his stool back into place with his foot. Our knees meet. I start to move mine, but he presses back. I leave it there.
The producer lifts the next card. “What does Ben eat when he wants food late at night?”
Bobby makes a sound like he’s just been handed the championship. He starts writing.
That answer is too easy.
I write DOUBLE CHEESEBURGER + FRIES and turn the board facedown on my thigh.
“No coaching,” Bobby says.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
Pope finally looks at me. His face stays blank for the camera, but the back of his knuckle presses against my leg between the stools.
“Answers,” the producer says.
Bobby has written CHICKEN AND RICE.
He sees mine and frowns. “Since when?”
Pope turns his board around. CHEESEBURGER.
“That’s a point for Nolan.”
“No.” Bobby points from my answer to Pope. “Look at him. This man eats chicken and rice.”
“I eat a lot of things,” Pope says.
“Name three.”
“We’re moving on,” the producer cuts in.
I add my point before Bobby can decide mine should be smaller. He watches me do it, suspicion beginning to replace outrage.
The producer goes to Bobby’s questionnaire. “What’s the first thing Bobby does when he gets into a hotel room?”
The room answers at once. Caleb calls, “His mom.”
Anton goes with, “Checks under the bed.”
Sindre lifts both hands. “Steals the good pillows.”
“All of you are disqualified,” Bobby shouts. He twists around on his stool as more answers come from both sides of the room. “Pope, they’re cheating for you.”
“I haven’t written anything.”
“Because you’re listening.”
Pope turns his empty board toward him. “To six wrong answers?”
Bobby looks personally betrayed by that.
Every road trip, Bobby ignores his bag in the doorway and stands there in half his suit until his phone connects.
Pope and I finish at the same time.
CHECKS THE WI-FI.
Bobby holds up his questionnaire when the producer reads the answer. “Because hotel Wi-Fi is unreliable.”
“You play a phone game,” I say.
“A competitive strategy game.”
“You grow digital corn.”
That brings Anton out of his stall. “Is that why you were late to video in Vancouver?”
“My harvest window was closing.”
The room gets loud enough that the producer has to wave both hands to settle everyone down. Pope takes the scoring board from me and adds a point under each of our names. Bobby makes another grab for it. Pope lifts it out of reach without even getting off his stool.
The producer waits until Bobby stops threatening to file a grievance. “What does Nolan always keep in his stall?”
Bobby writes BACKUP MOUTHGUARD.
Pope’s marker moves once.
My own answer is folded in the producer’s stack, but I can already see his. She lowers the card. “Turn them.”
MINT GUM.
My laugh gets swallowed by the rest of the room. Bobby looks between us while the producer awards Pope the point.
“He chews it every practice,” Pope says.
His voice stays flat. He could have noticed me opening a piece beside him on the bench. Pope pays attention even when he acts like he doesn’t. He remembers small shit, and I like that more than I should.
My head gives me his tongue in my mouth anyway, and the bright ring light suddenly feels much hotter.
I cross one ankle over the other so my leg stops pressing against his.
“I also have a backup mouthguard,” I tell Bobby.
“But you didn’t put it on the card.”
“Tragic.”
He circles Pope’s tally as if he’s collecting evidence.
The producer checks the camera operator’s screen, then pulls the last card from her stack. “What’s the most-used non-hockey app on Ben’s phone?”
“Weather,” Caleb says.
“Banking,” Anton counters.
Sindre lifts his phone. “Flashlight.”
“Why would flashlight be his most-used app?” I ask.
Sindre shrugs. “He seems prepared.”
Bobby blocks his board with both arms. Pope sits beside me in silence, giving away nothing.
His restaurant recommendations always arrive as map pins. One was a coffee shop near the practice rink. Another made what he called acceptable breakfast sandwiches. Pope has lived in Seattle for less time than I have and treats finding decent food like a scouting assignment.
He also texts me from across the locker room about hockey or whatever stupid thing Bobby is doing. I answer every time. Lately, when my phone goes off, I hope it’s him.
I write MAPS.
Bobby writes CALENDAR.
The producer turns Pope’s questionnaire toward the camera.
MAPS.
Half the room cheers. The other half boos because they backed Bobby, and I stand long enough to add my point to the board. Pope and I have three each. Bobby has one.
“Hold that up,” the camera operator says.
Pope takes one side of the board. I take the other. Our shoulders touch as we angle it toward the lens.
Bobby stares at the scores.
“Good,” the producer says. “Now, Bobby, tell us how you feel about the result.”
He ignores her. “Pope knows your coffee order.”
“So do you,” I say.
“He knows what’s in your stall.”
“We play on the same line.”
Bobby points at me. “You know what he eats at ten o’clock at night.”
Pope’s grip tightens on the edge of the board.
I keep smiling for the camera. “We all get hungry.”
“And his phone apps?”
“He sends me restaurants.”
Bobby looks at Pope, then back at me. The room quiets while he works through it.
I already see Pope at the rink every day. Then he leaves and keeps showing up on my phone. Half the time, he ends up in my apartment. Wanting all of it to keep happening is extremely fucking inconvenient.
Pope’s shoulder goes rigid against mine. I leave mine where it is.
Finally, Bobby raises the marker like he’s delivering a verdict.
“You two are cheating.”
The room erupts.
I laugh with everyone else. We kind of are cheating. Half our answers came from all the time Pope and I spend alone.
What would these assholes say if they knew the rest?
Pope’s shoulder stays pressed to mine while they yell.
“How?” Caleb asks when the room settles enough for anyone to hear him.
Bobby waves the marker between Pope and me. “Look at them.”
That starts everyone again. The producer motions for the camera operator to keep rolling while Bobby tries to make his case. Nobody lets him get more than five words out before shouting him down.
Pope lowers the scoring board. “You got one point.”
“Because I respect my linemates’ privacy.”
Anton comes halfway out of his stall. “You went through my bag yesterday.”
“I thought you had my charger.”
“It was plugged into the wall.”
A laugh gets out of Pope before he can stop it. His shoulder loosens against mine, and I’m grinning before Bobby starts arguing that an open bag isn’t private.
“Perfect,” the producer says. She lets the camera run until Bobby notices, then points at it. “And cut.”
The ring light goes dark. Bobby immediately turns to her.
“Rematch.”
She checks the cards still in her hand. “We have five lightning-round questions.”
Pope stays on the stool. He looks at me while Bobby wipes the scores off the board.
“One round,” he says.
Bobby shoves a marker into my hand. Pope’s knee bumps mine under the boards.
“You in?” he asks.
I uncap the marker. “Yeah.”