Chapter 12 #2
I nod once. “We didn’t do anything.”
“You slept in your bed too?” Benson asks.
I nod. “She insisted.”
Rowan glances at the door, like he is going to reference the bench, and then he doesn’t.
He says, “When she was here today, she said she didn’t tell you she broke up with her boyfriend because she wanted to be your friend.”
I let out a small laugh. It’s not a real laugh. It’s a pathetic one.
Stanley clocks it. “Yeah, I shut that down for you, baby Blue, don’t worry. I told her you don’t have friends that are girls.”
“Nice one, Stan,” Percy mutters.
He nods. “Thanks.” Stanley turns back to me. “We need more.”
“More what?”
“Substance. You’re this fucked over the girl you lost your virginity to? Nah, man. Do you love her?”
The table goes silent. That is a loaded fucking question.
“Shit,” Benson murmurs after a solid ten second silence.
Stanley mutters, “I wish we had known this before the Halloween party. I would have made some magical shit happen.”
I think about last night. It was magical enough.
Stanley snaps his fingers. “Wait. This is why you don’t hook up with anyone? I thought you were gay, you know? I fucking put money down on it.”
Benson raises a brow. “Told you.”
“I’m not fucking gay,” I say.
Stanley grins. “No, you’re just stuck on one girl.”
I look at him.
His eyes light up. “She lives here now, bro. Don’t be afraid to break the house rules,” Stanley says. “Look at Reeve.”
Benson kisses the side of Lucy’s head.
I admit, “That’s not it.” It’s out of my mouth before I have decided to say it.
The table is quiet again.
I confess, “I’m too fucked up. She deserves better.”
The kitchen doesn’t move.
Benson is the first one to speak. “You’re not fucked up, man. What are you talking about?”
I shake my head. “She knows. I was a dick to her.”
Stanley shrugs. “Hey, some girls like that.”
I look at him.
“She came back to drop off your hoodie.”
I think about that. “Why would she do that?” I ask.
Stanley shrugs. “She cares.”
A pause.
“And she’s single, too.”
I run my hands through my hair. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“Why?” Stanley asks. Now it’s him and me talking. He would be the one to push this.
“I have too much going on.”
He says, “We can help.”
“No.” I push back from the table. “Is the meeting over now?”
They stay quiet, so I take that as a yes. I stand up and push my chair in.
I look at each of them. Benson. Lucy. Rowan. Percy. Stanley. Then I walk to the archway and turn at the threshold.
“I don’t want any of you assholes scheming or plotting anything.”
They look up.
“Melly’s off-limits. Don’t mess with her head. She already told you that you won’t be seeing much of her, and I plan to keep that promise for her.”
They glare at me.
“This conversation stays at this table. On this day. That’s it.”
A pause.
“I’m not ever talking about this again.”
I walk out of the kitchen and grab my clothes.
She’s single.
She broke up with him on Tuesday.
Why the fuck would she do that?
I take the stairs two at a time.
When I get to my room, I shut the door, sit on the edge of the bed, and drop my elbows on my knees. I stare at the rug.
She’s single.
I can’t believe she talked to the guys about me. Really can’t fucking believe it. That girl knows how to drive the knife deeper and deeper. I thought high school was bad. Now she’s infecting my team with nonsense. Stanley calling it an intervention is bullshit.
“Fuck.”
It’s Monday, and I’ve been up since four. I have been on the ice since five.
I’m always the first one here. Today I’m earlier for more time. Half of the overhead lights are on. The rink staff doesn’t flip the rest until six. The blue lines are bright. The far end is in shadow. My breath is steady.
I’m doing edge work. Stick on the ice. Inside edges, outside edges, slow figure eights along the boards. The kind of drill you can do for forty minutes without your brain involved.
My shoulder is fucked.
I’ve been ignoring it for ten days. The Friday game made it worse.
The rink yesterday — wristing pucks with no goalie and no game and no good reason — made it worse.
I have not told the trainer. I will not tell the trainer until somebody makes me, which I hope is never.
I just need it to go away. I do a slow figure eight along the bench boards. Then another. Then another.
The rink door opens at the far end. Stanley’s voice is the loudest one. Stanley’s voice is always the loudest one. I don’t look up.
Stanley pushes through the bench door first with coffee in his hand. He sees me and watches me for one beat too long.
“Baby Blue.”
His new nickname for me is driving me up the wall. “Sterm.”
His face does something, and then he puts it together. Stan Ermington. Sterm.
He says, “Been here a while.”
“Yeah.”
He sips his coffee. He stands at the open bench door and watches me do my edge work. I can feel him watching.
The rest of the team filters in over the next ten minutes.
Benson nods at me from the bench. Doesn’t say anything.
Rowan gives me a small two-finger wave when he steps onto the ice.
Percy is at the goal already, fully padded, doing the Percy thing where he is alone in a small kingdom of his own routine.
Theo Marsh, the other left wing, taps my pads with his stick on the way past — Golding — and I tap his back without looking up.
Coach Fuller blows the whistle at six. “Center ice, boys.”
The team gathers. Coach is in his Monday mood — clipped, focused, no good morning. He outlines the practice. Power play work. Cycle game and net-front presence. Line rushes. A scrimmage at the end.
“Second line, you’re running the cycle drill first. Then we flip you to power play. Let’s move.”
Benson skates over and bumps my pad with his glove. “Golding.”
“Cap.”
Stanley joins us. The three of us line up at the far end of the rink for the cycle drill — left wing, center, right wing, the way we have lined up at the far end of this rink for two years.
Benson runs us through the first rep. He cycles low, drops it back to me on the half-wall, I move it to Stanley at the point, Stanley shoots, Benson crashes the net for the rebound. Clean. Fast. The reps we have done a thousand times.
Coach yells from center, “Good cycle, second line.”
We skate back to the line.
Stanley is grinning. “Goldie. How you doing this morning?”
“Busy.”
“Sleep okay?”
“Fine.”
“Making sure.”
I put my stick on the ice. I skate the two yards to him. I lower my voice so Benson, ahead of us at the boards, cannot hear it, “I’m going to put you through the boards on the next scrimmage shift.”
He grins wider.
“Promises.”
I skate away.
Coach flips us to the power play unit. Benson at the bumper, me at the half-wall on the right side because lefty shots play the off-wing on the power play, Stanley at the left circle. Two defensemen at the points. Percy in the net taking the reps.
We set up. Benson kicks the puck out to me on the half-wall.
I look across. Stanley is open at the dot.
I feed it to him. Stanley one-times it. It goes top corner.
Percy doesn’t move. The unit celebrates — sticks up, the small Monday version of celebrating in practice.
Stanley skates his cool-down loop past where I’m setting back up.
He doesn’t look at me. He says, low enough that only I hear it, “That one’s for Melly.”
I choke on nothing. I cough. Hard. Twice.
Benson, at the bumper, looks over. “What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“What’s Stan saying?”
“Nothing, cap. Forget it.”
He looks at me for a beat. He skates back to the bumper and resets.
Stanley is grinning at me across the dot. My grip on my stick is white-knuckled.
We’re back at the half-wall. Coach has us running the cycle drill against pressure — a forecheck pair coming hard. Rowan and a sophomore D, Marquez, are pressing us.
Stanley comes off the wall with the puck.
He’s looking for the outlet. I drop low to support him.
He passes it to me along the half-wall. I’m catching it on my forehand.
Stanley comes through to set a pick on Rowan.
He hits me on his way past. He doesn’t mean to.
He’s clearing space. He turns his shoulder into Rowan and the back of his shoulder catches the front of mine on the rotation.
The impact lights the joint up like somebody put a lighter inside it, and I see white at the edges of my vision for a half-second.
I don’t show it on my face. I move the puck up to Benson at the top. Benson takes it to the net. Coach yells good support from center.
Stanley skates past me. “Easy, baby Blue. Don’t want you blowing a tire before the weekend.”
“Get off me.”
“I am four feet away from you. I’m literally not on you. The weekend’s a long way away. You should rest up. Take care of yourself. Maybe call somebody. Take a girl out for breakfast.”
“I swear to God.”
“Not naming names.”
I lunge at him. I lunge two inches, and I stop myself. He laughs. Both hands up. Skating away from me down the boards.
I plant my stick on the ice and breathe.
Coach calls a water break. I skate to the bench and grab my water bottle. I drink. My shoulder is in real trouble now. The brush from Stanley’s pick made it worse than it was an hour ago.