Chapter 10 #2
The scrimmage begins. The pace is fast immediately. Nobody likes losing, even when the scoreboard doesn't matter. Especially hockey players. Half of professional athletics is just finding socially acceptable reasons to compete with your friends.
The puck drops.
Dante wins the opening draw through what I can only assume is divine intervention. Lane collects the puck and sends it back toward Kai. The shift develops quickly after that.
Across the ice, Hayes immediately looks different. I've noticed it more and more over the last few weeks. Most days Kai skates like somebody carrying a weight nobody else can see. The talent is always there, but there is usually something holding him back.
Some invisible pressure sitting on his shoulders.
Today it seems lighter. The thought lingers longer than it should. Because I'm starting to realize how much attention I've been paying.
Kai cuts through the neutral zone with the puck on his stick. Thomas Lane steps up.
Kai slips around him effortlessly.
The move earns a whistle from one of the assistant coaches. “Atta boy, Hayes.”
Kai doesn't react. Never does. Most players thrive on praise. Kai treats compliments like suspicious packages.
The play continues.
Dante skates hard down the wing beside him, making enough noise for three people. I can hear him yelling from halfway across the rink. Some things never change.
Lane closes the gap. Kai dishes the puck wide. Dante nearly loses it immediately.
I close my eyes. Briefly. The man possesses elite hand-eye coordination. Unfortunately, he occasionally forgets to use it.
The puck bounces awkwardly off his stick and nearly escapes the zone before he recovers.
“Nice save,” I yell.
Dante lifts one finger in my direction.
The scrimmage settles into a rhythm after that. Players rotate through lines. Coach yells at everyone equally. A rookie, Alastor Foley, gets caught cheating toward the offensive zone and receives a lecture loud enough for neighboring states to hear.
Across the ice, Hayes keeps finding ways to draw my attention. Not intentionally. That's the problem. The things that catch my eye are small. A quick laugh after Dante says something ridiculous. The way he taps his stick against a teammate's shin guards after a good play.
Ordinary fucking things that I’m finding adorable. The kind of moments that reveal who somebody is when they stop thinking about being watched. I shouldn't enjoy seeing that side of him as much as I do.
A whistle sounds. Line change. Kai glides toward the bench.
Dante says something to him making him laugh. The sound doesn't reach me through the distance and noise. I still know exactly what it sounds like.
Whatever this thing is between us, it's supposed to be simple.
Sex.
Fun.
No expectations.
No complications.
No emotional entanglements.
Instead, I've somehow reached the point where watching him laugh during practice improves my entire day.
That's not ideal.
The puck drops again. This time I end up directly across from him.
Kai’s eyebrows lift. I grin. The challenge is obvious.
Good.
The play develops quickly. A pass reaches him near the blue line.
He turns up ice. I angle toward him. For a second, neither of us commits. Then he tries to slip past me.
Cute.
I step into his lane and separate him from the puck with a clean shoulder check. Nothing hard.
Kai stumbles two steps. The puck slides free. I collect it. The second I turn around, he's laughing.
“Really?”
I skate backward. “Skill issue.”
His glare lacks any real heat. “You're so annoying.”
“Correct.”
The grin he gives me in response nearly knocks me off balance. For a brief second, I'm no longer standing on NHL ice. I'm seventeen again. Playing pickup hockey with friends after school. Talking shit. Laughing. Competing because it's fun. The realization hits unexpectedly.
Somewhere along the way, hockey became work. Business. Playing against Kai feels different. It feels like hockey again. That thought stays with me for the rest of the scrimmage.
By the end of practice, his team wins. Mostly because Dante accidentally has the game of his life. The man celebrates like he personally won the Stanley Cup.
The rest of the team gathers around center ice while coaches wrap things up. I barely hear half of what Coach says. My attention keeps drifting toward Kai. He looks almost embarrassed by the congratulations.
Teammates tap his helmet. Tell him he had a good practice. Every compliment makes him look increasingly uncomfortable.
Watching him accept praise is like watching somebody attempt to pet a stray cat. Everything about him seems convinced he should run away. Yet he remains where he is. Awkward and quiet. Trying very hard not to smile.
The sight makes my chest feel strangely warm.
Coach finally dismisses us. The team breaks apart immediately. Some players head toward the showers. Others make a beeline for the gym. A few linger near the exits.
I grab my water bottle and start toward the locker room with Dante. A moment later, Kai falls into step beside me.
The three of us make our way down the hallway together while Dante explains a story that somehow involves a broken lawn chair, two Labradors, and a minor argument with his landlord.
I'm not entirely convinced any of it actually happened.
Kai seems equally skeptical. Unfortunately, Dante never requires evidence.
Only enthusiasm. And he has plenty of that.
The walk back to the locker room is loud, mostly because Dante refuses to let silence exist for more than three consecutive seconds.
By the time we push through the doors, he's halfway through another story involving a disastrous blind date and a restaurant that somehow caught fire.
I don't know if that story is true either.
Kai also doesn't seem convinced. Still, he's smiling.
The locker room gradually settles into its usual post-practice routine. Equipment hits the floor. Showers start running somewhere in the background. Music continues playing through the speakers.
Most of the team immediately starts stripping off gear.
I do the same. For a while, everything feels normal.
Then it doesn't.
Kai is standing a few stalls away, still talking to Dante while he peels off layers of equipment. His shoulder pads hit the bench first. Then his jersey. Dante is in the middle of explaining why he should absolutely be trusted to plan a team vacation.
I glance over. Mostly because Kai is laughing again and I want to catch his smile before it disappears.
Then Kai bends down to pull off his compression shorts. And my entire world narrows. For a second, my brain doesn't process what I'm seeing.
Cuts?
Several thin lines crossing high on his thigh. Partially hidden beneath the hem of his briefs.
Fresh. Not old scars. Fresh. The skin around them is still angry and pink.
My stomach drops. None of it feels real. Because all I can see are those carefully placed marks. My first thought is that there has to be an explanation. A hockey explanation or a stupid accident.
My second thought is that I've spent most of my life around athletes. I know what accidental injuries look like. Those aren't them.
Kai straightens. The cuts disappear beneath the fabric of his shorts. For a moment I wonder if I imagined them.