28. nick
NICK
HUMILIATION IS HIS FAVORITE PART
About three hours later, Tallulah decided to move in.
Before our home game at the Everett Center the following day, I gathered my roommates in the locker room, changing the conversation from game play to a more important topic—our incoming house guest.
“I don’t want Tallulah bothered,” I counted, checking things off on my fingers.
“I don’t want her upset. I don’t want her disturbed—I want Tallulah to think every day, ‘why the hell didn’t I move in earlier?
’ If you have a problem—you come to me. If you have half of a problem—if you have a fucking reminder about trash day—you come to me.
I want this girl to think she lives in a castle.
I want her to think that woodland fucking critters wash her dishes—”
“Kurosawa.” Gordo waggled his eyebrows. “I thought you said you two are friends?”
“I didn’t say that—she said that.” I folded my arms over my chest, making sure they knew I wasn’t fucking around. “If Tallulah asks, yeah, we’re friends. But we’re not friends. But if she asks, we are friends. But, like, for real? No. We’re not friends—”
Stan, groaned. “Too complicated. My head hurts—”
“Just two things. Don’t bother her. And she’s moving in.” I opened my locker, taking out my gear. “Well, three things. Tallulah and I are not friends. We’re dating.” I cleared my throat. “She—uh—doesn’t know it yet.”
I glanced back to see my teammates grimacing, exchanging looks they didn’t bother hiding.
I didn’t care. Tallulah’s nervous system was constantly in fight or flight mode because of her anxiety. I had to prove to her that she didn’t have to feel that way with me. I was the guy who’d put in the effort. When she saw it in action, Tallulah would look at me differently.
Serge caught my attention. “Nick?”
“Yeah, Captain?”
“Tomasini texted me.” He raised his voice, making sure his words were heard. “Team meeting tonight. Post-game.”
A ripple passed through the crowd, everyone muttering. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. If he was texting about a team meeting, that meant a Tomasini meeting. I shifted my stance, aware of everyone gauging my reaction. I held steady even through the bitter disappointment.
It was out of my hands. This was the worst-case scenario I still signed up for.
I lifted a shoulder, keeping my disappointment in check. “It was bound to happen eventually, wasn’t it? We knew he’d get involved.”
“I’m sorry, kid,” my captain told me sympathetically.
More mumbled apologies followed, everyone cast me looks of pity.
“Do you want to…?” Gordo hesitated. “Hold off on—uh—Tallulah…?”
“Hell no.” I grabbed my skates, ready for drills on the ice, and to not think about whatever fresh hell awaited me tonight. “If anything, it’s the perfect time for her to move in. At least I’ll have something to look forward to.”
“What’re you going to tell Tallulah about him?”
I leveled my gaze with Gordo, then the rest of my roommates, making sure to look each and every one of them in the face. “What’s there to tell?”
My question wasn’t subtle. Everybody understood. Whatever happened tonight, I didn’t want it to get out. My teammates nodded, slowly at first, everyone in agreement that Tallulah didn’t need to know.
We won the game, but nobody was in a celebratory mood. I put on a face for as long as I could with Tallulah, coming up with an excuse that our defense coaches called us in for a late meeting.
The guys and I met at Everett. It was drizzling outside, matching the mood of the team as we filed inside to the meeting room.
I didn’t stretch enough post-game. It was an intense one, and with Tallulah in the audience, I pulled all of the best tricks I knew.
There was a crick in my neck, and I rubbed it, following Serge into the meeting room.
Tomasini was nowhere to be found.
It was another one of his games. He loved making people sweat it out before he arrived.
“It’ll be fine,” Serge told me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
“I know,” I said, not really believing it.
“Tomasini’s got the Olympics to concentrate on,” Serge said, more like he was trying to convince himself. “He can’t—” He had a tight-lipped, pained smile. “He won’t have time.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sitting in the middle, okay?” he told me, grabbing a few of our teammates to push me in front of them. “Third row too. There’s plenty of us, he won’t pick you out. I don’t want you in the aisle—”
“Kurosawa.”
The taunt echoed from the doors, and the room fell silent.
Joseph Tomasini’s voice was dry, feigning indifference. He was always good at that. A few of my teammates flinched in front of me like he’d singled them out. I remained still, gazing at the wall.
“Sit at the end,” Tomasini told me.
I inhaled through my nose, taking my seat while the thirty-year-old hockey players rushed to slide into theirs, everyone mumbling excuses for not sitting on time, as if this was a classroom instead of a hockey meeting.
It was silent beyond the faint tick of the clock on the wall, in time with Tomasini’s footsteps.
I drummed my fingers on the table, slow and quiet enough to make no noise, watching him go to the front of the room.
He was five-foot-ten, and pale enough that you could see each and every one of his prominent forehead veins when he was angry.
His dark hair was shaved short on both sides, and he never went without the deliberate stubble.
Interviewers used to ask me what it was like to have ‘the hottest coach in hockey’ on my team.
It was a weird question, I didn’t understand what they saw in him.
Couldn’t they see his eyes? They were a flat, unnerving bright blue.
No depth. Like someone shoved pieces of glass in his head to use as high beams.
“Five to three,” Tomasini announced. “What kind of fucking game was that?”
Well, he wasn’t in the audience, so I knew he didn’t watch.
“While I’ve been gone, you’ve been slacking off?” he demanded.
Such bullshit. If Tomasini actually wanted to discuss the game, he would’ve invited our coaches. They were very clearly barred from this meeting. No, Tomasini was leading up to something. Like a planned bomb or a derailed train.
My heartrate picked up, waiting for the something to happen.
I hated the blood pounding in my ears. Hated that he had that power over me.
“If you let them get two fucking points—” he thundered, slamming his fist on the table. The rest of my teammates flinched, but even if it’d been years, I was used to it. This speech didn’t mean anything. He wanted us to sweat it out.
My fingers curled into my palm.
When would this fucking end?
“Kurosawa.” Tomasini’s flat blue eyes met mine. “Plank.”
The command was so sudden. At first, I didn’t think I heard him correctly. Half of my teammates glanced my way, everyone just as confused as I was. Serge tried to ask what he meant. I knew better.
I pushed out of my chair and slid to the ground. Sounds of disbelief were muttered, those had to be my teammates who’d never played under Tomasini before. I put my hands on the scratchy carpet, stretching out for a plank.
My ears burned. The humiliation was Tomasini’s favorite part.
“Sir?” Gordo broke the awkward silence. “It—it’s after a hockey game—”
“What the fuck did you say?” Tomasini paused, clicking his tongue. “I don’t know your fucking name, there’s five others that look like you—if Kurosawa can’t do a simple plank, he doesn’t belong on the team.”
I was in fucking jeans. Rookie mistake on my part.
Fuck, I wanted to punch Tomasini so bad, it made it hard to concentrate on the plank.
His shadow fell over me. He leaned down, blocking out the rest of the light. “You want to come in at five in the morning tomorrow?” His voice was light, like he had an amazing offer for me to consider. “No? Three-minute plank or—”
“Three minutes?!” Serge demanded.
Gordo almost sounded panicked. “He’s a fucking kid, look at him!”
The team was in an instant uproar, half of them demanding to know if he was serious, others insisting that we just had a game where I’d been on the ice the longest. Three minutes was an impossibility—I couldn’t do it.
“Next person to say one fucking thing is scratched from the Brampton game!” Tomasini shouted over the voices.
Almost every voice died.
Gordo refused to relent. “He can’t do three minutes!”
“Scratched!” Tomasini snarled.
Gordo fell silent too.
“Next person to speak at all is cut from the team,” Tomasini warned. “Go ahead. Speak up. Actually, I have something even better. Next person to speak, is going to make it four fucking minutes for Kurosawa.”
I stared at the scratchy carpet, at the swirl designs. My muscles were cramping, begging for release, sweat beading the back of my neck. I had no idea how long it’d been, but three minutes sounded like a fucking eternity. My head swam every time I thought about it.
I’d never been good at planks. I couldn’t hold a stance worth shit. I liked working out, but I needed the movement, the activity, a distraction. There was nothing but the faint tick of the clock and my elbows starting to shake.
Tomasini dropped down to his haunches, his hand dangling at the edge of my vision. “Kurosawa—you think you’re a hot shot? You think you get to do whatever the fuck you want?”
My jaw was clamped shut with the effort to keep my body locked into place. I couldn’t have spoken if I tried.
“They told me you’re avoiding the bus rides,” Tomasini said, a hard, unrelenting edge to his voice, like a knife scraping against my skin.
“Cutting out of practice early.” That was such bullshit, I’d done it twice to pick up Tallulah from one of the far-out library locations.
“You think you run this team? I run this fucking team.”
My arms trembled. Sweat trickled down my forehead. At this stage, it was a raw, throbbing pain.
“That’s your fucking problem, Kurosawa. Always has been.” Tomasini leaned in. “No. Fucking. Respect. Same problem you had two years ago at the Winter Olympics. You need to learn. You never walk out on me.”
Another hand caught my attention. At the corner of my vision, Gordo was desperately dropping his palm. I knew what he meant. Go down. Just go down. He wanted me to take the five o’clock practice, wanted me to give up.
My breaths came out in hard, audible pants through my teeth, clenched tight. Inhuman, animal-like grunts, scraped from my throat. Each breath hurt.
Gordo’s hand moved wildly. Go down! Go down!
But I couldn’t—I fucking couldn’t.
Every muscle strained, I couldn’t stop shaking. What was I? Halfway through? Bile rose in my throat. I was afraid I’d throw up. I went too hard during the game to show off for Tallulah. I didn’t think I’d be doing a fucking three-minute plank afterwards.
“Do you know what Kurosawa did?” Tomasini asked, pushing up to stand, his voice casual, conversational even. “I put in so much work on this kid. An entire fucking season prepping for the Winter Olympics. And what the fuck does he do? Leaves before his fourth game. Walked the fuck out—”
His footsteps were quick to me. I didn’t have time to prepare. Something thumped against my back, a thick book. It might as well have been a fucking brick.
I almost collapsed.
A harsh sound tore out of me, and sharp, wordless notes of disbelief rose from everybody. Chairs were scraped back, they leaped up, as another book hit my back.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“I took time to train Kurosawa and he didn’t appreciate it,” Tomasini said easily. “He disrespected my program—disrespected me—”
Another book.
Pain flared everywhere and I lurched forward an inch. The inch cost me, muscles screaming in protest as sweat poured down my forehead. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. It was fucking humiliating and fucked-up, and I couldn’t do the three-minute plank. I couldn’t handle it.
Except I couldn’t stop.
Because I wanted to move Tallulah in.
Tomasini kept talking about the Winter Olympics, and I forced his voice to disappear, putting all of my thoughts on Tallulah. On her laugh. How her eyes sparkled in the sunshine. Her, in my sweatshirt, snuggling up to me while we watched a movie in bed.
Tomorrow, I wanted to help her pack her stuff, and move her in.
If I did a workout with Tomasini at five o’clock in the fucking morning, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t be able to. Especially not now with the fucking plank. I was already so sore. I didn’t know how I’d go to sleep tonight.
I couldn’t give up. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t waver.
“Three minutes!” Gordo shouted. “Nick, three minutes!”
I buckled to the ground. My face met the floor with a hard smack. Everything throbbed so fucking bad, tears pricked at my eyes. My teammates threw themselves out of their chairs, rushing to help me up. Why? Couldn’t they leave me on the floor a little longer?
“I guess I won’t see you tomorrow morning,” Tomasini said casually, collecting his books to leave. “Saturday then. Five.”
The door closed behind him, and Serge helped me into a chair. My head lolled and hit the table. It felt better not to move so I didn’t. I stayed there, body screaming at me.
“You’re okay, bud,” Gordo said, dusting my back for some reason. His voice was high-pitched, a first I’d heard from him. “You’re okay. You’re okay, huh? You’re okay.”
There were way too many hands touching me, everyone patting me.
“Stop touching him!” Serge barked. “Kid, are you okay?”
My throat felt wrong, my voice hoarse. “I gotta call Tallulah.”
“What’s he talking about?” Gordo mumbled, dumbfounded. “That’s what you’re worried about?” I tried to move up and he put a hand on my back. “Jesus, don’t get up. I got it, I got it, I’ll text her.”
“I—” I slumped back to the table, forehead against the wood. “Just need to tell her I’ll be a bit. Can’t get up.”
“I’ll tell her, I’ll tell her,” Gordo assured me.
“It’s okay, kid.” Serge slipped into the seat next to me, his voice low. “It won’t be daily. Won’t be. Can’t be. He’s too busy for that, and—and…” He trailed off, fumbling for something to say to lessen the burn.
I’d signed up for the Blades, hoping Tomasini wouldn’t pay attention to my place on the team.
That was fucking optimistic. Stupid even.
“I don’t want Tallulah to find out,” I mumbled.
“She’s not going to find out, bud,” Gordo assured me, my teammates agreeing. “She won’t find out. I promise.”