2
Zavier McCormick stood at the edge of the ice and watched Spencer Maldonado skate through the defense like they were standing still.
The new kid was fast. Faster than Zavier had expected.
Faster than anyone had expected. He moved with a fluid grace that made the other players look clumsy and slow.
Zavier had been watching him all practice, and he couldn't stop watching him now.
The scrimmage was in full swing. Spencer had the puck on his stick and he was heading for the goal. Zavier could see the opening, the same opening he would have taken if he were in Spencer's position. The kid was going to score. He was going to make everyone look foolish.
Layton Sears was coming up behind him. Zavier saw it before anyone else did.
He saw the way Layton's body tensed, the way his eyes narrowed, the way he adjusted his angle just slightly to make sure the hit would be clean and devastating.
Zavier had played with Layton for three years.
He knew every move the captain made. He knew when Layton was playing hockey and when he was playing something else entirely.
This was the something else.
The hit connected. Spencer went down hard, his face slamming into the ice. Zavier heard the crack of impact and felt it in his own teeth. The practice stopped. Everyone was watching.
Spencer lay there for a moment, motionless. Then he pushed himself up. Blood was streaming from his lip, dripping down his chin onto his jersey. He wiped his mouth with the back of his glove and looked at Layton.
He said nothing. He just skated to the bench and sat down.
Zavier felt something twist in his chest. It wasn't sympathy.
He didn't do sympathy. It was something harder and sharper and more uncomfortable.
He watched Spencer press a towel to his bleeding lip and stare at the ice like nothing had happened.
He watched the way Spencer's hands didn't shake.
He watched the way Spencer's face remained completely blank.
Drew Matthews was already at Spencer's side, talking to him, trying to make him feel better. Spencer nodded at whatever Drew was saying but didn't respond. He just sat there and bled and waited for the next drill.
Zavier skated to the faceoff circle and tried to focus on the game. He couldn't. His eyes kept drifting to the bench, to Spencer's still form, to the blood that was soaking through the towel.
Layton skated past him. "What are you looking at?"
Zavier didn't answer. He didn't trust himself to speak.
"Focus on the game, McCormick." Layton's voice was sharp and cold. "The new kid isn't your problem."
Zavier said, "He's a teammate. That makes him my problem."
Layton laughed. It was a hollow sound. "Since when do you care about teammates?"
Zavier turned to look at him. Layton was smirking. He was always smirking. It was the expression he wore when he knew he had the upper hand, when he was about to say something cruel and watch everyone else flinch.
Zavier didn't flinch. He never flinched.
It was the one thing he had learned from his father, the one lesson that had stuck through all the yelling and the fights and the nights spent hiding in his room.
You never flinched. You never showed weakness.
You stared down anyone who challenged you and you made them back down first.
"I care about winning," Zavier said. "I don't care about your ego."
Layton's smirk faltered. "My ego? You're the one who can't stand anyone being better than you."
"That's rich, coming from you."
The whistle blew and the scrimmage continued. Zavier skated away from Layton and tried to forget the conversation. He couldn't. He kept thinking about the blood on Spencer's face and the blank look in Spencer's eyes and the way Spencer had just gotten up and skated away like it was nothing.
It wasn't nothing. Zavier knew it wasn't nothing. He had seen enough hits to know when one was personal. Layton had targeted Spencer. He had meant to hurt him. He had meant to send a message.
The message was loud and clear: you don't belong here.
Zavier hated that message. He hated Layton for sending it. He hated himself for not stopping it.
The scrimmage ended. Everyone headed back to the locker room.
Zavier followed at the back of the group, his eyes scanning for Spencer.
He found him at the end of the row, sitting on his bench and slowly peeling off his gear.
His lip was swollen. His eye was starting to bruise.
He looked exhausted and beaten and completely unbroken.
Zavier sat down at his own locker and started pulling off his pads. He could hear Layton's voice on the other side of the room, loud and arrogant, telling some story about a goal he had scored. Everyone was laughing. Everyone was pretending the hit hadn't happened.
Spencer wasn't laughing. He wasn't doing anything. He was just sitting there, staring at his bloody jersey, his face unreadable.
Zavier stood up and walked over to him.
"You okay?"
Spencer looked up. His eyes were dark and flat. "I'm fine."
"Your lip is split."
"I noticed." Spencer pressed a fresh towel to his mouth. "I'll live."
Zavier didn't know what to say. He had never been good at this kind of thing. He was good at hitting people. He was good at intimidating people. He was good at being the one everyone was afraid of. He wasn't good at checking on injured teammates or offering comfort or saying the right thing.
He said, "He shouldn't have hit you like that."
Spencer shrugged. "It's hockey."
"It's bullshit." Zavier's voice was flat and hard. "He's trying to scare you. He's trying to make you quit. He does that to everyone he sees as a threat."
Spencer looked at him. "And what do you see me as?"
Zavier stared back. He saw talent. He saw courage. He saw something broken and beautiful and completely unafraid. He saw someone who had been hurt before and had learned to hide it so well that even the hurt itself seemed to have given up.
He said, "I don't know yet."
He walked out of the locker room before Spencer could respond.
The dining hall was crowded and loud. Zavier sat at a table in the corner, trying to eat his lunch in peace. He wasn't hungry. He was too busy thinking about Spencer's blank eyes and split lip and the way he had just accepted the hit like it was nothing.
Drew Matthews sat down across from him. "You okay, man? You look like someone killed your dog."
Zavier said, "I don't have a dog."
"That's not the point." Drew grabbed a fry off Zavier's tray. "You've been weird all day. Is it about the new kid?"
Zavier didn't answer.
"Because I get it. He's good. He's really good. And Layton's already got a problem with him. That's going to make things interesting."
"I don't care about Layton's problems."
"You care about something." Drew pointed at him with the fry. "I can tell. You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The look you get when you're thinking about something you don't want to think about." Drew shrugged. "I've known you for three years, Zavier. I know when you're hiding something."
Zavier said, "I'm not hiding anything."
"Sure you're not." Drew stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. "Just be careful, okay? Whatever it is you're not telling me, just be careful."
He walked away. Zavier stared at his tray and tried to figure out what he was feeling.
It was a familiar feeling, this tightness in his chest, this restless energy that wouldn't let him sit still.
He had felt it before. He had felt it when he was sixteen and he had realized he was looking at his best friend in a way that wasn't quite friendly.
He had felt it when he had started hooking up with guys in college towns where no one knew his name.
He had felt it every time he had to pretend to be someone he wasn't.
He didn't want to feel it again. He didn't want to think about the way Spencer's shoulders moved under his jersey. He didn't want to think about the way Spencer's voice had gone quiet and flat when he said he was fine. He didn't want to think about any of it.
He couldn't stop thinking about it.
Spencer walked into the dining hall. He was alone. His lip was still swollen. His eye was starting to darken. He looked around the room like he was searching for a place to sit, somewhere safe, somewhere out of the way.
Zavier watched him. He watched the way Spencer's eyes scanned the tables, the way he hesitated at the edge of the room, the way he finally spotted an empty table in the corner and started walking toward it.
Zavier's voice came out before he could stop it. "Maldonado."
Spencer stopped. He looked at Zavier. His expression was wary.
"Come sit here," Zavier said. His voice was gruff and uncomfortable. "You don't have to eat alone."
Spencer hesitated for a moment. Then he walked over and sat down across from Zavier.
"Thanks," Spencer said. His voice was quiet. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know." Zavier pushed his tray toward the center of the table. "You want some of this? I'm not going to eat it."
Spencer looked at the tray. There was a sandwich, some fruit, a container of yogurt. He was hungry. Zavier could tell. He was also too proud to admit it.
"Take it," Zavier said. "I'm not going to poison you."
Spencer grabbed the sandwich and took a bite. He ate like he was starving, like he hadn't had a proper meal in days. Zavier watched him and felt that twist in his chest again.
He said, "You've been here for three days. What have you been eating?"
"Protein bars. Whatever I could get from the vending machine." Spencer shrugged. "I didn't have the energy to come here."
"You didn't have the energy to eat?"
"I didn't have the energy to deal with people." Spencer's voice was flat. "I figured it was better to just stay in my room."
Zavier understood that better than he wanted to admit. He had spent most of his freshman year hiding in his room, avoiding parties and teammates and anyone who might ask too many questions. It was easier to be alone. It was safer.