Chapter 3 #2
I didn't think about it. That's just how it worked.
"Loosen your grip," I told Heath during the water break. "You're choking your stick. Let it breathe."
Heath looked down at his white knuckles. "Sorry. Everyone's watching."
"Not really. Desrosiers is watching his own reflection. Hog's mentally composing a new knitting project, and the camera guy's doing his camera thing."
"Is it always like... this?" he whispered. "All of it?"
"This? Oh, no. This is calm. Sometimes Jake sets things on fire."
Heath's eyes opened wider. "Accidentally?"
"Mostly."
He blinked, trying to absorb the information.
"Come on," I said. "Next drill. Skate like you're trying to impress someone who's not looking."
Heath frowned. "That doesn't make any sense."
"It makes perfect sense. You're trying to show off, but also pretending you're not. Casual excellence. Accidental competence."
"You care if people notice."
"The character doesn't care. I'm playing a character. The character is a guy who's effortlessly good at hockey and not spiraling about anything."
Heath stared at me.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
The question caught me off guard. No one had asked me that recently.
"I'm weird today," I admitted. "But that's pretty normal."
"The other guys said you were..." He trailed off, rethinking his word choice.
"A disaster? A feral Muppet with the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel?"
"They said you were the heart of the team."
I blinked.
"They—what?"
"Hog said it. When I first got here. He said you were loud and weird and kind of a disaster, but you were the heart of this team, and I should watch how you treat people." Heath shrugged. "So I'm watching."
Something cracked open in my chest—not painfully, but like a window being pushed up. Fresh air rushing in.
"Well," I said, "don't watch too close. You'll see all the duct tape holding everything together."
A real smile spread across Heath's face.
"I think that's the point," he said.
Coach's whistle saved me from having to respond. We skated back to our positions. Heath's passes were still a little off, but something in his shoulders had loosened.
I'd done that.
The realization sat weird in my stomach—unfamiliar, like wearing someone else's jersey. I was used to being the one who needed steadying. Being on the other side of it was like standing on freshly Zambonied ice.
It wasn't bad.
Practice ended the way it always did—Coach's whistle, chirping, and a slow migration toward the locker room.
I should have been part of that migration. Instead, I sat on the bench, slowly unlacing my skates.
Adrian hadn't left yet.
He stood by the boards near center ice, camera lowered, scrolling through images. He was doing whatever documentary people did when they weren't actively making you worry about every move.
I pulled at a lace—slowly.
This is creepy, the rational part of my brain observed. You're watching him like a stalker who's bad at stalking.
I kept watching anyway.
And then Hog walked back out.
He'd already been in the locker room, but now he was crossing the rubber mats toward the ice with purpose in his stride.
Toward Adrian.
My fingers froze on my laces.
They spoke.
I couldn't hear the words. It was only a low murmur of voices, but I watched it all.
Hog's head tilted toward me. Adrian's gaze followed.
For one terrifying moment, he looked directly at me.
I dropped my eyes to my laces. Yanked at one so hard the knot tightened instead of loosening.
When I risked another glance, they were still talking. Hog's arms had crossed over his chest—not aggressive, but firm. It was the stance of a man saying something important and making sure it landed.
Adrian said something back. Short. His body language was careful, almost formal.
Hog studied him for a long moment.
Then he said something else—just a few words—and the air between them changed. Whatever Hog had said, it wasn't small talk about camera angles.
It was a warning.
I knew it the way I knew when a hit was coming on the ice.
Adrian nodded. Once. Tight.
Hog turned and walked back toward the tunnel, passing me on the bench without a word. He rested a heavy hand on my right shoulder—brief, warm, there and gone.
I watched him disappear into the locker room.
When I looked back at Adrian, he was watching me.
Not filming. Looking. His camera hung at his side, forgotten.
We stared at each other across the empty ice.
Adrian looked away first.
He gathered his equipment and headed for the exit without glancing back. His footsteps echoed in the empty rink—steady, measured, retreating.
I sat on the bench for a long time after he was gone.
The locker room was half-empty by the time I made it inside. I dropped onto the bench and started stripping off gear, piece by piece, until I was just a sweaty guy in compression shorts surrounded by hockey gear.
Hog sat on the bench beside me, showered and dressed, smelling like the pine soap he bulk-ordered.
"Good practice."
"Was it? I feel like I spent most of it falling on my face and communing with machinery."
"You were good with the kid."
Right. Heath.
I'd almost forgotten about Heath, which was absurd because I'd spent half the practice with him. My brain had decided to allocate all available memory to Adrian's hands keeping me from falling, and that thing Hog said to Adrian that I couldn't hear.
"He's nervous," I said. "First time up. I remember what that was like."
"Mmm." Hog's gaze assessed me. "Just don't overwhelm him."
"Overwhelm who?"
"The new kid."
I grinned, seizing the opening. "Which one? Heath or the camera guy?"
One of Hog's eyebrows rose. Slowly. Danger level: medium-high.
"Either," he said.
I waited for him to elaborate and explain what he meant. Maybe he would tell me what he said to Adrian.
He didn't.
He clapped me on the shoulder—the same spot he'd touched on the bench—and headed for the door.
"Get some sleep, Pickle. Game tomorrow."
"Yes, Dad," I called after him.
He flipped me off without turning around.
I sat there, staring at the grain of the wooden bench between my knees.
Don't overwhelm the new kid.
He meant Heath. Obviously, he meant Heath.
That was what Hog meant.
I grabbed my towel and headed for the showers.
The water was too hot—I turned it that way on purpose, letting it scald until my skin went pink and my thoughts went blurry. Steam filled the stall. I closed my eyes.
Adrian's hand on my elbow.
You okay?
He'd looked at me across the ice after Hog walked away. That complicated expression I couldn't read.
I pressed my forehead against the wet tile.
You're fine, I told myself. This is a normal reaction to a completely normal amount of physical contact and professional interaction. You are not developing a catastrophic crush on a documentary filmmaker who's going to leave in three days and probably thinks you're an amusing disaster.
The hot water ran down my back.
Tomorrow there was a game. Adrian would be there, filming. I would be on the ice, doing my job, being the kind of player people remembered for the right reasons.
I turned off the water and stood there, dripping, listening to the pipes settle.