Even though he tries to hide it, I see the flash of hurt. “Then let’s practice stopping—and turns. And when you’ve mastered those, we’ll do some drills.”
I match the forced lightness of his tone. “Drills? You’re going to make me work?”
He shrugs. “Yep. You’ll learn what it’s like to be a hockey player,andyou’ll be a better skater.”
We spend some time with me practicing stops—and falling, because apparently that’s part of the process—and I try not to dwell on that hurt. On the fact that I caused it. On how much I hate myself for it.
Felix has shared a lot of deeply personal stuff with me, some of it because of an enforcement report, some of it because until recently he was at the mercy of his hormones. I didn’t exactly present myself as a caring and supportive person, and yet he still took the risk of telling me things I’m sure he’d rather have kept private. Now, especially, he shares more than that with me. We spend a lot of time together, and not just sexually, though that’s a big part of it. For the past week, we’ve been together most nights—eating, talking, fucking, sleeping. And mornings—sleepy wake-up sex, shared bathroom routines, idle chatter over breakfast. That’s not nothing. It’s not unreasonable for him to expect me to give him something of myself.
But I can’t.
I can’t give him anything more than I already am. He can have my body, and I’ll gladly worship him with it. He can have my thoughts and feelings about work; everything I’m legally allowed to tell him, I will. He can have my friends—some of themwere already his, anyway. If he wants to know about the elvish bond with growing things, I’ll talk until my tongue falls off and show him my magic until I drain myself dry. I’ll pet and cuddle him in both of his forms, I’ll watch him play hockey—fuck, I’ll even learn to play myself. I’ll do everything I can to interest elves and dragons in this sport he loves.
But that’s all. I can’t offer more than that. I can’t tell him where I came from or how I spent my youth. When he talks about his family and his childish foibles, I can’t match them with mine. I can’t tell him why, unlike so many of my people with our long, long lives, I will never change my field of work. I can’t tell him why I’ll always be loyal to Raðulfr, regardless of whether he’s king or not, in this life and my next.
I can’t tell him why my smiles are infrequent. I can’t tell him why happiness is something for other people, not me. I can’t tell him about my penance.
I can’t plan a future with him, no matter how much the desire for it burns inside me. But I can’t ever tell him why.
Because if I do—if I tell him any of it, if he knows the truth—he’ll hate me. I might have grown beyond the person who did those things, but they’re still the foundation of me. Someone as soul-deep beautiful as Felix could never love a person whose foundation is so rotten.
I’ve always known I was destined for a life alone. That any connections I make will be fleeting. I’ve accepted it as part of my penance, and though it hurts, my soul will be stronger for it. But I couldn’t survive the pain of having Felix hate me.
So instead, I’ll slowly but surely push him away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Felix
This year,dressing for our first official game of the season brings me a deep joy it never has before. Not long ago, I almost lost this, and now I’m more firmly entrenched in this team and my career than I ever have been. Even better, this season, we might actually have a chance at not being the worst team.
Given that our league only has four teams, it’s a real statement of how shitty we’ve been that we’re always dead last. We get to the playoffs—because only four teams—and we’re always last there too. It’s pretty much a running joke in the league, but our fans are still hopeful, because when there’s only four teams, it’s supposedly a lot easier to come back from a “rough patch.”
This year, though, I think it might be possible for us to deserve our playoffs spot—maybe even win. Practice has been different from how it used to be. Coach Locke is focused on our skills development and drilling plays, not on how hard we can hit and whether we can cause chaos on the ice. We’re doing better as individual players, but more importantly, we’re playing better together as a team, and our lines are working cohesively.
The impact that’s had on the attitude in the room is huge. The mood is better overall, and I think I could actually like someof the guys who I’d previously written off as meathead goons. We were all suffering under Franks’s leadership, it seems.
I’m willing to take a lot of blame for how bad my relationships with my teammates had gotten. Or at least, I’m willing to blame my hormones for it. I can totally see how being thumped with a hockey stick, my fists, and/or any blunt object I might be able to lay hands on would make a person not like me. Some of the guys will never be able to let that go, and I get it. But the others have seen the difference in me lately, have seen how focused I am and how much better I connect with them, and they’re ready to give me another shot.
It helps that they’re not as phenomenally stupid as I always thought. Well… not all of them. Locke is slowly weeding out the guys who were just here for their muscle and violent tendencies and replacing them with some smart, eager rookies and a couple of experienced, steady beer league veterans. We don’t have a draft in our league. If you’ve played in a rec or school league, you get scouted and offered a contract, or you register for an open tryout. The problem with that is that most of the players with great talent avoid the Warhammers as if we’re riddled by plague. After all, who wants to join a team that’s not only famous for losing, but also for being a toxic mess?
That’s all changing now.
“You ready?” Gline asks. It’s a little hard to hear him with his mouth so far away from me, seeing as he’s currently holding a handstand position and has been for the past five minutes. Impressive—guy’s got incredible core strength and stability—but also… what’s the point? He’s gotta play a full sixty minutes in net soon. Why’s he wasting energy doing this? Not to mention, that’s a lot of blood rushing to the brain.
I guess some things are only meant to be understood by goalies.
“I’m ready,” I say confidently. “The Morningstars are in for a surprise tonight.”
“Yeah!” Vitter yells, surprising us both. Gline even wobbles slightly before regaining his composure—and balance. Vitter pumps his fist in the air. “We’re gonna shock thepointsoff ’em.” He grins at my confused expression. “Get it? Points instead of pants, because we’re gonna get the points for winning tonight.”
I’m not sure what surprises me more, that Vitter has a sense of humor, that it’s a bad one, or that he’s joking around with me like we’re old buddies. It doesn’t suck, though.
“Got it.” I hold my fist up for him to bump. “Good one, bruh.”
“You’re pretty cool, ya know,” he tells me as he bumps. “At first I thought you weren’t, and I hadta tell my sis she was wrong about you.”
“How was she wrong?” Gline asks curiously. I wait for the answer, because what?
