He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.
I peel my socks off and take the t-shirt off, slowly, careful of the shoulder. I lie down on top of the comforter in my boxers and stare at the ceiling. I need to find myself a mask for Saturday so that no one can see my face.
Friday’s game runs a lot smoother. I play clean. I don’t pick a fight with anyone. I don’t chase a hit I don’t have. I read the rush. I make the pass. I pick up an assist in the second off a clean exit, and Stanley buries it from the slot, and on the bench after, he leans into my good shoulder and saysattaboy, baby Blue.
We lose 3-2.
In the room after, Benson catches my eye across the stalls. He nods. I nod back.
The flight home’s quiet. Stanley sleeps with his mouth open like a man who has been drugged. Percy reads a paperback. Rowan ices his quad. Benson doesn’t talk to me for the entire flight.
I’m in my room by midnight, wondering what kind of hell tomorrow is going to be. Benson already mentioned in passing that we’re dressing up the house for Halloween.
Saturday morning, the kitchen is loud at nine.
I come downstairs in a hoodie and sweats, and the kitchen is already full. Lucy is at the island with a stack of orange and black streamers and tape. Gianna is at the counter in leggings, a coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. Percy is at the stove with two pitchers, a saucepan, and a bag of cranberries open on the counter.
“Golding,” Rowan calls out. “You look like a man who got hit by a truck.”
“Played one.”
Gianna grins at me and slides a coffee mug to me. I take it.
“Pers,” I call out after taking a sip. It’s hot as hell. “What are you making? It smells like fucking Christmas in here.”
“Mango-free punch. Two batches. One spiked, one not. I labeled them.”
He gestures with the wooden spoon at two index cards leaning against the pitchers. One says Punch (Fun). The other says Punch (Boring).
Lucy, without looking up from her streamers, says, “Thank you, Percy.”
“You’re welcome.”
Stanley is in the living room staring at a pile of string lights.
“Stan,” I say as I walk over.
“Don’t talk to me.”
I look down at what he’s looking at. “You good?”
“I’m at war.”
“With?”
“The lights, Blue. With the lights.”
“It’s a mess.”
“I’m aware.”
I leave him to it.
Benson comes down the stairs behind me with his own coffee. He claps my back on the way past.
“Morning. You’re on decorations with me.”
And I thought I was off the hook.
