Izzy shrugs. “You can Venmo me later.” I watch her hit the Purchase button. “It’s a good seat. You’ll be able to see if he blinks behind the mask.”
“Guys, I know I shouldn’t leave you like this.” My heart is hammering. “I’ve got a bar full of people. Scully’s wrist is in a brace. This is?—”
“I’ll tend bar,” Izzy interrupts. She’s already moving behind it, tying on her apron with zero hesitation. “I know the register. I know enough.”
“And I’ll carry drinks,” Fregular adds, puffing up his chest. “How hard can it be? I got good hands!”
“You’ve literally never won a game of pool,” I point out.
Izzy's already pouring someone a pint of beer. “We’ll be fine. And if we’re not, we’ll lie about it later.”
I look at Scully, my last chance at reason.
He doesn’t even flinch. Just smiles. “You going to worry about the bar, or are you going to go support your guy?”
Ouch. “I think I already fucked this up. It’ll be an hour before I can even get there. Maybe he doesn’t even want me there.”
Everyone in earshot groans.
Scully grabs my shoulder with his good hand. “This is your moment, Forest. Are you going to stand behind the bar and let it pass? Or are you going to go show him you actually care?”
I don’t move.
He leans in, quiet now. “It’s now or never, man. Why is this so hard for you? I know you care about him just as much as you care about this bar. Maybe even more.”
My eyes travel to the screen, where Beck is already settling into the crease in front of ten thousand spectators. “I do care. I always have. But he’s so…” My voice is gravel. “He’s a fucking shooting star. And I’m trivia night and drink specials.”
“Stop it, dumbass,” Scully says. “He’s a grown man. He knows his favorite flavor, and you’re it. So get the fuck out of here. You’re ruining a very romantic moment for me.”
Then he gives me a shove.
And I do it. I go.
Forty
Feels Like My Fault
Beck
The tunnel smells like rubber and nerves. My nerves, specifically.
I’m carrying my helmet in one hand and a towel in the other, trying not to look like I’m spiraling. Even though I am. A little.
The first period went okay. One goal. Just one. It was a weird bounce off a deflection—guy fired it from the point, it tipped off our D-man’s skate, and fluttered in like a sad little pigeon.
Not a highlight-reel goal, and not exactly my fault it went in.
Doesn’t matter. It feels like my fault, because that’s how this works.
Clay Powers pulls me aside just before we go back out. He’s calm, which helps. He’s always calm. He’s got that thing head coaches have—like he could guide a sinking ship to shore just by narrowing his eyes.
“Talk more,” he says, looking me right in the face. “That’s the only note I’ve got for you right now.”
I blink. “Okay?”
“You’re seeing everything out there,” he says. “Your reads are sharp. Positioning’s great. But these guys don’t know you yet. They need to hear you. Doesn’t matter if you’re the new guy. Call out screens, call out rebounds, call out the back door. Doesn’t have to be poetry.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “You know what to do, and you’re doing it. So now let them hear you doing it.”
“Okay,” I say. “Yeah.”
