Clay didn’t say a word. That was a tell. That guy liked to fill every silence as if it were a personal mission. But now he’d gone completely mute, and that silence was louder than anything Dominic could spit at me.
They wanted me to start swinging.
One punch was all it would take to hand the coach the excuse to kick me off the roster, and then these assholes could coast through the tournament without ever having to prove they deserved their ice time.
I almost laughed, but the sound caught in my throat. They’d been dodging their own mediocrity all season, and now they were hoping I’d do the heavy lifting and take myself off the team for them.
I dumped my skates and bag on a bench far away from Clay and Dominic. Across the aisle near me, Perez slapped his stall bench twice and jerked his chin at the empty seat beside him.
“Get over here before you do something stupid.”
I didn’t move. Dominic was still watching, waiting for a reason. Meanwhile, I was thinking that the concrete wall near his head would’ve made a satisfying crack.
Perez snapped his fingers. “Hey. Sit. Now.”
With a grunt, I snatched up my skates and bag and dropped onto the bench next to him. I then took a moment to brace my elbows on my knees and stared down at the floor tiles.
“You looked about two seconds from putting Dominic through a locker,” Perez said. He didn’t look at me. His focus stayed glued to his stick, wrapping black tape around the blade.
“He’s got a face made for putting through drywall.”
Perez snorted. “Yeah, well, you swing and Corby benches you. Then we’re all down our best defenseman right before ourkey game.” He ripped the tape free with his teeth and smoothed the edge flat. “And I didn’t bust my ass covering your shifts for two weeks just to watch you hand that asshole exactly what he wants.”
I straightened up and grabbed my own roll of tape from the bag. “I’m keeping my gloves on.”
“Good. Keep them on,” Perez said. He pointed the butt end of his stick at my chest. “If you get tossed, you screw us all. Not just you.”
Across the aisle, Karter sat silently at his stall bench, bent forward over his skates. I watched him as he pulled the laces tight.
When he lifted his head a moment later, those hazel-green eyes cut straight to me. He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just held my gaze long enough to ground me, then dropped his attention back to his gear.
This had become our routine now—stay distant around the team, but close behind closed doors.
Even from here, I could see that his hands looked as if they were bruised dark purple, the skin split across two fingers. They looked like he’d blocked a slapshot with his bare hands, which was exactly the kind of stupid, fearless thing he’d do without thinking twice.
Pianist’s hands.That’s what his mother called them. He’d told me that once, late at night in the attic, sounding almost embarrassed about it. But I’d seen him take a puck off the wrist in the third period and keep skating.
Further down, Elliot had taken a spot at the center stall, already half-geared up and working a roll of white tape over his shin pads. He didn’t look at either of us.
Crossing the aisle over to Karter would have been so easy. Just a quick word, a brush of the shoulder to let him know I was solid. But the legacy guys were still watching, and they would becataloging every step I took toward him, building ammunition to use against us. So I stayed planted on my stall bench and cranked the tape around my hockey stick instead.
Fifteen minutes later, the coaches’ office door banged open hard enough to rattle the wall.
Coach Corby stepped into the center of the room and planted his feet on the rubber mat like he was bracing for a faceoff. No clipboard. No pacing. Just a slow scan across every player at every stall.
I glanced over and noticed how Elliot straightened up on his bench. He didn’t say anything, but he caught my eye for half a second, then shifted his attention to the rest of the room.
“I’m not gonna give you kids a speech,” Corby said.
Clay let out a short laugh and leaned back against the lockers. “Thank God, Coach. Was worried you’d make us hold hands and sing Kumbaya.”
Corby turned on him. “Enough, Clay.”
Clay spread his hands. “Just saying, Coach. Morale’s a little shot. It’s hard to rally when we’ve got guys in here who don’t belong.”
“Enough,” Corby repeated, but now his tone hardened. He looked over at me. “Guys who don’t belong?” He then looked back at Clay. “You mean the guy who cleared your crease six times against State? That guy?”
Clay’s mouth opened, but Corby cut him off with a single raised finger.
