I’ve never seen one of my teammates move so fast before.
One moment Aldridge is sitting quietly on the bench, face in his hands, the next he’s on Zollweg. The sound of breaking bones fills the air when his fist collides with Zollweg’s nose. A spray of blood lands on the pristine wall, the red droplets almost artsy on the white background.
For a moment everything falls silent. Then chaos erupts.
Zollweg screams. Aldridge screams. Everyone screams.
There are hands grabbing for both of them, guys shoving each other against lockers and onto benches.
“This is all your fault!” Elrod tells me, but Kristiansson already flips him off.
Aldridge is trying to fight the guys who are forcefully pulling him off Zollweg.
“I dare you to say that word one more time, fucker! I dare you!” he shouts over and over again. With all the mayhem unfolding, no one notices when the door swings open. It’s only when a sharp whistle rings in our ears that everything comes to an abrupt halt.
Coach is standing in the door frame, arms crossed over his chest.
“What is going on here?”
Nicko, March 29th
What follows must be the longest NCAA game in history. After Zollweg and Aldridge get taken to the hospital on separate rides for further treatment, the coaching staff rounds us all up for interviews.
I expect being thrown off the team for starting this mayhem—which, honestly, I couldn’t care less about. The whole time I’m waiting for it to be my turn, legs bouncing, insides cramping, my mind is with Xander. I wonder what’s going on inside the Bat’s locker room right now.
Did they also blame Xander for stepping off the ice?
After spending two weeks with them in the fall, I can’t really imagine it. Then again, I would have never expected Zollweg’s mind to harbor these kinds of thoughts. Just like I wouldn’t have expected Aldridge to smash his nose in for it. Aldridge, of all people. The one to trash talk me in front of my teammates and complain about every single one of my passes.
If there has to be a secret homophobe on every fucking team, why couldn’t it have been him? I feel ashamed when the thought worms its way into my head.
My talk with Coach starts with a lot of silence. It’s not the harsh and uncomfortable sort, but actually kind of nice—a break from the war zone my mind has become over the last few hours. Most of the guys have already been in here, so I probably don’t have much to add. Or maybe I do—depending on whether they decided to be truthful.
Coach offers me a cup of coffee and a protein bar from the vending machine. I’m grateful for both.
“I want to start with an apology to you, Nicholas,” he tells me after a long moment.
I cough in surprise, quickly clapping a hand over my mouth so I won’t spray him with coffee.
“For what?” I croak out, taking the napkin he scoots across the table.
“I am the Head Coach. Captain of this ship, if you will. If behavior is poor, leadership is to blame.”
“No!” I cry out. “It’s not...I mean, we all didn’t know…or maybe didn’t want to know…?”
“Didn’t want to know?”
“About...that he...that Zollweg thought like that.”
“You liked Zollweg, yes? He's a good teammate? A good captain?”
I blink at this abrupt change of topic, my answer coming in the form of a hesitant nod. Obviously not after what happened earlier, but when I think back beyond the day the Bats made it into the regionals...yes. I did like him. Which makes me hate myself right now.
“It's always worse when the good ones show their true colors. We wish every asshole would be a Resnikoff. A bully on the ice. A dirty player,” he explains, his Bulgarian accent coming through thicker than usual. It takes me a moment to realize he’s referring toTheResnikoff. Enforcer of the Rebels, until that leaked clip before McCoy’s Pride Night.
Coach waits until I've caught on before leaning back in his chair with a sigh, hands folded on his stomach.
“But sometimes they are Jamesons. Good guys, popular. Real nice. Hurts more when you’ve been to their house, sat on their couch, met their wife and children. Then they turn out to be homophobic. Or racist. Or…” he frowns for a moment. “Or a women-hater. Hurts more because you thought you knew this guy, right? You’re friends. And then time goes by,” he lifts a hand, waving it in the air, “one week, two weeks, a month, a year...and you think of little things. Things you thought were jokes, yes? Things you ignored on purpose maybe. And you think to yourself: No, he has not suddenly turned into a homophobe. He was always a homophobe. I just did not want to see it because I liked other sides of him.”
