My stick tightens in my hands.
First period.
We come out hard. Rhys at center, me on the right, the game plan Fitch drilled into us all week running exactly the way it was drawn up. The first few shifts are clean — fast, physical, both teams feeling each other out. Their defensive structure is what we expected. Their goalie is better than film suggested.
Rhys wins his first three faceoffs. Muscle memory. The icebeing the one place it doesn't reach him. I start to think he's going to be okay. Then Marcus lines up across from him at the faceoff dot.
They're two feet apart.
I watch Rhys's jaw tick. Watch him stare at the ice in front of him and not look up. Watch the effort of that not looking — the complete stillness of someone who is refusing to be present in their own body because present means feeling what's six inches away. Remembering everything you tried to bury.
The ref drops the puck.
Rhys wins it.
I take the pass and move it up and the shift goes the way it's supposed to go and I tell myself again that he's going to be okay.
Second period.
We're down one — a power play goal in the last minute of the first that shouldn't have happened. The bench is tight. Fitch is controlled the way that means he's furious. Rhys comes off a shift and sits beside me on the bench and he's breathing hard and his eyes are somewhere I can't reach.
"You good?" I ask.
He doesn't answer.
He's too busy watching the ice, so I follow his gaze.
Marcus is talking to their bench, laughing at something, perfectly at ease in the way of someone who knows this rink is his. He looks up and finds Rhys on the bench and holds it for a second.
Rhys looks away first.
I've been watching Marcus all night. The way he plays. Clean, controlled, exactly as good as his reputation. The way he keeps drifting, putting himself into Rhys's orbit without making it obvious — their lines don't match up often but when they do he's always there. Always close. Always with those eyes thatsay too much.
I know what Marcus is doing.
He's reminding Rhys he exists.
Like he forgot. Like Eldridge and the loneliness and the shower weren't enough to make his presence felt, as if he needs to be right here, right now, on this ice, making sure Rhys knows he's watching.
The rage is very quiet. Very cold.
Eight minutes into the second period Marcus gets on the ice the same shift as Rhys. I watch it happen. They're behind the play, a loose puck battle along the boards, and Marcus comes in and instead of going for the puck he goes for Rhys. Not a hit. Something else. Something that looks incidental and isn't — his body against Rhys's, his mouth moving, close enough that only Rhys can hear it.
I stop moving.
Rhys goes rigid.
Then he shoves Marcus off him. Hard. Both hands flat against his chest. Not a hockey play. A get the fuck away from me.
The ref calls it.
Minor penalty. Rhys to the box.
He glances at me. Just once. And I don't know what he sees on my face but he looks away fast.
I make the decision in that moment.
Not a complicated one. Not weighed against career and scholarship and future and everything my father taught me about what matters and what doesn't. Not argued over or reasoned through.
