He waits.
"How did you end up here at Harlow?”
The tendon in his throat jumps. Gone fast.
Nobody knows why he transferred. That’s the thing about Rhys nobody says out loud even though everyone thinks it. You don't just leave Eldridge. You don't walk away from the best collegiate hockey program in the state right before the start of your senior year — when you were probably next in line for captain — unless something went very wrong.
We give him space because that's what you do. But we all wonder. I can’t help but be curious about it, too. What could he have possibly run away from? What could be that bad? I just can’t imagine giving up an opportunity like that.
"Program fit," he says. Easy. Practiced. Like I expected. Like he’s said a hundred times. He looks at the ice instead of me this time.
"Okay," I say, casually, and skate past him.
He glances over like he was expecting me to push and I didn't and he doesn't know what to do with that. We skate a full lap in silence. The ice beneath us. The hum of the lights above. The cold air flowing between our bodies as we go.
"It's got a really good chemistry program," he says eventually. His voice barely a whisper. "After Eldridge I needed — somewhere better. For both things."
I nod. Again, I don't push.
He looks at me sideways like he's trying to figure out why I'm still not trying to get more out of him. "You're really not going to ask," he says.
"Nope."
"Why?"
"Because you said what you wanted to say."
He's quiet for a long moment. "Huh," he muses.
"What?"
"Nothing." He shakes his head slightly. "Nothing, you're just — never mind."
He passes me a puck and I take it. We run a sequence. Then another. The timing between us clicking into place the way it has been lately, easy and almost involuntary, like our bodies have figured out how to play together even while the rest of us is still working on it.
"Ask me something else," he repeats.
"I just asked you something." I shoot him an exasperated look.
"So ask another one. I’m serious." He holds his arms out. "We’re supposed to be bonding, right? Ask me anything."
I think about the thing I've been looking at since September.
“Why do you have puck face on your knuckles? Is it a joke, like fuck face?” He looks at me like I've said something unexpected and chuckles.
"My uncle used to say it," he says. His voice shifts. Settles into something more honest, more genuine. "When I was little. Every time I stepped on the ice. Like — put your puck face on. Means get serious. Get in it." He drops his hand. "He died when I was fifteen. And he’s the one who got me into all of this, so."
I look at him, but he’s still looking at the ice. Jaw set in that way he has that means something is real and he's deciding how real to let it be. I can see it happening. The instinct to pull back. To close the door before I accidentally see too much.
So again, I don't push.
"Good man?" I ask instead.
He looks up so fast I know I got it right.
"Yeah," he says, relieved. "Really good man."
We skate another lap in silence. Shoulder to shoulder. Closer than before. The cold between us doing nothing to remove the pull of the warmth of Rhys’ body so close to mine.
