Instead he just says, "It doesn’t fucking matter to you anyway."
The words hit like a punch.
I move first or maybe he does. All I know is suddenly we're grabbing each other’s jerseys and somebody's yelling and the whistle won't stop blowing.
"HEY!" Coach Fitch's voice cracks across the ice and strong hands grip my front. We get pulled apart, but we’re still staring at each other, still furious. Fitch looks ready to murder both of us. "What the hell is wrong with you two? I thought that was over with."
Nobody answers. Then Rhys looks away first, looking dejected and guilty. "My fault, Coach."
Fitch frowns. "What?"
"My fault, I’m good now. Let's get back to practice." Rhys shrugs. Still doesn’t look at me. The fight leaves him all at once, like somebody pulled a plug and it went right down the drain.
When we’re done with practice we shower separately, as far as humanly possible, and I keep my eyes forward and when I leave the rink I don’t look back. But I keep thinking about how he didn't say anything. How he took the blame.
I hate that he thinks I don't care.
????????
The game the next night is something else entirely.
From the drop of the puck it’s different — tighter, faster, the kind of game that reminds you why you fell in love with hockey in the first place. Our rivals come out hard and it doesn’t matter because we come out harder. Rhys is at center this time and he’s everywhere, reading plays before they develop, winning board battles, making the pass instead of forcing the shot. Every time I feed him the puck something good happens. Every time he passes to me I’m already where I’m supposed to be.
Ben is locked in behind us in a way I haven’t seen all season — stopping shots that have no business being stopped, controlling his crease, talking to his defensemen. Cooper and Kowalski are solid in front of him. Bryce is flying on the right wing. We score twice in the first period and once more in the second and their offense can’t find a way through because we’re communicating, actually working as a team, the way Fitch has been trying to get us to do since September.
The final buzzer goes and the bench erupts.
The locker room is the best I’ve ever seen it. Fitch whistles sharp enough to cut through the noise and everyone settles down, still buzzing, still grinning.
“I wanted to quit last week,” he announces. “Hated all of you. Especially you.” He points at Kowalski, who has never done anything wrong in his life and accepts this with dignity. “But tonight.” He looks around the room. “Tonight you showed me something. You pulled it together. And I’m proud.” He pauses, and Fitch pausing for effect means high praise. “Our two strongest players came together tonight and it showed in every single one of you. Nash. Callahan. Stand up.”
Someone in the back yells:Kiss!
The room dissolves.
I feel the heat hit my face before I can stop it.
It’s the way we joke around here ever since Rhys joined, but itstill makes me embarrassed. Rhys beside me is grinning and I refuse to look at him directly because I know exactly what expression is on his face and I don’t need that right now.
Fitch sighs from the depth of his soul. “Animals. Every last one of you. Go celebrate. No kissing.” He points at the room generally. “I mean it.” The complaints are immediate and loud, joined with boos.
Kowalski materializes at my shoulder, jersey still soaked, smiling wider than I’ve seen him smile all season. “Bar that doesn’t ID anyone so we’re all going this time,” he says. “You in or what?”
I wrap an arm around his shoulder. “Fuck yeah.”
????????
The bar is exactly what a bar called The Rusty Blade deserves to be — rock posters and peeling stools and a pool table that’s seen thirty years of abuse. It smells like old beer and cigarettes and questionable decisions and it is absolutely packed. I love it. It’s a great distraction from the constant roaring in my ears lately. I push through to the bar, find the least interested bartender I have ever encountered in my life, and order a tequila shot.
Then I have a better idea.
“Rhys is buying everyone shots!” I announce to about nobody and everybody. The cheer is immediate. I feel the glare from somewhere across the room and I search until I find him — by the jukebox, expression exactly what I expected — and I lift the shot Bartender Greg just slid me in his direction. He takes it as an invitation because of course he does.
By the time he’s shouldered his way through the crowd to where I’m standing we’re pressed together by the sheer density of people around us and he leans close enough that I can feel his breath near my ear. “Get drunk with me,” he says. “As a thank you for the tab I’m about to run up.” His hand settles on my back. Moving once. Rubbing higher and higher. Like he has a right to.
I remove it. “No touching.”
“Right. Sorry. Touching is bad.” He winks and catches the bartender’s eye with the ease of someone who has never once in his life had trouble getting a bartender’s attention and orders without asking me. To my dismay, the bartender is suddenly interested in doing his job and very enthusiastic about serving Rhys. Great.
