Page 31 of King of the Crease

Nick: I’d like that.

Nick: Night, Hank.

I lay across my couch on my stomach and gaze at our text conversation. My cheeks are sore from smiling this much, the deafening silence muted for now.

In the locker room, Bill puts on a 2000s mix to get us into game mode. Rihanna’s “SOS” blasts from the speakers. Some guys do a little dance as they get suited up, while others are focused and seem to block out the music.

Nick sits on the bench, changing into his gear, his face absolutely white.

“Hey, pal.” I rub his shoulder. “Don’t be nervous.”

“I don’t think one can choose to not be nervous.”

“Yes you can. It’s all mental.”

“Don’t be nervous,” Des says as he puts on his jersey. “The future of this team is merely riding on your shoulders, Nick. No pressure.”

“Des, now is not the time for sarcasm.” Derek punches him on the shoulder. “You’re going to do great out there,” he tells Nick.

“Just think, no matter what happens, in a few hours, we’ll be drinking beers and laughing about it,” Tanner says. I can always rely on him to say something nice. Sarcasm is not in his blood. How he wound up falling for Des is still a mystery. Love is strange.

“We got your back.” Mitch gives Nick a wink of support. I don’t think I’m cool enough to pull off the wink.

“We got your back, but also, don’t fuck up,” says Bill.

“That’s Bill being supportive,” I whisper.

Nick cracks a slight smile. Something about his full lips make me want to keep staring.

“We’ve been practicing. He’s really good. He’s a natural. He has goalie hips,” I tell Bill.

“I’m going to use the bathroom one more time before I’m fully in my gear,” Nick says.

“Smart.” I nod.

Once he goes, I notice that Bill continues to stare—borderline glare—at me.

“What? Do I have food in my teeth?” I ask.

“You sure he can keep up?” Bill takes the empty spot on the bench. He dials back his sternness a notch.

“Yes. And Bill, try to remember that this isn’t the NHL. We’re here to have fun.”

“I know that. I do have some self-awareness,” he says. He scratches at his beard. “But I hope this guy doesn’t completely wipe out on the ice. It’ll be mortifying for him. He could quit on the spot.”

“Shit.” Nick could be so bad out there that he’ll never want to return. He’ll want to forget this whole thing happened. He’ll never want to see any of us again.

A lump grows in my throat.

“We’ll do our best to keep the puck away from him,” Bill says. He stands up when Nick returns. He bangs his fist (lovingly) on Nick’s helmet and returns to his cubby.

“Whatever happens, Nick, just do your best and have fun. Let’s do a quick breathing exercise to get calm. I’ve seen guys do this. We should try it.” I turn to straddle the bench and face Nick. He does the same. “Inhale. Exhale. Deep breaths. Visualize blocking goals, stopping the puck.”

Nick’s chest lifts and lowers with each breath. His eyes close, lips pout with breath. I open one eye and watch him, watch the calm come over his face.

His beautiful face.

What would it feel like to run a hand over his neatly trimmed beard? To feel it burn against my cheeks as we kiss?