Page 11 of Line Change

I turn. “I wasn’t talking to him.”

“Just about him.” Fraser reaches for his water bottle.

“It was an observation.”

“Right. Taking notes for the children.” He keeps his eyes on the ice.

I lower my voice. “I said half a second. I didn’t call him an idiot.”

“Very generous of you.”

The sponsor from poker night flashes into my head, laughing about me being hired to babysit Fraser. Fraser had gone still beside me. I get it now, but not enough to let this go.

I shift toward him. “Do you have a problem with what I said?”

“I have a problem with you sitting there like you were hired to explain hockey to the rest of us.”

“I was talking about one play.” I’m speaking through my teeth now.

“Sure.” Fraser pushes to his feet as Gunderson calls our line.

On the next shift, he stays low in our zone after I expect him to break. My pass slides into empty space. Their defenseman gets there first, and Fraser and I end up chasing the same man while the trailer comes through the middle untouched.

Anton stops the shot. I coast toward Fraser with my jaw clenched. “You changed your route.”

“Thought you wanted the winger lower.”

He did it on purpose. “I wasn’t talking about you.”

“You usually are.”

We spend the rest of the shift out of sync. I put the puck outside when he cuts in. He covers for me when I don’t need him to and leaves Bobby with nowhere to go.

On the bench, our shoulders collide. Neither of us moves.

“Do you listen to anything before you decide to get pissed off?” I ask.

Fraser grabs his water bottle. “Do you say anything that isn’t a correction?”

He squirts water into his mouth. A drop runs along his jaw. My eyes follow it, and suddenly I have steam in my lungs and my cock stirring inside my gear.

I look at the ice. “We were playing well. Why would I correct you?”

“You tell me. You’re the expert.”

Gunderson sends us back out. We play like shit until Fraser steals the puck at center and looks at me.

It lasts less than a second. Long enough.

He drives wide. I go through the middle. One defender follows him, the other steps toward me, and Fraser sends the puck between them without looking. It lands on my stick exactly where it should.

The goalie gets enough of my shot to send it behind the net. Fraser takes a hit to move the puck, and I collect it at the half wall.

We cycle for almost a minute, each of us knowing where the other is going. We make five men chase us until they can barely stand.

Back on the bench, Fraser is flushed and breathing hard. So am I.

“That was better,” I say. “Keep that route.”