Page 66 of Line Change

Pope’s head comes up.

The room gets loud enough to bury Bobby. Someone asks Pope when he started feeding strays, and one of the rookies tries to invite himself over while two other conversations start on top of them.

“I was already cooking,” Pope says.

He bends over his bag. The muscles across his back stay tight under his T-shirt while the jokes move on to the logo across my chest.

Caleb finally reminds us we have ten minutes, which gets Bobby back to his stall without stopping his threats against the shirt. Even the two guys coming in late take time to give me shit about the teal before sitting down.

Pope stays bent over his skates until nobody is looking at us anymore, and I hate how long it takes his shoulders to loosen.

The room already knows I’m bi. If Bobby had guessed that Pope and I get each other off, the jokes would’ve lasted a week, probably less, but Pope tensed as soon as Bobby said I slept there and hasn’t relaxed since.

The taste of coffee is still in my mouth, and the back of my neck tingles again where his thumb rubbed. I don’t understand why their assumption matters this much to him or why it makes me so angry.

Pope glances over. “What?”

I pull the Miami shirt over my head. “Nothing.”

He holds out one hand. “Give me that.”

“After practice.”

I stuff it behind my street clothes and drag on my base layer while guys finish taping sticks and clatter toward the hall. Bobby bangs his stick against the doorway and tells everyone they’re slow.

Pope finishes first, and I grab my stick to follow him to the rink.

Gunderson blows the whistle as I step over the boards, and Pope wins the opening faceoff clean. The puck comes through two sticks into the patch of ice I’m crossing.

I catch it in stride and drive the net.

My shot catches Anton’s pad. Bobby puts the rebound wide, then complains about the pass while we circle back.

The next whistle goes. Pope leans over the dot again and points his blade toward open ice. I set my feet on his right, ready to move when the puck drops.

19

NOLAN

Winning in Miami feels better than it should.

The home crowd spends the last minute booing every time we touch the puck, which only makes our bench louder. When the horn goes, Bobby throws both arms around me and nearly knocks my helmet off. I grab Pope on the way to the goalie, pulling him into the pile before he can hang back.

He gives me one hard squeeze around the ribs, then somebody crashes into us from the other side and we’re swallowed by gloves and helmets.

The win follows us into the visitors’ room. Music goes on before everyone gets his skates off, and somebody knocks a roll of tape across the wet floor trying to dance in half his gear. Bobby is shouting over the speaker about the third-period penalty he absolutely deserved. Sindre throws a towel at him from two stalls away. He’s played every game on this trip, his first since Nara and the team doctor cleared him, and he hasn’t stopped grinning.

I feel fucking great.

Pope should too. He spent most of the night getting booed by people who used to cheer for him, then helped us beat them anyway. He sits at his stall with his shoulder pads still on and his phone in one hand, quieter than he’s been after any win on this trip.

The screen lights. He reads whatever came in, types something, then locks it and sets it facedown on the bench.

Less than a minute later, he checks it again.

I look away and catch the roll of tape with my skate before it reaches the showers. Whatever Pope is doing is none of my business.

Maybe one of his old teammates is making plans, or some woman he used to see knows he’s back in town and wants to pick up where they left off.