Page 1 of Shattered On Ice

One

Westin

Iset a large order of hot wings on the counter with a sigh, my scabbed knuckles catching my attention. I flex my fingers, the skin stretching just shy of cracking with the movement. The injury is nearly healed days after our devastating loss to Edmonton, but Colin McDermott’s helmet gave me a souvenir to take home, since we wouldn't be taking home the Stanley Cup. I shake my hand, trying to disperse the bad memories along with it. He’d been a mouthy motherfucker and deserved the hits I’d given him in the third period when tempers were high, and tension was stretched thinner than the ice we skated on.

I yank open the fridge a little too hard to put the veggies and bleu cheese dressing away. So maybe I’m not entirely over the sting of the loss. This is one reason why I’m opening my house for a “Fuck Those Guys” party, as I’m calling it. Having a few of my teammates over to let off some steam before we all go our separate ways for the summer off-season sounds way better than nursing a beer in my bitterness, with my father’s gruff voice in my head replaying everything I could have done differently one more night.

I look around the kitchen with its gray hand towels and dishes in the sink, and shrug. The guys won’t care if it’s perfect. As long as I have food and beer, they’ll be fine—unlike when that last buzzer sounded right after McDermott scored, and we knew we’d lost. The defeat was crushing. Seeing that same pain mirrored on my teammates' faces made it really fucking hard to focus on the positives, like getting to the finals in our first year as a team. We all trooped to the locker room in strained silence until the volatile tension finally broke with Chad’s stick snapping against the bench as he swung it with a roar. That set Campbell off, throwing his helmet at the wall with a string of expletives as more of us burst into foul-tempered fits and cursing of the Edmonton team. But it was useless for us to rage, so it didn’t last long. We left the arena a subdued bunch, trying to ignore the raucous partying of the fans in Edmonton as we traveled to the airport to fly home.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, forcing my attention back to the present as I fish it out to scan the group chat, checking if anyone needs directions or my address again.

Ryder: I’m bringing Knox. You can’t stop me. Where I go, he goes, even if it’s a hockey party and Hydras’ better halves weren’t specified.

Finally, some good news to perk me up as I read the text. I like Knox. He and Ryder had a difficult start, with Ryder being the worst kind of idiot for the majority of the season. They eventually made things work, and now they’re both out and proud, with Knox at games cheering Ryder on. A lightning bolt of envy forks through me, forcing me to suck in a steadying breath to counter the emotional weight that settles on my shoulders. It wasn't easy for either of them to come out, but now they get to live this beautiful life together. They’re facing everything life throws at them as a team rather than stuffing down their truths and feelings so they can fit into the mold they think they need to. Like me.

My phone buzzes again. I swallow the thick lump in my throat, knowing it won't do me any good to covet what my friends have. Their happily-ever-after isn’t in the cards for me. I learned a long time ago that my truth has to stay a secret to keep me safe. I have the scars to prove it. I absently run a finger along my jawline, feeling the telltale indentation that reminds me every time I look in the mirror that being out of the closet isn't in my game plan. I flip my phone over and read my texts.

Nico: Knox is cool as fuck, definitely bring him. He can sign a jersey for me. My pops would love that for his birthday.

I groan. This joker is going to embarrass all of us if he shows up with a jersey. I’m halfway through a text banning jerseys when another message comes in.

Rook: You can't ask him to sign a fucking jersey! How would you like it if someone shoved a jersey in your face when you were just hanging out with friends?

I snort out a laugh, deleting my half-formed message as I walk to the laundry room to change out the wash I started earlier. Rook said it, but I’m sure I can hammer the message home. Before I can chime in, Nico replies.

Nico: Isn’t that better than asking him to get an autograph from Sergio Mendes for my sister? That would actually make her a million times happier than my pops.

My mouth drops open, and I lean back against the washer as I read. Oh, shit. I can't believe he brought that up. There was some major drama with that Sergio guy before Ryder and Knox worked things out, and I don't think Ryder’s going to like Nico bringing it up now. I’m glued to my phone, trying to switch the wet clothes to the dryer with one hand as I monitor the chat. I don't need my friend group imploding over some stupid offhand comment.

Ryder: I will fucking end you if you mention that smiley fucker around Knox or me ever. I’m so pissed now. I don’t even wanna come over.

My stomach drops right along with the wet laundry that thuds back into the washer. I devote both hands to my phone to quickly fix the brewing confrontation between our grumpy goalie and our devious second-line defenseman before anyone’s feelings can get too hurt.

Westy: Ryder, I’ve already bought too many of those chicken wings you like from the Dirty Bird, so you have to show up. I promise Nico won’t ask Knox to sign anything, or we’ll all fuck him up for you. Nico, I swear to God, if you show up with a Condors jersey or even hint that you’re going to ask Knox for something and embarrass us, you’re getting towel-whipped all next season. Your ass is going to be so sore you won’t be able to sit on the bench between periods.

That should do it. Nico is probably just fucking with Ryder, anyway. I finish the load of laundry and turn on the dryer before heading back to the kitchen to get an ice pack for my knee. Just as I’m settling in, my phone buzzes again, and I cringe when reading the message from the biggest clown in our group.

Chad: Wait, wait, wait…you’re not suggesting butt stuff, right? Because I’m not signing up for that. Nico’s ass is his own. Ryder’s the only one who wants to give it, and I think he’s too busy with Knox to care about anyone else’s.

My jaw throbs painfully, my ears and cheeks burning at the thought that anyone could have taken what I said and thought it sounded even a little gay. I try really hard not to give myself away, and this is too close for comfort. What the actual fuck, man? Before I can try to explain myself out of any gay allegations, two messages come through quickly with successive vibrations.

*Campbell LeRoux has left the group chat*

*Nico Torres has added Campbell LeRoux to the group chat*

Campbell: Goddammit, guys!

Nico: If I have to deal with this trash talk, then you do too, Soupy.

Relief courses through me, seeing how not serious these fucking guys are and how easily that little butt stuff comment was dismissed. But now I have to contend with a disagreeable defenseman who barely tolerates us as it is. Campbell may be difficult, but he’s part of the team, and we’ve all decided to endure his prickly personality. Still, he hates Rook, and Rook is my best friend, so he’s part of the package if he’s coming to my house.

A best friend. Who even has those as an adult? This lucky bastard, I guess.

Rook’s easy to be around. I gravitated toward him early on because he's funny, loyal, and a good time. He instantly stuck to me, and that was that. He became my travel buddy for away games, which gave us plenty of time to get to know each other—at least to the extent either of us is willing to divulge, which is way more on Rook’s part. He usually just says what he thinks, much to Campbell’s dismay. He’s generally pretty chill and happy, and he’s always up to grab a beer or just hang out to watch a game or one of my favorite rom-com movies when we don't feel like doing anything. He knows the most about me of any of my teammates, but he still doesn't know maybe the most important part—that I’m gay. Very few people do, and absolutely not anyone here in Atlanta, or the hockey world at large.

I tap out a conciliatory message, hoping to smooth things over in the group chat and not ruin the evening that we all need after that loss.

Westy: Ryder, please bring Knox. Nico, no asking the star football player to sign anything. Don’t make us look stupid. Chad, that was your one ass joke. Don't make it weird.