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I’ve got Morgan again today, and try my best to focus on him as he runs through more single-player drills. He’s got thehang of it, and there really isn’t a need to keep working him one-on-one. I need a forward. Snagging Avery as he skates by, writing god only knows what on his clipboard, I tip my head toward Morgan.
“I need a forward to work with him, so that we can do some shooting drills.” I’ve got one in mind, but don’t want to step on any toes. Avery nods.
“Trust Fund ready to cut the umbilical yet?”
Frowning, I look from him to Nico, on the other side of the rink. Wasn’t he told not to use that damn name? Unfortunately for Avery, I’m not feeling my best and today is not the day to test my tolerance.
“Don’t call him that,” I snap, and Avery’s eyes widen in surprise. “He can’t help who his family is, and he doesn’t need to be reminded of it here. Call him by his name or nothing at all.”
The look I get after this little speech is cutting. Avery, easy-going, unargumentative Avery, looks like I slapped him. I wonder if he’ll complain to Nico, and how that conversation might go. Technically, Avery is above me in the chain of command seeing as I’m just the temporary help. Judging by the look on his face, he’s thinking the same thing.
Morgan skates over, possibly sniffing out the tension. If Avery calls him Trust Fund to his face, I’m going to throttle his skinny little neck. “What’s up, Tony?”
“Nothing’s up, go back to your crease and keep working,” Avery tells him.
My eyebrows rise at his waspish tone, and I can see the ire rise in Morgan’s hard blue eyes. He looks at me and I give a shallow nod.
“Fine,” Avery says, tightly, once Morgan skates off. “You can have Vasel.”
He thinks he’s giving me the weakest shooter on the team; the joke’s on him. I try not to look too pleased when he calls forthe young man to join us. Morgan raises a gloved hand in Vasel’s direction, which is an unexpected surprise. Morgan is as friendly as a pit viper—a wave is the nicest gesture I’ve ever seen from him. If he ever truly smiles, I’ll drop dead of shock.
“Good afternoon, Coach Lawson. How are we today?” Vasel says, in his soft German accent.
“Hey, Vas.” My bad mood recedes slightly. He talks like a classic novelist. “We are fine today, thank you for asking. You ready to take some shots on my goalie?”
“Yes, Coach, whatever you like.”
I wave Morgan in. “Alright. Middle out butterfly drill. Vas, you’re shooting for the five-hole; Morgan, you’ll start at a post, T-push to the top of the crease and Vas will shoot low once your feet are set. You need to focus on dropping into a clean butterfly position with little to no motion in the stick hand. Deflect the puck to one side, and then follow it to the post on the same side.”
Before they skate off, Vas taps his stick on Morgan’s leg pads, and Morgan offers a glove for a fist bump. I almost cheer in delight. If nothing else is accomplished this summer, please let me at least leave Carter Morgan with a fucking friend.
Feeding Vasel pucks, I lose myself in the comfortable monotony of practice. For the first time all summer, I feel a stab of longing for my own team and my own practice. I want to dress out and take my place between the pipes; take a few bullets from Troy and give Corwin a hard time.Christ, I’m in a rotten fucking mood.
“How’re they doing?”
Nico’s voice intrudes, adding another layer of shit to my already chaotic head. I desperately need some sleep. “Good.”
He eyes me sideways, noting the tone, which says things my response didn’t. “And you?”
“Fine.”
His eyes narrow. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or are we going to keep playing this game?”
“You love games, though, right? You and all your rules.”
His eyebrows wing up, almost comically. “This isn’t the time or the place, Anthony.”
“Nice shot, Vas,” I call, skating forward and ignoring Nico. It burns me how much I like him; I like him so fucking much I hate him. Morgan scoops the puck out of the net, sending it over to me in a gentle slide. He’s lifted his mask, grabbing the water bottle on the top of the net and squirting some into his mouth. Vasel waits patiently. “You tired, Morgan?”
“Nah, Tony, I’m good,” He calls, fixing his helmet back in place. Vasel looks over at me, wide-eyed and scandalized that Morgan used my first name and didn’t attach an honorific to it. I feed the puck to him, keeping my eyes on Morgan. I don’t have to look to know Nico is still behind me.
“Anthony.”
“Vas,” I call, still ignoring Nico but realizing something. I’ve been watching the young forward play, wondering exactly what’s bothering me, like an un-scratchable itch in the back of my brain, “switch sticks with me.”
Skating up to him, I hold out the one I’ve been using during practice. It’s several inches longer than his own. Because he’s an agreeable sort of fellow, he doesn’t argue the way Morgan might have. He takes the stick, passing me his own.
“Humor me,” I request, sliding backward toward Nico. Coming to a halt several feet in front of him, I cross my arms and watch the boys. After running through the drill several times, I can already see a difference.
