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“Good catch,” Nico murmurs. He’s beside me, so close his shoulder brushes mine. I want to lean into him so badly.
“Thanks.”
“Anthony.”
I look at him. There is a small cut on his jaw where he must have nicked himself shaving this morning. His light brown hair shines under the artificial light of the rink. I hope he doesn’t have a headache, and the fact that the thought popped into my mind at all makes me grind my teeth.
“I wanted to talk to you about the possibility of Corwin Sanhover coming next week.”
This effectively grabs my attention. My immediate reaction is a loud, resounding no. I feel protective of Corwin, but also of this thing between Nico and I. “Uhm, yeah, I mean, I can ask.”
Nico gives me a look that says he knows I won’t ask. He doesn’t look pissed, but contemplative. Like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. I hope he lets me know, if he does. Corwindidoffer to donate his time—if I texted him right now I can almost guarantee he’d tell me to name the date and time, and he’d be here. I heave a sigh, running a hand over my jaw.
“Sorry. I don’t have to ask him. He’ll come help out, just let me know what day you want him.”
“Alright,” Nico says, slowly, discerning hazel eyes on mine. “Let’s talk about it later. At my place.”
“I don’t know that I’ve got it in me tonight.” The words leave my mouth before my brain can catch up. They’re true, but only partially. I don’t know that I’ve got it in me to do my dance with Nico tonight, but I know for a fact that I don’t have it in me to go home alone. “I’m sorry, Nico. I haven’t been sleeping great and I’m feeling it today.”
“Alright,” Nico reiterates, and he moves a tad closer, fingers brushing across my knuckles. “You don’t have to come over. I know you’ve had some late nights, we don’t have to—."
“No,” I interrupt, because I’d rather go sleepless for a week then miss a single night with Nico, “I don’t know why I said that. I’ll be over, like usual. Promise I’ll be in a better mood, too.”
I try for a smile, but it must fall short because his eyes narrow. He repeats his new favorite word: “Alright.”
“Alright,” I shoot back, along with another fake smile. Pushing off, I move toward Morgan and Vasel. Checking my watch, I see we’ve still got another half hour of practice—plenty of time to get my head on straight before I go to Nico’s.
Nico
Anthony isn’t the only one who appears to be having a bad day. Avery seems to have picked up an attitude somewhere along the way, and is apparently determined to take it out on the team. Biting back a sigh, as well as some colorful and inappropriate language, I skate over to where he is yelling at a pair of defensemen.
“What’s the problem?” I ask. I keep my tone mild on purpose, but both players look a little frightened, like they expect me to lay into them the way he is.
“Weren’t you watching?” Avery asks, and I raise my eyebrows at him. “Sloppy. If they play like that in a game, they’ll be leaving the netminder completely undefended.”
Perplexed, I stare at him a second longer, waiting for him to realize who’s actually at fault here. I don’t want to correct my assistant coach in front of the team, but needs must. “I was watching, and you’re right: in agame, play like that is what gives the other team scoring opportunities.”
Avery looks elated, evidently under the impression that I’m on his side.
“But this is practice, and I’d rather have sloppy play here—where it can be ironed out—than during the regular season.” Avery flushes. I look toward my defensemen. “Pritchard, I’d like to try you with the centers for next week. You’ve got a strong wrist shot and we can capitalize on that. Jost, I’m rotating you in with some of my junior and senior defensemen, mix the old blood with the new.”
Both boys look mollified by this, though they shoot furtive glances at Avery as they skate off hastily. Beside me, Averyseems to be working himself into a state, face becoming more and more red. He looks like a kettle that’s coming to boil.
“What was that all about?” I ask, tone sharp. “And don’t tell me it was because they made a silly mistake during training camp, because that is, frankly, ridiculous. Everyone is making mistakes, that’s why they’re here forpractice.”
Avery’s mouth opens and closes several times, giving his best impression of a fish. “You need to have a talk with Lawson.”
“I—what?” This throws me. Not only is it seemingly random, but Avery and Anthony are both fairly affable; I’ve yet to see them exchange anything more than pleasant words.
“He’s not part of the coaching staff. I’m his superior and I expect to be treated with the correct level of respect.”
I’m not sure I’d say Myles Avery is superior to Anthony in any sense, but this isn’t the time to air that opinion. “What happened?”
“He undermined me in front of Morgan.”
A sharp pain stabs my temples as I blow out a hard breath. Perhaps I’m biased, but none of this sounds like Anthony. He offers an opinion, and isn’t afraid to take charge during practice, but respect has never been an issue. I can’t see it being an issue today, no matter what Avery thinks.
“I’ll have a chat with him.”
