Page 38

W hether it’s the lack of bad energy, the fear of God - or Coach - Ryan’s expulsion inspired, dropping his sorry ass has lit a fuse in the rest of the team.

We’ve had three W’s from three games.

Brady’s handed us two shutouts.

I’ve scored another two hat-tricks and Thomas, the rookie that replaced Donnelly, is handing out assists like I’m laying kisses on Lotte, my girlfriend. The one everyone knows is mine and that may be coming to Florida with me.

In other words, that’s a shit- ton of assists.

Then, to top off what’s been a supreme month, I just took a call from Warren Cole, Coach of the Tampa Bay Storm. With Coach Harris’s blessing, he and some assistants are flying up to watch the last game before Christmas; the big fundraiser, the always epic Battle of Boston. Both have family in Boston, so it’s a kill two birds with one puck deal. The timing is perfect. Not only because I’m fucking killing it on the ice, but because I might be able sweet talk my way into another year at school. Lotte is still talking about coming to Florida with me, but if I can stay, she doesn’t have to uproot her life. Remaining in Boston also means she has to deal with Carole, and lurking in the back of my mind is a speck of doubt that this sudden urge for the sunshine state is about leaving him as much as it is staying with me.

We’re about to start another punishing practice, and as I take my place back on the blue line, giddiness, not normally a good thing when on the ice, replaces doubt. But I’ve just spotted Marty, who I’ve discovered was a goalie in his junior days, schooling Brady on prepping his precious crease without destroying it.

“Marty McFly!” I can hear him chuckle from here. He’s old so gets the 80‘s references. “You think playing The Battle on your ice is the big time. How about playing them on your ice in front of an NHL coach?”

He pauses. Eyes widening. “Which coach?”

“Warren Cole.”

The eyes pop further. “Boston’s own double Stanley cup, and Hart Memorial Trophy winning coach, that stabbed us in the back and went to Florida, Warren Cole.”

“Oh, you’ve heard of him?” As a lifelong B’s fan, Marty may well know more about Coach Cole, than Coach Cole’s own wife does. Doing nothing to dispel the weird goalie thing, he and Brady, who has appeared from nowhere, hold hands and jump in circles chanting, “Cole, Cole, Cole.”

“Just remember they’re coming to see me.” I remind, joining them net side. “And the big show we’re planning. Speaking of which, I hate to be a buzz kill, but did you hear anything back from the police yet?” The poor guy’s been stuck in purgatory for months.

“Nope,” Marty replies, his mood downgrading to sulky in a breath.

“Until they, and the insurance company, get their shit together, I can’t repair, clean, or remove anything from the Green Line and that includes photos and memorabilia. The few security cameras we had installed were damaged. They are working on restoring the footage, but it all takes time. I guess a run-down old rink that may never open again is pretty low on the list of priorities.”

In shock, my stick slips from my hand. “What do you mean it may never open again? Coach said it himself, Green Line is an institution. You have to reopen.”

“Institution or not, I was barely keeping the place afloat before it was trashed. Even if the insurance money comes through, I doubt any bank would finance an old man, and an old barn containing his even older dreams.” He pats me on the back, then does the same to Brady before skating to the other side of the rink, dropping training markers in place as he goes.

“Bro,” Brady sniffs, watching Marty in the distance. “We have to take this fundraiser up a notch. Jumping castles and fairy floss ain’t going to cut it.”

I know it’s not the point, but “What the fuck is fairy floss?”

Brady’s face screws up like it always does when I don’t get what he means - excuse me for speaking the correct version of English - and his hands spin in a circular motion, “You know, the pink, fluffy, spun sugary stuff on a stick you get at a carnival?”

“Oh. You mean Cotton Candy?”

“No, not cotton, bro, you eat it.”

“Yeah, it’s called cotton candy, dick. You eat cotton candy.”

“Why would you call it cotton candy? It’s sugar and enough artificial coloring to kill an elephant, not material.”

“Why would you call it fairy floss?” I counter, not all getting a little feisty. “Is it spinning out of a fairy’s ass?”

Whistles start blaring in the background, and Coach’s booming voice fills the arena. “For the love of fuck. No one gives a fuck what it is, so shut the hell up and move!”

Neither of us wants to concede, so we reluctantly separate and promise to prove the other wrong once we’re within reach of Google. The remainder of practice is spent stink-eyeing, racing, and slamming each other into the boards at every possible opportunity. The competition between us was so fun by the time we hit the showers, sweaty, smelling and exhausted, I’ve forgotten why I was shitty in the first place. I do have another idea for Marty’s event though.

“Maybe we could have a series of duels. Coaches Vs players. They love boasting about how brilliant their skills were in the day. Let ’em prove it.”

Brady’s face lights up, which has been a rarity of late. “Oh! Since your new coach is coming, why don’t we ask him? And maybe him and Marty might know some other old farts that might be up for it.”

“Yes. Done.” A hearty high five , while Coach screaming for us to get moving ends the conversation.

Steam wafts and chirps over the size of my hockey butt fly, as I exit the showers with a smile I just can’t seem to wipe. Can’t say the same for Brades. He’s hunched over his phone again, and even with only an inch or two of forehead visible, I can see he’s red as Cory Michelvich’s latest pair of superhero boxers. Spiderman’s been given the ass, pardon the pun, this time it’s Superman covering his cheeks.

My attention leaves the comic book hero and my stomach twists. BU had a game last night and Troye Becker scored twice. I only need one guess to know what has Brady so hot under the collar.

“Bro, Becker send you another photo?”

“Two,” he huffs without looking from the screen. “I don’t get why he keeps fucking with me. He’s already got Quinn.”

Sitting beside him, I give him the standard bro nudge. “Quinn may be with him but it’s obvious to me that she’s into you, too. If I can see that, maybe he can as well.” An eyebrow arch is all the response I get. “Have you tried talking to him about it? Or Quinn? Maybe she can—”

“No.” Brady slams his phone down onto his bench with splintering force. “Quinn doesn’t get involved. This fucked up game, whatever it is, is between me and him. Or him and himself. Fucked if I know.” Once again, he buries his head in his hands and folds forward till his upper body is parallel to the floor. “Can we please just forget about it and talk about the fundraiser? Please?”

“Sure thing, Brades. Whatever you need.”

Via Shane, the perfect distraction, alcohol is offered up before I can get anything else out. “Classes are done. Practice is done. It’s time to get some drinking done, fool.” He’s standing on the bench opposite us, naked as the day he was born.

“Put some fucking clothes on, Menzies,” Brady begs, “I’m not even looking, and I know you’re naked and feel like I’m going to puke.”

“Whatever dude.” Shane jeers, rotating his hips till his dick spins like a propeller, “I know you want it.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” This time, the phone does smash, crushed beneath size 17Nikesas Brady leaps to his feet. No one has time to react. Shane, who only just reaches6ft, is in Brady’s grasp and much like his dick was swinging seconds ago, now it’s his feet waving through the air. And this time, Coach isn’t here to stop it.

Looks like it’s up to me.

Tugging and yanking at Brady’s arm does nothing so I end up with my own wrapped around his neck, my forearm wedged beneath his chin. “Dude he didn’t mean anything. He was just playing. Chill.” It takes way too long but eventually he yields to the pleas of his team. With a grunt, he releases his hold, tears streaming down his face as he storms from the room bare chested.

“What the fuck was that?” Shane, who is probably Brady’s closest friend after me, asks, rubbing at the swollen red welts circling his throat, his rasping voice barely audible.

Breaking up the throng of bodies soaking up the drama, I pull him to his feet and tell the team to head to O’Reilly’s. “We’ll catch up soon. I promise.” Once sure we’re alone, I turn to Shane. He’s a hard man on the ice, but still visibly shaken.

“I’m going to tell you something, and you need to swear that you’ll keep it to yourself.”

“I think he’s fucked my vocal chords. Who am I telling?” I pass Shane my water bottle and wait till he’s recovered before taking a seat in the cubby opposite him.

“I don’t know for sure, it’s just a hunch based on little things I’ve noticed here and there, but there’s a chance that Brady may be bi, or pan or whatever.”

Shane observes me blankly, before coughing. “Ah, duh.”

“Duh?”

“Yeah, duh. As in, thanks for pointing out the obvious, Boy Wonder.”

I lean back against the timber wall, banging my head on a hook. “You knew?”

“Of course I knew. Everybody knows. He’s followed you around like a puppy with heart eyes since the day he arrived. Haven’t you noticed?”

“Me?” I squeal, “you think Brady’s into—”

“You. Yes. Or at least he was.” Shane stops rubbing his neck and strokes the pathetic excuse for a goatee covering his chin, the way he always does when he has to think too hard. “Quinn and that Becker kid seem to have made it a three-way tie.”

Now I’m stunned. “And everyone knows?”

“Anyone with eyes and half a brain.”

“And is that why you were about loving dick in his face?”

“No, dork. That was because I’m an asshole who’d say that to anyone, gay, straight, bi. Besides, my twin brother Corey is pan. I don’t give a fuck who Basse is fucking … as long as it’s not Corey … oh and he’s blocking goals.”