Page 18

Chapter 18

Olli

Was going to the Ice Out the stupidest thing I’ve ever done?

Well, okay. In the grand scheme of my life, probably not , but in the shorter timeline of my career . . . kinda, yeah. I roll over in my too-large full-sized bed for the millionth time.

If I’d gotten hurt, that would have sucked .

I’ll be honest, it was kind of terrifying. Exhilarating too, in a way even beyond hockey. I don’t wanna say it was life and death, but if Nat—sorry, Forty-Seven —hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t paid someone to put me on his team, I’d probably be in a hospital bed instead of tangled in my own sheets fighting off adrenaline.

Seriously, though. It’s like I did a bunch of espresso shots instead of running sprints up and down my street after the game.

I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

Was it the high-octane thrill that’s got me tripping? Or my offer to the crowd? Or maybe it was what happened after that, with the world’s most beautiful man pinning me to a wall?

I swear, he was gonna kiss me.

Or maybe it’s the fact that in a few hours I’ll have to lead my new team in our first home game together. In a stadium I pretty much expect to be empty.

We gravitate towards the darkness reflected inside of us. Or so I told Nat. That was the basis for my gamble—that if I could show people topside games aren’t so different from their dark duets, maybe they’d follow me to the light.

Guess we’ll see.

I give up on sleep. Climb from bed to greet the day.

Naturally, I’m the first to arrive at the rink, where in a handful of hours I’ll be playing my first home game in Day River.

Good.

I turn the stereo to my preferred pre-game tunes—metal, of course, from my PreGame AwesomeSauce playlist—and run through some Mom-inspired sun salutations.

Metal and yoga? Mom would have an aneurysm.

That woman is the absolute definition of a hippie, I tell you. Yoga at sunrise, green smoothies, clogs, all-natural deodorant, compost pile on the deck of her apartment . . . You name it.

But I’m still breathing to the movement, to the beat. To the flow of my body. Forcing my mind to steady, to calm. So it’s her voice I imagine leading me through the vinyasa flow— breathe innnnnnn and follllddddddd . . .

But when I close my eyes, focus on the expansion and collapse of my chest as I breathe, it’s not my mother I see. It’s Nat, the boy at the bar. Backwards hat, tattooed hands and wrists and throat. The man in the locker room, his mouth pressed into a scowl.

I exhale, curve my body into a downward dog.

The kid on the ice, helmet and gloves, grinning at me as he saucers a pass across the ice.

The man behind the mask, faceless, slinging those same passes. Finding me across the ice, like we’ve been playing together all our lives.

What a team we made.

I launch my legs upwards, over my head, into a handstand. Hold the position, hands shifting to keep me balanced. Hold . . . hold.

The way we read each other, just like we did at drop-in . . .

Doesn’t matter .

Time to stop thinking about Nat Taylor and start thinking about the upcoming game. To focus on the here and now—this moment. Not any of the ones ahead, certainly not anything behind.

Here. Now.

“Yo, James!” The voice accompanies the smack of the door hitting the wall, and I flip over from my handstand as a small barrage of hockey players enters the room.

Shoot. Here we go. If the Ice Out’s already reached Syd and social media, surely—

“What’s this noise?” Andy Everton follows Charlie in, locs swinging free around his shoulders. “This isn’t Dispatch—”

“Dude, we do not listen to Dispatch before hockey games.” Charlie slides into his cubby. “It’s Nickelback .”

I scurry to stand in front of the radio before anybody gets any fresh ideas. “Captain’s Law, boys. Children of Bodom is the obvious pre-game choice.”

But really, I’m exhaling a slow sigh of relief. Seems like skating with a team of transplants and out-of-towners is actually working in my favor right now. None of them is apparently up to date on the latest Ice Out drama.

God, do they even know about the Ice Out?

Well, the way Charlie’s staring at me, I figure he knows. And everybody else is gonna hear about it sooner or later, right, but I would kind of like to get through the game before I get crucified. I ain’t ready to fess up just yet.

“This isn’t even singing!” Everton throws his hands into the air.

“I support it.” Paul Devereaux plops into his cubby beside Charlie. “Let the men scream.”

“Fans’ll be doing it soon enough,” I say, easing back from the radio a few inches. I tilt my hips against the table that holds it.

Everton’s mouth turns down in a scowl, uncharacteristic for his normally cheery face. “I mean, if anybody shows.”

Please, let them —

The door bangs open again, and Coach Douglas marches in, murder written across his face.

Well, crap.

I plop down in my cubby so hard my tailbone sings. It's about to go down , and I’m not gonna like it.

“So.” Coach paces into the room, stops in the middle. Turns a slow, dramatic circle to look each of us in the eye. “How many of you know what the Ice Out is?”

Nobody speaks. Couple of guys shuffle their feet, or look at each other or the ceiling. Everton rocks back and forth, and Skyler picks at his fingernails.

So, they do know what the Ice Out is. Do they know about what happened there—about what I did?

“The Ice Out is bullshit,” Coach says, his voice taking on a dangerously low tone. “Just going there is fucking career suicide. But skating in it? Telling people who you fucking are ?”

He’s glaring around the room again, and more eyes drop, unable to meet his burning stare.

His gaze falls on me. And I know. I know he knows. And it's about to get ugly.

We’re better than that cheap hack shit, James.

My teeth clench together, and I stand. “You know it was me, Coach.”

His jaw clenches, over and over, and I can almost hear him asking, How could you? I trusted you . . . You’re supposed to be the role model, the ringer I brought in to save the team, not drag it through the mud . . .

The door clicks open a third time, and Nat Taylor strides in.

He looks the same as he ever does—faded jeans with the beginnings of a hole in one knee, black T-shirt hidden by a leather jacket, backwards cap with his dark hair peeking out the bottom.

His eyes, of course, go right to me, standing in the middle of the locker room, having just confessed my deadliest of sins .

There’s something off about his expression, though. Takes me a minute before it hits me: his mouth isn’t quite so downturned and scowly as usual.

His eyes slide towards Coach, and when he speaks, his words are soft. “There’s already people in the stands.”

“What?” Charlie asks. “The hell’s that mean?”

“Means we might actually have fans tonight.” Nat’s eyes flick towards me for the briefest instant. “They all want to know where the Ice Out comes in.”

So then we’re all staring at him , Coach included, and I’m standing in the middle of the locker room like the big buffoon I am. Also staring. And this time it’s not even because I think he’s the hottest man alive. Well, it’s partly that. Fifty-fifty.

“I guess it makes sense.” Charlie’s low voice shatters the quiet. “Has anybody looked at social media lately? It’s all people around here are talking about. Dingoes at the Ice Out.”

“Damn,” Nat murmurs, and his gaze falls to me again. “It’s working.”

My hands are shaking. The awareness comes in a jolt. My damned hands are shaking at my sides. My heart is a drum inside my skull, my breaths are too shallow, and my hands are shaking .

Coach stares at me, the muscles in his jaw working overtime as he grinds his teeth. Clearly he has no idea what to make of any of it.

So I clear my throat, drawing the eyes of every single person in the room. My throat is way too dry—why is it so dry?—so I clear it again and then that makes it worse, so I kinda cough, and then I sound like I’m sick and my God I’m spiraling so hard right now, why am I spiraling so hard—

Get it together, Olli.

“The Ice Out gets like ten times as many fans.” My voice comes out strangled at first, but nobody interrupts, so I gain speed and confidence. “It’s got the town’s support. And to be perfectly honest, I get it. We’re all out-of-towners who see this team as a stepping stone to better things. We don’t care, so why should they?”

They all stare, but still nobody’s talking or protesting or interrupting. So I keep going. “I’m just trying to show them that we care—that there is no them and us .”

More staring. Has everybody here lost the capacity for speech or what? So Olli the Bigmouth keeps on yapping away. What else is new?

“The Dingoes are Day River, as much as the Ice Out is. If we can show them that, people will care about our games.”

And maybe we will too , I don’t say. Maybe we’ll actually win some games and people will stick around .

Everybody’s still looking at me, and I am kind of starting to wish the ground would open wide and swallow me whole or something. Surely burning in hell is more fun than this?

“Honestly.” Nat’s deep voice pulls all the gazes away from me. “He’s right.”

So then Coach is staring at him, and the relief makes me heady, almost dizzy. Shoot, I didn’t realize how intense that was. The moment extends far past what’s comfortable, like there’s some kind of unspoken exchange that passes between Coach and Nat.

It feels like a dang standoff.

But Coach has known Nat longer than he’s known me, maybe a very long time, and I’d guess there’s some level of understanding there. Because finally, he sighs. The tension leaks out of his shoulders and the lines of his face.

“Do whatever it is you do before a game,” he says with a huff, and he turns. Brushes past Nat. Storms out the door.

Which I guess leaves me in charge. Time to once again pry my head out of my ass and focus on the here and now. The factors we can control.

I plaster on a wide grin and take up my captain’s mantle. “We ready for this game?”

“Elks suck,” says Everton, his mouth relaxing into half a smile. “Like, a lot.”

“Yeah, but so do we.” Charlie leans out of his locker to shove Everton. “Especially you. ”

“Elks do actually suck.” I cross my arms, ’cause maybe that makes me look more captainly. “I played them a couple weeks ago, with the Rays. They’re chippy, and they get worse when they’re losing.”

“They are dead last in the western conference,” Devereaux notes.

Course, that’ll just make a loss that much more embarrassing, but still. I’m determined not to let that happen, Ice Out shenaniganery or not.

“They get worse when they’re away, too,” I add, keeping my voice lofty. “They’ve got good home team support. They don’t like when the crowd’s against them.”

“Which it won’t be,” Charlie mumbles, but his gaze fixes on me with a particular intensity. Was he there, last night, watching my little show?

“Maybe, maybe not.” I shrug. “But we’re still the home team, so let’s not forget it.”

“Damn straight!” says Everton, and I offer him a grateful smile.

“All right, enough yapping.” I clap my hands, all Captain James and whatnot. “Let’s get out there for some warm-ups.”

We buckle down to change into our drylands clothes—matching Dingoes-branded shorts and T-shirts—and I turn towards the door. Nat’s gone. Fair, if disappointing.

But, head on straight.

I lead the team through warm-ups—jogs, sprints, some stretches. Coach pops in for some gameplay review. Bores half the team with video replays of Elks games—hey, look, there’s Olli James, out there with the Rays!—and tells us to keep our heads out of our asses, our hits clean, yadda yadda yadda.

And then we’re dressing.

Good.

I need to lose myself to the familiarity, the rhythm. Need to feel my gear against my skin, my fingers on the laces, smell the cool of the air and the fermentation of sweat.

I slide into my cubby seat. Around me, the locker room dissolves into its normal pre-ice chaos. Just like every team I’ve ever played with, that’s familiar too. As is the rough scrape of Velcro as I pull on my shorts. The softness of socks and stiffness of pants.

Beyond our door, the low hum of the Zamboni tells me Nat Taylor’s out on the ice, and that is something new to fixate on that I shouldn’t fixate on.

I shouldn’t be thinking about how good we were out on that ice last night.

I need to stop remembering how it felt after, standing so close to him. Inhaling hints of spicy-sweet cologne and cigarettes.

I tug my laces so hard the cloth might have burned my fingers if they weren’t so callused.

I need to stay focused . Concentrate on here and now, on the breath in my lungs and the fingers on my laces, the team around me. Someone’s switched the stereo to Nickelback’s “Rock Star”—okay I can’t actually hate Charlie for that.

The door creaks, and my head swings automatically as Nat slides in. The lines of his face hang slack with shock. “It’s a huge crowd out there.”

Nerves swoop in my stomach, like butterflies taking flight. Damn.

It’s working.

“Jerseys!” One of the assistant coaches nudges in behind Nat to shove a pile of jerseys into his hands. “Ethan’ll be back in soon.”

I velcro my shoulder pads on as Nat moves around the locker room distributing our game sweaters. When he’s emptied his hands of all but one shirt, he arrives at my side.

“Number Eleven. And here I thought you’d be Twenty-Three.”

So much meaning behind those words. I take the jersey, glimpsing my last name on the back above the blocky numbers. “I owe you a thank you.”

“No.” He plops down in the vacant cubby beside mine. “Not yet you don’t.”

I tug my jersey over my shouldies. “You saved my ass in here, so thank you . It’s my job to save it out there.”

“Are you going to unmask?”

My stomach clenches, but my voice stays light. “I ain’t saying crap. Keep ’em guessing. Comparing notes. Taking bets.”

His brows lift, and his mouth curves into a smile. A real, genuine smile. “You know, I think you might be a genius.”

“Genius is definitely a stretch.” I unfurl a cocky grin to hide how those gut butterflies start turning aerial somersaults. “ Marketing major at U Maine is probably an apter term.”

He chuckles, and my butterflies start flipping doubletime. Why does his laugh make me feel like that?

“Well, I’m gonna go find a seat before there’s none left. Which would be a first in a long, long time.” He holds out his fist, and I tap my knuckles against his. “Good luck, Eleven.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me a fluttery mess with a dopey grin plastered across my face. Hopefully the rest of the team’s too busy to notice, ’cause man, I must look like an idiot.

But still, I can’t help thinking that at least I’ve got his smile.

Shouldn’t matter, that tiny folded memory of his mirth, like a secret tucked into my deepest pocket, but it does. Just like knowing he’s out there, that he’ll be watching, cheering for us—for me— matters .

Goddammit.

The team starts up its pregame cheer, and I barely hear my own thoughts over the swell of pump-up music and shouting that explodes across the locker room. Barely register that I’ve climbed to my feet along with the rest of the team.

I’m busy. Thinking. Realizing.

I have a crush.

God dam mit.

I have a damned crush, and it makes me all fluttery and heady and happy. Light enough to fly, to take on the whole damn world. I’m grinning like a fool as we storm the door and power out of the locker room.

Charlie and Everton lead the race down the hall, and we follow, buoyed on a raging river of our own enthusiasm .

The cry of the crowd crescendos as we hurtle out from under the bleachers. A rippling rainbow of people packs the stands, voices blurring into a throbbing roar.

“Let’s hear it for your own DAY RIVER DINGOES!” The announcer bellows as we slam onto the ice with all the passion and aggression of a team used to taking the game by storm—and winning.

The crowd rewards our energy with more of its own, and we feed off it. Off each other.

I lose myself to it.

The passion.

The heat.

The game.

This is my purpose, my reason for living, breathing, for forcing myself through the dark days. This. Here.

This is my reason for being.

Blades on ice, sticks tapping, whistles shrieking, pucks slamming, bodies crashing against boards, voices shouting, and always, the crowd roaring in the background like a distant thrum of blood in my ears. A rush of adrenaline.

Synergy.

Not just between my tape and Dev’s or my eyes and Holland’s quick feet, but between us as people, because every one of us out here tonight, we share the same purpose, the same vision, the same dream.

I’m definitely listing towards the romantic, but we’re all one out here, on this ice, for a reason.

And this is why my introvert self loves team sports.

Here, I’m not alone. No “I” in “team,” amiright?

Because without me, no way Holls would have that perfect cross-ice pass, just nicked through the defenders from the blue line. And without Holls, Dev wouldn’t have the puck as he slides into the zone, and without Dev, my crashing the net would have meant nothing but a stick in the balls for me .

But we’re all out here, playing the same game, seeing the same vision. And when I crash the net, Dev fakes a shot, redirects, and Holls cuts in for the one-timer. And suddenly the buzzer’s blaring and their goalie’s looking behind him in confusion, and Holls and Dev smash against me and it’s all three of us together who scored that goal.

And the next.

And the one after that.

There I go again, trying to be Shakespeare. But it works . Our energy, the crowd’s, the other team’s mounting frustration—it’s a self-feeding cycle, a self-fulfilling prophecy, and it goddamn works.

When the final buzzer rings three hours later, we’re grinning like fools, high on the heady cocktail of victory. Winners—for the first time in as long as some of these boys can remember.

Winners, surrounded by the shouts and cheers and vibrant support of a crowd that’s remembered what it is to love the light.

Well . . .

“Twenty-Three!” The people roar as we Dingoes race off the ice and into the hallway. “Forty-Seven! Twenty-Three! Forty-Seven!”

The shouts reverberate through the stands, echoing over our heads in a thudding chorus of stomps that seems to realign the beat of my own racing heart. Around me, the team’s laughing, smiling, riding that wave of the winning high.

But I feel myself slipping off the barrel. Slowing. Falling to the back of the line of skaters.

“The people demand answers,” Charlie mutters in my ear, and I realize he’s slowed alongside me. “They’re not gonna be happy if we just walk off.”

My stomach churns, souring the high of victory. He’s right, though. If I want to keep the people coming back, I’ve got to give them something to come back for.

“Or, we could give them more questions.” Suddenly, Nat’s beside us, and he’s clad in full hockey gear. He lifts one hand, revealing—are those black ski masks? “We don’t have to tell them who we are. ”

My mouth drops in shock. Because if he changed, if he had the masks . . . “You planned this?”

“I didn’t know what to expect.” He shrugs, tosses a mask to Charlie. “But I figured it couldn’t hurt to be prepared.”

He knew I didn’t have a plan. He knew I was winging this whole night, flying by the seat of my pants, so he stepped up to fill in the gaps.

My throat feels suddenly too tight.

“I’m in too.” Devereaux slides up beside Charlie.

Everton appears beside him, then Skyler. “More the merrier.”

“What?” My mouth hangs open. They’re volunteering to don masks for me? In front of a damned crowd?

Nat shoves a mask into my hand. “Just do it, Olli.”

Without waiting to see if I obey, Nat tugs a mask over his head and races towards the ice. Charlie, Dev, and Everton follow—to an explosion of riotous cheering and screaming and catcalling.

Which leaves me fumbling for my own mask.

As one, the five of us take the ice.

“Masks off!” someone roars, and someone else echoes it. Another and another and another until the sweat prickling down my tattooed spine has nothing to do with the exertion of the skate.

We’re gonna have to unmask—

The door to the ice opens once more, and suddenly the entire team’s pouring back out, surrounding us in a sea of navy and cerulean.

Every single one of them wears some kind of face covering—bandanas, hoods, ski masks, even jerseys.

The crowd explodes all over again, even louder than before. Couple of people slam against the glass, someone else roars for a fight. More and more are simply cheering . . . Cheering. For us. For the Dingoes.

As one, we exit the ice.

Down the hall, back into the locker room. The quivery, shaky, tingling sort of high I feel is nothing like the previous wash of winning. This is . . . different. Strange. Foreign. Frightening .

“Good game.” Nat’s palm smacks against my shoulder pad, and I open my mouth to say something, but he’s already moving on to Dev behind me. “Good game, good game, good game . . .”

I sneak a glance his way—and our eyes lock for the briefest instant before he looks away.

I bite down my grin.

Nat vanishes from the locker room shortly after—obviously he has to go Zam the ice, Olli, duh—and I relax into the post-game chatter. We’re all laughing and grinning despite the exhaustion dragging down our muscles and bones, despite the sweat drenching our skin and pads and jerseys. ’Cause there really is nothing like a post-hockey high.

Still, I can’t stop my gaze from drifting to the empty locker beside me, like I expect him to pop back up—and what? Apologize for leaving to go do his job? Tell me he’d love to go on a hike and then make out with me up against a tree?

“Yo, not bad, New Guy.” Everton smacks my shin pad with his stick. “I think the fans might have liked you.”

“Shut up, Ever.” I flash him an overly cheery grin. “That sounds like a compliment.”

“Man, it was nice having actual people in the stands,” Charlie sighs. His eyes gravitate towards me. “They must’ve been really excited to see our new captain.”

I shrug, then turn my megawatt grin on him. “What can I say? I got a pretty face.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s it, man.”

“I don’t care what it is,” says Devereaux. “As long as they come back.”

And for once, I let myself be high—for whatever brief amount of time it lasts—because I so rarely get to feel like this. High and free, drunk on life, on victory and performance, on connection and this silly foolish little crush that’ll almost certainly end in my doom.

That is, until Coach Ethan appears in the locker room doorway. “James. Let’s go. ”

So then, I’m fidgeting in the chair in front of Coach’s desk. I haven’t even showered yet, just hastily donned my drylands clothes.

Naturally, our little stand-off in the locker room wasn’t the end of things—but after how the game went today, I’m hoping he’ll be singing a different tune.

We won.

The crowd loved us.

Demanded more.

Bought tickets. Bought food. Filled the stands.

We goddamn won.

But the nerves still make me nauseous as I wait for Coach to make the first move. Finally, he looks up from the screen of his laptop and sighs. “I don’t condone how you did it, but I guess it did work.”

“I’ve never been particularly mainstream.” I stare at my laced-together fingers in my lap. “It’s both a bug and a feature.”

“Well, regardless of whatever it is,” Coach’s voice assumes a sterner tone, “I’d appreciate being included in your stunts before they become sensationalized over social media.”

I wince. Well, okay. Yeah. He’s got a point there. And maybe that’s why I sit up a little straighter and look him dead in the eye. “I think we need more .”

“The Ice Out is a bunch of losers. Hacks!” Coach says. Again. “A bunch of washed-out, boozed-up, angry hacks .”

“Hacks who would die for this town, for this game,” I insist, keeping my voice firm, “who are in it for the long haul.”

Coach sighs. “I’m only doing one second chance this time. Next time, talk to me first.”

“Loud and clear, Coach.”