Page 13

13

Henri

Nate is fired up—half-naked, standing on the bench in front of his stall, and telling a ribald story that I lost the ability to follow five minutes ago. He has the rest of the team laughing—even Max, who rarely joins in on locker room shenanigans, is chuckling—and I’m wondering if Coach Mackenzie is allowing him to continue only because he knows how badly we need to be pumped up.

It’s a big game tonight, and if we pull off a win, that means we’ll likely be going into the holiday break seated as the number one team. Everyone is feeling the pressure, but none more so than McIntire. He’s pale, knee bouncing and eyes locked on Nate as he talks, but a vacant expression on his face that gives away the fact that he’s not really paying attention.

Max and I are already dressed out, so I carefully walk over to where Micky is sitting and slide in next to him.

“Hello, my friend,” I say just loud enough for him to hear me over Nate’s wild voice .

“Hey,” he replies, low enough that I can’t hear his voice at all, but have to read the word off his lips. Micky’s problem is nerves. He is a good netminder, but struggles with getting out of his own way.

“You are excellent goalie,” I tell him. His eyes meet mine in surprise. I’m not one to give pep talks—usually leaving that up to our captain—but I fear that if I don’t say something, Micky might faint from performance anxiety. “And we have your back, yes? It is not all on you to defend the net and win the game.”

“I know that,” he says, but bites his lip. “Sometimes it feels like that though, you know? Sometimes it feels like it’s my fault when we lose. And I really don’t want to lose tonight.”

“It is my job to score goals, yes? Is it not also my fault if we lose, because I did not score enough goals? And Max? His fault, too?”

Micky gapes at me. “I never looked at it that way.”

I pat his padded leg as Nate finishes his story, and finally climbs down from the bench amid a round of applause. He’s grinning as he turns to his stall to finish getting dressed.

“We shall do our best tonight, you and I. That is all we can do, yes? And if we lose, it will be a team effort, just the same as it would be if we win.”

“Right,” Micky agrees, nodding. “Thanks, Vas. Thank you. That…I just get so nervous, you know? It’s stupid.”

“No, no, is not stupid. We are all a little nervous. These things are normal.” Coach Mackenzie walks into the locker room, and snaps something at Nate that has the guys closest to him snickering. He gives us two minutes before we need to be on the ice. Across from where I am now sitting with our goalie, I see Max stand up and shake out his legs. “It is a good night for hockey, Micky. Let us go have some fun.”

And we do. Max makes the opposing team look like junior league players, and after his second goal in the first period, I even feel a little badly for their goalie. It’s not his fault Max is a league beyond the rest of us.

Instead of chasing a hattie, though, Max sends the puck to me and our linemates more often than he keeps it. When Nate scores his first goal of the game off of a suicide pass from him, I swear I can see tears in his eyes when he takes a seat next to me on the bench. Coach Mackenzie pats him on the shoulder as he passes behind us and I worry he might faint.

“Did you see that?” Nate asks me.

“I did.” Grinning, I slap a gloved hand on his leg. “Nice goal.”

During my next shift, we get stuck between shift changes and I am pushing ninety seconds on the ice when Micky loses sight of the puck as a shot is made. It partially deflects off of his skate, but he has to spin around and make a secondary save before the puck can cross the goal line behind him. Desperately, he sends it to me and I try to squeeze a little more gas out of my exhausted legs. Somehow, I carry it coast to coast and sail it bar down over the goalie’s right shoulder. My teammates on the bench jump up, screaming and banging their sticks on the boards, cheering for Micky as much as me. It is not often a netminder gets a primary assist.

Max doesn’t get his hat trick, but we put up an impressive six points and win the game. When it’s my turn to hug McIntire in the lineup, I put my face as close as I can to the cage on his helmet so that he can hear me over the din of the arena.

“You are so talented of a goaltender, you start doing our job too, eh? ”

He laughs, arms tight around my shoulders in a hug that would be painful if we didn’t have our gear on. We skate to the bench together, and the roar that goes up when Micky enters the locker room makes me fear for our eardrums. Max is waiting for me next to our lockers, eyes bright and smile painfully wide on his sweaty face.

“You should have gone for your hattie,” I tell him, but he shakes his head and looks across the room toward Nate.

“Nah. I hog the puck too often. He needed that.”

“You do not hog the puck, Max.” I laugh, pulling my sweater over my head and running a hand through my wet hair. “We give you the puck most often because you are best player and goal scorer.”

Embarrassed, he shakes his head and turns away from me to get undressed. I know it makes Max uncomfortable to be the center of attention, but I also want to make sure he is confident in himself and his abilities. Next year he will be playing in the NHL. He will no longer be the best player on the ice, but a rookie. I only have a short while left to talk him up and build up his confidence, and I mean to make the most of it.

When I walk into our last day of communications class before winter break, Atlas is already in his seat. He so rarely beats me to class, I can’t help but give him a little grief for it.

“You are missing me so much, you come early today?” He glares at me as I set a to-go cup of coffee on his desk, but there is no force behind it. He drinks black coffee, which I learned after pulling the information out of him the same way one might pull a tooth. I try to bring him one every class, as well as a nutritional snack. I do not think Atlas takes very good care of himself, and I worry about his health.

He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment beyond a mumbled “thank you” for the coffee. When I produce a red apple and hold it out to him, his lips twitch as though he wants to smile. Turning it over in his hand, he leans back in his chair and takes a bite.

“Do you go home for the holidays?” he asks. “To Germany?”

“No, I will be staying here. Last year I spent Christmas with my brother and that was very nice, but not this year. What about you?”

“Staying here,” he replies, lips twisting unpleasantly as though there’s a sour taste in his mouth.

“Perhaps you and I can have plans,” I offer carefully. Atlas is always very firm with me about the boundaries of our relationship, and I don’t want to push that by asking him to spend Christmas with me. A strange expression crosses his face, but it’s gone before I can make sense of it.

“Yeah, maybe,” he responds noncommittally.

Knowing that I won’t get anything more out of him, I bend to retrieve my notebook from my bag. Atlas clears his throat and fidgets.

“I brought this for you,” he says, and slides something over to my desk.

Abandoning my bag, I look at the object. It’s badly wrapped in tissue paper, whatever it is, and is oddly shaped. When I touch a finger to the paper, I have a momentary sensation of lightheadedness. Atlas brought me a gift.

Carefully, I pick it up. It’s weightier than I was expecting. Tearing the paper off, I glance over to see Atlas staring resolutely at my hands and looking like he’s sincerely regretting this bit of kindness. I figure out it’s a coffee mug before I’ve got it fully unwrapped, but it’s not until it’s completely uncovered that I realize what I’m looking at.

The mug is an impossibly vivid shade of green—darker on the base before slowly brightening toward the mouth. Turning it around in my hands, I notice there is a small drawing carved next to the handle. This time, the lightheadedness feels a little bit like falling, and I have to press my feet hard into the floor to center myself. It’s a drawing of an apple.

“You made this,” I say, turning it over carefully and seeing an artist’s mark on the bottom.

“Yeah.” Atlas shrugs as though it’s no big deal, and he hasn’t just given me the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received. “Do you get it? It’s because you always bring me red apples, but you prefer?—”

“The green ones,” I whisper, clenching my hands tight around the mug and finally looking over at him.

He’s got his arms crossed over his chest defensively, and has his usual surly expression on. For the first time in my life, I want to kiss someone in a public place.

“It’s just a mug,” he says warily, apparently reading some of my thoughts on my face. I shake my head. No, it is not just a mug.

“You are very talented,” I tell him, tracing a finger over the glaze. “I am thinking ceramics class is your favorite for a reason.”

This sets off a renewed round of scowling, which means I’ve embarrassed him. He shrugs, casually trying to let my compliment roll off his back. It is not surprising to me that Atlas is not good at accepting compliments. Carefully, I set it down in the middle of my desk and stare at it.

“Thank you, Atlas,” I say quietly. “Thank you very much. ”

He fidgets, uncomfortable. Before he can deflect or say something snarky, I put a hand on his thigh below the desk. He stills, but doesn’t shove me off or yell at me.

“It’s just a mug,” he repeats desperately, as though if he says it enough times, it will make it true. I shake my head again, but don’t argue. He’s letting me touch him in a public place, and he’s just given me a gift. I should be happy with these developments and not push him for more. If I make him uncomfortable, he will run away from me and I will lose all the ground I’ve gained these past few weeks.

The classroom has slowly filled up around us, the volume in the room steadily rising. Regretfully, I have to move away from Atlas to finish gathering my things out of my bag. I give his leg a small squeeze, before bending over and pulling out my notebook. I rewrap the mug in the tissue paper the way an archeologist might handle a precious artifact. I can feel Atlas’ gaze on me as I do; can practically feel the words it’s just a mug trying to claw their way out of his throat for a third time.

He watches as I get it settled in my bag, and prepare myself for the lecture. I notice we’re sitting closer today than we usually do, elbows and knees knocking gently together when one of us moves. Neither of us moves away or mentions it. In fact, I make it my mission to cross the line between our desks as often as possible—foot pressed against Atlas’ and forearms brushing. It’s the most enjoyable Creative Communications class we’ve had to date. They seem to only get better and better.

When class ends, Atlas doesn’t sprint for the door the way he usually does, but hovers beside me as I pack up my things. I take extra care to make sure the mug is secure and will not get broken. Instead of swinging my bag onto my shoulder, I lift it gently and nestle it into my side. When I turn to Atlas and smile, he mutters finally under his breath and leads the way from the classroom.

The air is brisk when we get outside, and I take a nice deep inhale. It smells like rain. Feeling inspired, I look at Atlas as we walk. His head is tilted downward giving me a view of his dark hair, shiny in the weak afternoon light.

“Atlas?” He grunts, which in Atlas-speak means why are you bothering me? “Are you free this evening?”

“Sure.” He shrugs, kicking at a loose rock on the ground and sending it skittering over the sidewalk. “Want me to come over and blow you?”

I stumble over a perfectly flat piece of ground, and feel my face flush.

“Goodness,” I reply. Atlas looks over at me, smirking. “Thank you for the offer, but I was actually going to see if you would like to come to the game this evening? It is our last home match. It shall be a lot of fun.”

He looks at me like I’ve recommended the murder of puppies as a pleasurable pastime. “Are you serious?”

“Certainly. I have a ticket for you, if you would like. But no pressure! I know you have many friends and things to do. I know you are not a hockey fan. Please do not feel obligated to come.”

He stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing me to come to a halt and turn around. He’s clutching the straps of his backpack tight in his fists, eyes squinted at me and mouth turned down in a frown. This is not an angry-Atlas face, though. This is the confused-Atlas face.

“Why?”

“Because we are friends and I am thinking it might be fun!” I don’t tell him it’s also because I want him to see me play. I want to score a goal and look up to find him in the stands. I want to share something with him that isn’t homework and platonic kissing. “You might enjoy it, Atlas. And Nate will be playing—you like Nate, yes?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, I like Nate.”

“So, you will come?” I shouldn’t keep needling him like this. I should take my green apple mug and be happy with what I have.

“Okay,” Atlas says, sounding as though he’s just agreed to a chemical castration. “Fine. I’ll come, but only this one time. I’m not your groupie.”

I don’t know what a groupie is, so I merely agree. “No. No groupies here.”

After sending him the virtual ticket, I carefully explain where he’ll be going and how the seating works. He listens to my speech in silence, glowering at me, before snapping that he’s not an idiot and he knows how stadium seating works. I watch him walk off in the opposite direction of my dorm, a happy warmth suffusing through my limbs.

Atlas is coming to my game.