Page 7

7

Henri

If I wondered whether Atlas would be friendlier after his drunken call for help, I do not have to wonder long. Classes the following weeks have followed much the same pattern as they usually did, with me desperately trying to make conversation and Atlas desperately trying to avoid it. He seems embarrassed about what happened, or perhaps just my part in it, shooting wary glances at me out of the corners of his eyes as though waiting for me to bring it up. I only hope, at the very least, that he learned a lesson and won’t go back to that house; also, that he reconsiders his choice of friends.

Swinging my legs idly from where I’m seated on the trainer’s table, I look up at the clock hanging above the door. Barely three minutes have passed since Coach Mackenzie sent me in here to be checked out, but I’m already impatient to be done. There’s no reason to think I won’t be cleared to play in our game, but the longer I sit here alone, the more I worry about what they might say. I might not be the most dynamic player on the ice, but I love it and I’m in my last two seasons—I want to make the most of the time I have left.

Aaron, our head athletic trainer, opens the door and steps inside with a smile. Straightening my spine, I smile back.

“Good afternoon, Aaron,” I greet him, ignoring the way my stomach flutters with nerves. He’s asked me multiple times to not use an honorific, and to call him by his given name. Even so, I hate doing it. I was raised to always use the proper deference when speaking to anyone in a position of respect.

“Hey, Vasel, how are you doing?” He straddles a wheeled chair and scoots it over to where I’m sitting on the raised bed.

“I am well. How are you?”

He smiles, reaching a hand out and tapping my knee.

“I’m good, but we’re not here to talk about me. How’s that knee been feeling at practice? Nico said you might have tweaked it?”

“Oh, it has been fine. No issues.” I pause, realizing that every athlete who has ever been injured probably says those very same words. “I promise. I would not lie to you, Aaron.”

Standing, he chuckles. “What’s crazy is I actually believe you when you say that. Lie flat for me, let’s take a look.”

He slides a bolster under my knees as I comply. Resting my hands on my abdomen, I try to relax as he gently manipulates my left knee. After checking the range of motion on the left, he moves to the right and does the same. When he asks if something hurts, I tell him no. It hasn’t bothered me all summer, and I was cleared by my surgeon back in Germany to play. But I understand why Coach Mackenzie wants to be sure, and I appreciate the concern. Only my brother has shown more concern than Coach Mackenzie has.

“Range of motion is excellent,” Aaron says, raising his voice above the mutter he was using to talk to himself. “You must have been diligent with your physical therapy over the summer.”

“Yes, sir. Aaron,” I correct immediately. “My mother is a cardiologist in Germany, and I know how important it is to follow all instructions your doctor may give you.”

“Does it hurt when I do this?” he asks, pushing my bent leg slowly back toward my chest and watching my face carefully. I shake my head and he nods, satisfied. Changing his grip so his hand is wrapped around my ankle and the other is pressing on the inside of my thigh, he changes the angle and tries a different rotation. “How about now? I’m going to press here, and I want you to push back—don’t let me move you.”

We spend ten minutes on the table before he’s satisfied with that. He then has me work through a series of basic strength exercises so he can watch me move. By the time he’s content, I’ve had a thorough warm-up and am feeling more than ready to take the ice with my teammates. Aaron bends over a folder on his desk, scribbling notes, before straightening and clapping a hand on my shoulder.

“All right, Vasel, I’ll talk to Nico. You’re good to go, for now. But any discomfort—any at all—and you say something, okay?”

“Yes,” I agree, nodding. “I will. You have my word.”

“Have fun tonight,” he says, waving me out the door. “I’ll find Nico and let him know you’ve got the green light.”

I head straight for the locker room, where I can hear the sounds of my teammates readying for the game. I step inside and a cheer goes up, as though everyone was waiting for me. Shaking my head, I walk over to my stall and start to undress. I’m far behind everyone else, after spending nearly forty minutes with Aaron .

“You good?” Max asks, leaning over so that he doesn’t have to raise his voice to be heard. I smile at him before grasping the neckline of my shirt and pulling it over my head.

“Yes, I am good. I will be fine to play. Thank you for asking.”

“Thank God.” He breathes a sigh of relief. “I need you.”

When he holds a hand out, I bump my knuckles against his softly and grin. He really doesn’t need me. Max has more skill in his pinky finger than I do in my entire body. But I appreciate the words more than he could possibly know.

“You are a good friend, Max.”

He gives me a strange look and opens his mouth to reply, but Coach walks into the room before he can get the words out. We both fall silent, Max sitting down on the bench and me continuing to change with increasing urgency. I hate that I’m the only one not ready to go; the only one holding us up. When Coach Mackenzie is close enough to hear, I mutter an apology.

“I am sorry, sir. I will be ready very quick.”

He narrows his eyes and looks down at his watch. Again, I’m struck with the thought that he probably needs glasses. Does he not get his vision checked regularly?

“No need to rush, Vas. We have plenty of time. I know you were with the training staff.”

Gratefully, I nod. But I also continue to dress at twice my usual pace. Every other person in the room is ready to step onto the ice.

“You going to Carter and Zeke’s house tomorrow?” Max asks, scooting a little closer to me and raising his voice to be heard over the hubbub of the locker room. In the opposite corner, Nate has the goalies bent over their padded legs in fits of laughter. I can only imagine what he said to get Micky to laugh like that.

“I am! You and Luke as well, I presume?”

“Yeah. I’m excited.”

“Yes,” I agree. “It is always good to see Carter. When you are playing for Detroit, you will still come visit? Or perhaps we shall come to you.”

“Both sound good to me,” he says, grinning.

“And although I will have to remain impartial on the broadcast when I am a sportscaster, I will secretly be cheering for my friends Max and Carter, always.”

He stands up and starts to shake out his legs. The smile on his face is one that I’m still not quite used to seeing. Max has changed a lot since I first met him. He is less shy and withdrawn, more likely to join in when the team has fun on the ice or in the locker room. And although he still turns down all invitations to team events, he always agrees to come out with Carter and me when it’s just the small group of us.

“What about when Carter and I play each other?” he asks mischievously.

“Aye.” I sigh, finishing with my gear and feeling my chest loosen as a result. Relax, they aren’t waiting for you to finish, I tell myself . “I will truly be impartial then.”

Max is still smiling when we line up in the chute and head out onto the ice for warm-ups. DU—although a formidable team—relies too heavily on their size. Coach Mackenzie had us reviewing hours of tape, each one showing a team of behemoths who were skilled at blocking shooting lanes and stopping pucks, but severely lacking in footwork and speed. We aren’t small, necessarily, but our tallest player is Micky and he will be in goal. However, we are fast and we are excellent at moving the puck .

We also have Max.

He scores seventeen seconds into the game by slipping past DU’s winger and sending the puck straight through the five-hole of their goalie. Max skates down the bench grinning, tapping the outstretched gloves of our teammates. Even Coach Mackenzie looks like he is fighting a smile.

Resetting, we line up to take another face-off at center ice. Bolstered by being the first on the board and so early in the game, we again gain possession of the puck and force DU to play in their defensive zone for the second time in less than a minute. As though trying to learn from their earlier mistakes, they put pressure on Max immediately.

But Max’s ability to score goals was only part of the reason he was drafted into the NHL so young. His biggest abilities lie in footwork and speed. Turning so rapidly it shouldn’t even be possible on a blade, he spins away from the defensemen trying to pick his pocket and passes the puck to me. As familiar as I am with Max’s strengths, so too do I know my own—instead of taking a shot, I send it over to Nate.

By the time we leave the ice for first intermission, we are up by three goals and two of those were scored by Max. I hope Luke is watching and that he is proud. When we sit next to each other, I lean my shoulder against him companionably and pass him a towel to wipe his face.

“Slick pass,” he says, grinning. “You should have kept it and gone for a goal.”

“And robbed you of the chance to bag such a beauty? I am not so selfish as that!”

The opposition manages to sneak two by Micky, but we win the game 4–2 and one of those goals was tallied by me. I don’t score often, so I always try to savor it when I do. I love feeling like I’m pulling my weight on the ice and there is proof of that work on the scoreboard. I especially love when Coach Mackenzie claps me on the shoulder and tells me I did a good job.

“Thank you, sir.” I nod, pulling off my gloves and resting them in my stall.

“How’s the knee?” he asks sternly, changing tracks and becoming serious.

“It is fine! No pain.”

He puts a hand on the back of my sweaty head, giving me an abnormally fond look as he ruffles my sticky hair. I feel unduly warm, all of a sudden. I know Coach likes me, but at times like these I’m struck by the realization that he might also be proud of me. I hope he is. I don’t often make people proud, but I always strive to do so.

“What’s up, hockey star!” Luke calls as he hops out of Max’s car and waves at me. I wave back, easily matching his cheerfulness. Luke is always so joyful. I love being around him.

“Hello, Luke. You are looking well.”

“Thanks for noticing,” he says, throwing his free arm over my shoulder and tugging Max along by their linked hands. “I love watching you guys’ games. Don’t tell Cranky, but I sometimes prefer them to watching the NHL.”

Max gasps. “Blasphemy.”

“I think both are quite enjoyable,” I say equably, and Luke snorts. I don’t bother asking who he means by “Cranky.” There is only one person in our friend group who might be nicknamed as such.

“Whatever you say, Switzerland. ”

I knock gently on the door and wait for Zeke to let us in. He does so with a twist to his mouth, telling me he’s thinking of all the times he told me I could just let myself in and that I didn’t have to knock.

“Carter is not home yet?” I ask Zeke, bending over to slip my shoes off and place them neatly by the door. Luke kicks his off as well, so I wait for him to pass by before I arrange them next to mine, making sure the shoes are all in a row.

“Not yet,” Zeke says, closing the door softly behind us and waving me toward the living room. “Carter was just going to order food like he usually does, but I actually ended up cooking.”

“You did?” I arch a brow at him, and he shrugs, sheepishly. “You made food for five people all by alone? Yourself,” I correct automatically.

“Well, I’ve discovered that I’m pretty awesome at making lasagna, and that’s something that can feed a lot of people. I made four, because…” He waves an arm through the air in a visual representation of the stomach capacity of three hockey and one baseball players.

“I shall help you clean up,” I tell him, feeling a little bad that he went through the trouble to make four lasagnas. I don’t know how to make lasagna, but I can’t imagine it’s easy.

“No, Vas, you’re here to hang out, not do chores. It’s already done. Food is in the oven,” he says, raising his voice to be heard by Max and Luke as well. Luke lets out a whoop whoop from where he is sprawled on the couch next to Max.

“What are you working on here, Little Z?” he asks, nudging the coffee table with his foot. Luke loves giving people special names.

“Well, I’m working as a TA this semester, so I’m assisting the professor with lesson plans. Right now, we’re covering axiomatic geometry, which is fascinating. ”

“Oh dear God,” Luke mutters.

Max grins at me from the opposite side of Luke as I take a seat next to him. Zeke crosses his legs and drops onto the floor in front of the coffee table, which is likely where he’d been before we showed up. I listen quietly as they chat, simply enjoying how it feels to be around them. They are my favorite people.

“Did you submit the application for the internship, Vas?” Max asks, leaning around Luke to look at me.

“I did, yes. Zeke was very helpful.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Zeke corrects. “Just read it over. Have they called you yet?”

“Actually, yes. I will be having an interview with Sam Jameson next week.” My stomach gives a little flutter of nervousness at the thought, but is chased away by my friends.

“Hell yes, good for you,” Luke says. Max leans around him further, eyes alight with excitement.

“I wonder if your interview will coincide with practice. How cool would that be? Maybe they’d let you skate with the team.”

“Oh, I do not think they would want me. Perhaps they might let me watch, though.” I shake my head, chuckling. I’m not good enough to skate with an NHL team, not even at practice. “I am nervous for this meeting. I do not want to make any mistakes.”

“It’s normal to be nervous,” Zeke tells me, smiling. “But I don’t think you have to be. Your application and reference letters will speak volumes for themselves, and nobody who meets you could dislike you.”

I nod, even though Atlas is living proof that he is wrong. All I can do is hope Sam Jameson is friendlier than my communications partner.

“Hey, how did your date go?” Luke asks, nudging me with his foot and leaning his head back against Max’s shoulder.

“It was fine, thank you for asking.” All of my dates are fine. I like going out and chatting with people, even though I never feel any sort of spark or attraction. Dates, for me, are more of a way to make friends. To not be alone for a few hours. Luke stares at me, waiting for more, and I try to come up with a way to explain it to him that he might understand. “I do not have bad dates, really, but I…I do not feel that anyone is my Max. I do not like anyone.”

Everyone stares at me silently for a protracted moment. I think if they all spoke German, I’d be able to clarify it better. It’s hard to find the correct words to explain that I’ve never been interested in sex or relationships beyond those of close friends. I try. I ask people out and go on dates, but I never feel anything. Going out to dinner for a date feels no different to me than going out to dinner with my brother.

It’s never bothered me before, and I’ve never really questioned whether there was something wrong with me. I’ve never before looked at other couples and wondered if I was missing out. But after spending time with Carter and Zeke, and now getting to see the way Luke is with Max, I do sometimes wonder if there is something absent from my life. I question whether I am fated for a life spent searching, only to wind up alone. Perhaps I will never feel something.

“What are you looking for? Like, a type,” Luke asks, lifting his head off of Max to look at me properly. “Hair color? Eye color? Height? Sex? Any preference at all?”

I open my mouth to tell him that no, I don’t think I have any preferences like that, when a picture of Atlas pops into my head. Black hair. Hair so dark, it is the embodiment of a complete absence of color. The way his black eyelashes resemble makeup around equally dark eyes. The sharp-boned, narrow cast of his features.

“I like to look at black hair,” I admit. “But it does not mean anything. I do not have a type, in that way. And no, I am not so much interested in the sex things.”

Max’s cheeks turn pink and Zeke rolls his bottom lip into his mouth, biting on it. Luke gives a little cough, valiantly trying to fight the smile that is tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Uh, right, that’s fine. But I was actually asking if you had a preference in gender?”

“Oh. My apologies. No, I am not thinking that matters so much to me.”

Luke smiles and winks at me. He leans his head back against Max’s shoulder again, and the other man reaches up to play with his hair. I watch the gesture and feel that sharp pain, low in my stomach, that has recently been happening quite a lot around my friends. I turn to Zeke, because I think he will understand what I am saying better than anyone.

“I think I am mostly wanting someone that I might like to talk with, and maybe lie under a blanket with to watch hockey, and also touch my hair.”

Gamely, Luke reaches his arm out and threads his fingers through the hair on the back of my head, kneading my scalp gently. It feels amazing. I knew it would.

“Someone nice,” Max puts in, and I nod very carefully, not wanting to dislodge Luke’s hand. I wouldn’t mind someone nice, but again I think of Atlas. He always accuses me of being “fake nice,” which is funny because it’s one thing I appreciate about him. He never fakes being nice. He doesn’t ever pretend to be something he’s not.

The front door opens, and judging by the abject joy on Zeke’s face, it’s Carter who walks in. The thought of what his face must look like when he sees Luke’s hand on my head makes me smile. I bet he is glaring.

“Cranky’s here,” Luke announces. A tattooed arm swings into view, and Luke’s too tangled up in Max and me to dodge before he’s smacked on the side of the head. He drops his hand from my head to rub his own. “Ouch.”

“You earned that,” Max says, although he does lean over and kiss his temple. I turn around so I can see Carter.

“Hello, my friend. How are you this day?”

“Good. Hey, Max.”

That’s all the greeting we get, before he’s skirting the couch and saying a much more friendly hello to Zeke, whom he is always the happiest to see.

“We were discussing dating with Vas—” Zeke starts, but Carter raises his hand.

“I really don’t need to know about Vas’ love life,” he says, scowling. The timer on Zeke’s phone goes off, and he bounds to his feet, heading into the kitchen with Carter trailing after him like a huge, tattooed shadow. Luke nudges me.

“Come here,” he says, and scoots a little closer to me. Holding his phone out, he snaps a picture of us together. After a few minutes, his phone dings and he grins. “Got you another date. Might not be a love match, but you’ll have good conversation and she’d be game for some hockey talk, too.”

Max leans over to peek at his phone and smiles. “Oh, good call.”

I give them an inquisitive look, and wait for Luke to find something on his phone and hold it out to me. There is a picture on the screen of himself standing next to a small girl with a purple streak in her blond hair. She must be wearing Luke’s baseball jersey because it hangs off her small frame. Dark paint is smeared underneath her eyes and they are both flexing their biceps for the photo.

“That’s Margot,” Luke explains. “My ride or die.”

“Oh,” I say, not familiar with this, but thinking it’s probably bad if someone is dying.

“His friend,” Max clarifies.

“I asked if I could give you her number and she said yes.”

“Really?” I’m surprised. I do not think I am hideous, but I am not as handsome or interesting as others. Mostly, people’s eyes just slide right past me. Once, I was told I was like the white rice of SCU hockey players. I am not fun, like my teammate Nate, or good at making people smile, like Luke.

“Yeah, really. She said, and I quote, if that’s the way they make them in Germany, why are we all living here ?” Luke tells me, grinning. “No pressure, but you can have her number if you want. She’s great. Super nice and smart, too.”

“Well, actually, I was not made in Germany. I was born in Germany, yes, but I was made in New Zealand while my parents were on holiday,” I correct. Max snorts and I smile at him. “But yes, thank you, I think I will take Margot’s number.”

“Cool. She said she’d love to hang out sometime,” Luke says, holding his phone out so I can copy the number into my own. I put her contact in as “Margot—Luke’s friend.”

“You guys ready to eat?” Carter yells from the kitchen. Luke jumps up and holds a hand out to Max, pulling him to his feet. I trail after them to the kitchen, stomach growling at the smell of Italian. Zeke is a good cook—the few times I’ve eaten something he’s made, I have been impressed .

“You are a skilled chef,” I tell Zeke, inhaling deeply as I take in the massive pans of lasagna laid out on the island. In answer, he smiles and passes a plate to me.

I shuffle to the side, letting Max and Luke go first. This puts me next to Carter, who is leaned against the counter and drinking a glass of water like his life depends on it. I wait for him to drain it.

“Practice was tiring?”

“Yeah, but fun,” he says, leaning over and flicking the sink on to refill the glass. He glances back at me. “Nice work on getting an interview. It’s with Sam, right?”

“Yes, right.” I nod. Carter reaches behind himself to grab another glass, filling it with water and handing it to me.

“He’s pretty chill,” he says gruffly. “Cool guy.”

“I will try and make a good impression. I am wanting to make sure you are certain it is okay for me to stay here over the summer months? I do not want to be a bother, Carter.”

He scowls at me, drinking down another glass of water. I take a sip of my own and wait.

“You’re not a bother,” he mutters.

“I should also like to pay you,” I tell him.

“Absolutely fucking not,” he retorts. I sigh as he sets his cup down on the counter so forcefully, I’m surprised the glass doesn’t shatter. “Vas, I know you already talked to Zeke about this. The answer is no . I’m not taking your money, okay? Buy your own gas and groceries, and whatever else you need, but you can sleep here for free. Don’t argue with me about it.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder and turns me toward the island.

“Get something to eat,” he mutters, squeezing once before dropping his hand.

I do as he says, placing a slice of lasagna on a plate and sitting down next to Max. When I glance up at Carter, he looks embarrassed the way he always does when he has to say more than four words in a row. I smile at him softly, waiting for the very small smile I get in return before I bend over my plate and take a bite.

“This is very delicious, Zeke,” I tell him.

“Seriously,” Luke agrees around a groan, reaching for a pan and sliding it close enough for him to dish out more onto his and Max’s plates. He swallows, points his fork at Carter and says, “I fucking love watching you play this season.”

Max, after swallowing a mouthful and coughing a bit from the size of the bite, eagerly jumps in.

“Okay, so I’ve been paying close attention to the save percentages, shutouts, and GAAs of the starting tendies this season, and if you keep playing the way?—”

Zeke’s eyes, which had brightened at the mention of statistics, slowly take on a glazed look as Max and Carter jump into a spirited hockey discussion. Luke chimes in every now and then, but mostly just sits and watches Max with a smile on his face. For myself, I simply eat and listen, enjoying the presence of all my friends in one place.

I like seeing the way Carter’s face has become softer these last two years, and his mouth is quicker to smile. I like seeing how animated Max has become, as though Luke is a battery he’s drawing energy from. I like how happy they all are and I like that I am a part of it. I love them.