Page 34

“But not this weekend,” Coach intercedes before anyone can get too excited. “We need to focus on winning our next three games.”

Max, looking serious, nods. Beside me, Micky is once more looking downcast. Predictably, the mention of the last few weeks of our season doesn’t fill him with the same excitement that it does for the rest of us.

This late in the season, winning is more important than ever as we contend for a spot in the Frozen Four, and although we’ve had a good year, we did lose some games that should have been easy Ws.

These, I know, are the ones Micky is thinking of.

As Anthony Lawson strolls off to leave us to practice, I accompany Micky over to his goal.

He looks nervous, even though this is just practice and nobody cares how many goals he lets in.

As usual, I struggle for something to say.

I’m just not good at talking him down or making him feel better.

Nothing I say is quite right, and I have no earthly idea what else I’m supposed to do.

Vas follows us over, too, bending to snatch up his gloves from where he’d dropped them on the ice to hold the puppy. He smiles at Micky, as calm and friendly as always. If Vas ever comes to practice with a frown, I’ll know the fucking world is ending.

“I think a puppy is good for us,” he says, and punctuates this with a firm nod. “He will bring us luck.”

“I need it,” Micky replies morosely.

“Oh, I do not think so.” Vas shakes his head and Micky looks at him glumly.

“We have to win the next three games, Vas. Three! We’ll be lucky to win one with me in net. They need to play Pavel or Roman. They’re a lot better than I am.”

I open my mouth to attempt and inject some verbal sense into him, but Vas beats me to it.

“Let us not worry about three games. Let us only worry about one, yes? We must only focus on the game we are playing, because that is the most important.” Coach Mackenzie skates slowly up behind Vas, pausing when he hears him talking.

“When I am missing goals, I do not think about them again. I think about the next time I will have the puck, yes?”

“One thing at a time,” Micky says and earns a smile from Vas .

“Indeed. Do not think about Frozen Four or three games or any such thing. These things do not matter, because we must play the game we are in, first.”

Behind Vas, unbeknownst to him, Coach Mackenzie smiles. When he places a hand on Vas’ shoulder, the other man startles.

“Goodness. I am sorry, sir,” he apologizes. Micky skates backward a few inches, trying to put distance between him and Coach.

“No need to be sorry. That was good advice.”

Vas looks embarrassed but pleased.

“Where do you want us, Coach?” I ask, and his eyes find mine.

“Right here. We’re going to have a little fun today.”

I groan dramatically, which makes Micky chuckle under his breath. Fun at hockey practice usually leaves us sweaty, sore, and exhausted. He probably means it’ll be fun for him because he’ll get to watch us suffer.

“Max, you good?” I yell over the sound of the fans screaming, bending over at the waist and putting a hand on his back, above his breezers. He lifts up so he’s sitting back on his knees, dropping one glove so he can swipe a hand under his visor.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

He rises to standing, and I hand him his stick. I give him a nudge with my elbow as we skate to the bench together.

“The only way to stop you from scoring is to foul you, my friend.”

He laughs and shakes his head, even though I really wasn’t kidding.

Max draws more penalties than any other player on our team, and it’s not hard to puzzle out why.

He’s a point machine—scoring twice as much as the next most talented player on the team, and the rest of us have to try three times as hard.

I sit next to Vas on the bench, trying to stretch out my legs as much as possible in the tight space. Vas pats my knee with a gloved hand, the way he always does when someone sits next to him.

“Atlas here?” I ask, and laugh at the look he gives me.

“I do not think we will be seeing Atlas at a hockey game again,” he replies, and even under the incredible noise of the arena, I can hear how fond he sounds of my friend.

Back on the ice, I post up behind the opposing team’s right winger as we take a face-off in our defensive zone.

As the strong side defender, I immediately move to position at the top of the circle.

Two blocked shots later, one to the inside of my right knee that I know is going to give me hell later, I skate gratefully back to the bench.

Coach taps me on the middle of my back with his clipboard as I take a seat, which is his way of saying good job, nothing to change .

We win the game by a margin of a single point, put there by Max, naturally, and saving us from having to go into OT. As always, Micky undresses in dejected silence, face glum as he thinks about the five goals he let in. Before I can get over there and pep him back up, Vas steps over and leans in.

I take the time to get a bag of ice for my knee, and spend a few lazy minutes chatting with the guys as we change out. Leaving the locker room, I say a quick goodnight to Coach and sneak out the exit the players use.

Pausing, I arch my back in a small stretch.

I need to go home and put a heating pad on every inch of my body.

Definitely eat something for dinner, and call Marcos.

I’ve started calling him every night before I go to bed, wanting to end the day with his voice in my ear.

Even better if it’s a day when I can convince him to come over in person.

“Nate.”

Surprised, I turn. Marcos unfolds himself from where he was waiting by the exit, leaned against the wall. I laugh in surprise.

“Hey! I didn’t know you were coming.” I move toward him right as he takes a step into me, pulling me into a hug.

Mood soaring, I return it and take it one step further by leaning down and kissing the side of his head.

I keep it quick—barely a brush of my lips against his temple—just in case he’s not wanting a lot of contact today.

“Yeah, I wasn’t sure.” He steps away and I drop my arms, taking a second to look at him. Jeans and a T-shirt have never looked so good. “Max already headed home.”

“He practically sprinted out of the locker room,” I confide and Marcos grins. He starts walking across the grass, and I fall into step beside him.

“Luke is at our apartment. He didn’t come to the game, though. He wasn’t feeling very good.”

“You want to come to my place?” I ask, not bothering to hide the hopefulness in my voice. I’m taking it as a good sign that he waited for me. I always ask him to spend the night when we hang out. I’ve got a pretty good success rate so far, but I won’t be happy until it’s a yes every time I ask.

“Yeah.”

I beam. God, what a great fucking night this is turning out to be. A double win—hockey, and time with Marcos.

When I park in front of my shared house, Marcos pulls in behind me.

He slings a bag over his shoulder before following me up the drive.

I wish we were at the point in our relationship where I could ask him to leave stuff at my place.

I feel so right about him, it doesn’t feel strange at all to be considering what it might be like to live together.

In my mind, Marcos and I are already endgame.

I keep this to myself, though, cognizant of the need to pace myself where Marcos is concerned.

Max warned me about going slow and I mean to heed the advice.

Going slow or going fast doesn’t mean anything to me, as long as we end up at the same place in the end.

My roommates are all in the main room when we walk in the door, which is an uncommon enough occurrence that it makes me pause. Even Atlas is there, which probably means the world is ending. He so rarely socializes with us, sometimes I forget he lives here at all until he bangs on our shared wall.

“What’s going on?” I ask, letting Marcos in before shutting the door behind him.

“Bros playing Super Smash Bros!” Clint shouts without taking his eyes off the TV. Indeed, the screen is currently filled with Link beating the shit out of Donkey Kong.

“Want to join?” John asks, looking away from the screen and doing a double take when he sees Marcos with me. “Atlas is out anyway.”

Marcos stays silent beside me, but I already know it’s going to be a pass from him. There’re too many people involved, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know any of them. I shake my head.

“Nah, we’re going to do our own thing. Thanks, though.”

Putting a hand on his upper back, I steer Marcos gently toward the kitchen.

Before we pass by, I see Atlas slip away up the stairs.

The moment we’re out of sight of the room, I drop my hand and pull open the refrigerator.

Peering in, I ascertain that the food hasn’t somehow multiplied since I last looked. My cupboard, I know, is similarly bare.

“All right, new plan,” I tell Marcos. “Order in?”

He snorts. “Forgot you don’t have groceries?”

Slinging an arm over his shoulder, I pull him into my side. We walk up the stairs that way, but it’s not until we reach the top—out of sight of my roommates—that he slips his own around my waist.

“Here we are, my beautiful man.” I sweep an arm toward my open doorway and let him walk in before me. Following him in, I close the door and walk over to pound a fist on the wall I share with Atlas. It’s our version of Morse code, and even though he knows I’ve got company, he knocks gently back.

“Beautiful man? Seriously?”