Page 28 of Pucking Sweet

“Jake didn’t try to twist your ankle in the shower?”

I laugh. “No, he was actually really cool about it. Odds are he’ll skate first next game. It’s not really a competition to me.”

Her eyes go wide at this admission. “It’s not? I thought all you hockey boys were as competitive as they come?”

“I mean, sure, I like to win,” I say with a shrug. “But more than winning, I like to play. I can only be grateful I have the chance at all.”

“And you’re not nervous?”

I lean against the counter, relaxing a bit. This feels easy. I’m talking to Poppy, but we’re talking hockey. I can talk hockey all day. “I wouldn’t say I’m nervous. This isn’t my first game. I’m excited more than anything. I want to see what the Rays can do when the points actually matter.”

She nods. “What do you think of the team so far? Of the chemistry?”

“Well, Mars is as solid as they come. We don’t have to worry about him. I wish the backup tendy wasn’t such a sieve, but he’ll only get in the net as a last resort—”

“A sieve?” She tips her head to the side. “What does that mean?”

I blink, running back what I just said. “Oh.” I laugh again. “Sorry, hockey slang. Uhh…it just means he’s kind of useless. Like he’s full of holes. The pucks just go right through him.”

She giggles. “Not very flattering.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t help that Dave-O’s an odd bird off the ice too. He’s always eating these weird bagel chips that make his stall smell like garlic and onion.”

Her nose scrunches. “Ew.”

“Yeah, avoid close contact unless you want to breathe in some serious bagel fumes.”

“Noted.” She sets her wine down, crossing her arms to mirror my stance in her too-large sweater. “Well, what about you, honey?”

“What about me?”

Her expression softens and I know exactly where she’s going. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly.

She nods. “You haven’t told the guys?”

“I don’t knowwhat they know.”

“You haven’t told Novikov. He’s the one you’re closest to on the team, right? You skated with him before?”

“Yeah, we skated in the Juniors together.”

“And he doesn’t know why you were delayed in moving down here?”

I sigh. “No, he doesn’t know.”

“Is it a secret?”

At this, I look up, my chest squeezing tight. I suddenly feel irrationally angry. I drop my hands behind me, holding tight to her counter. My mind flashes with pictures of my dad lying in the hospital bed, his skin so pale, his body so weak. “No, my dad’s death isn’t some dirty little secret, Poppy. He was alive, then he got sick, and now he’s dead. There’s nothing secret about it.”

She nods again, tears rimming her eyes. “Poor choice of words,” she says softly. “I meant do you want it kept private? Would you prefer your teammates not be informed?”

I cross my arms again, wishing we could go back to talking about cookies and hockey. “Why would they need to be informed? What business is it of theirs what happens in my personal life?”

She steps around the bar, moving closer. “Colton, these things have a tendency of bleeding over from the personal into the professional. And you know hockey is both anyways,” she adds. “This team, these guys, they’re not just your work colleagues. They’re your family. They need to know if you’re not okay. They need to know whether to give you space or fill the void. You can’t keep them all at arm’s length. Not about something as big as this.”

“I don’t like talking about it,” I admit. “I’m not—I don’t have the words yet, okay? It’s still too fresh, and some days it’s all I can do just to get out of bed and show up for practice.”