Page 36

THIRTY-SIX

Clay

MARCH

“Pittsburgh has a formidable first line and a strong PK team,” Murphy says from the front of the video room. “But when a team can rattle them, the defense usually falls apart. Watch this clip.”

The video begins to play again, and I have a pen poised over my notepad. But I haven’t actually written anything in a half hour except for Buy coffee pods and Drop off dry cleaning .

So far, March has been a blur of arena lights and coffee cups. Outside, the Colorado winter still has its icy grip on us. But inside the rink, things are heating up. We’re in the thick of it now—that late-season push where my guys are tired and sore but hungry. I see it in their eyes during these video meetings, but it’s most apparent on the rink when they dig deep for that extra burst of speed even when their muscles are screaming.

Glancing around the room, I take an inventory of our many blessings. Newgate’s on fire, racking up points like he’s got something to prove. Wheeler—taking notes with a gold pen—recently rehabbed a bout of bursitis faster than expected. And Volkov’s back isn’t giving him too much trouble lately.

In the corner, DiCosta still has a black eye. He’s taken more than his share of bruises, blocking shots with a reckless abandon that makes me wince and applaud at the same time.

Stoney looks a little sleepy, but only because he probably got up early to work out before practice. He’s dragged that vision board of his to every game we’ve played, in every city. It’s starting to look a little ragged in the corners, which feels like a metaphor for all of us.

And Hale... well, Hale’s been Hale. Solid most nights, brilliant on others, with only the occasional hiccup.

He turns his rugged chin in my direction, catching me staring at him. And I look away quickly, which is just as damning as if I’d kept staring.

Oops. I wish I could say this never happens. But it totally does.

A moment later, I get a message notification on my watch.

Something you need, Coach?

My face burns, and I don’t respond, because I won’t be the guy who’s texting during Murph’s video review.

A moment later, I get a new text. It’s a picture of a little kid suited up for hockey—skates and all—fast asleep on the bench.

This is me if Coach Murph doesn’t wrap it up soon.

I smirk before moving my eyes back to the video screen like a good boy.

After saying all those soul-bending things to me last month, Jethro has pretty much done everything I’ve asked of him. He hasn’t knocked again on my door at a hotel, and he keeps all our public interactions strictly professional.

But we message each other daily. It’s mostly simple things, like funny hockey videos and jokes. Sometimes I ask how Toby’s doing, and the news there is good. Shelby calls him weekly, and it’s made everything better for the kid.

Also, our old team—the Busker Brutes—is having a fantastic season this year, so we exchange stats and yack about their odds of winning the championship.

The problem is that it’s all killing me one text at a time. He’s always right across the room, where I can see him but never touch him. I miss the hell out of him, just like I did after our split.

This time it hurts worse, if I’m honest. Last time I was angry at Jethro, because I thought everything was his fault. Now our distance is my choice.

Jethro said it bluntly enough—I’m choosing hockey over him. It’s a little more complicated than that, but my heart doesn’t know the difference. Especially on the nights I dream about him. In my guilty dreams, we have a lot of sex. I wake up hard and ashamed with no outlet for my frustrations.

It’s not like I have any other entertainments in my life. At this point in the season, I’m living on coffee and game tape, strategizing for our playoffs bid. It’s grueling work as I search for any edge I can find to put us ahead of the pack.

This is a huge moment for me. Other years, I’ve been pushing just to make it into the playoffs. This time I want to finish the regular season in the top two.

It’s not just about bragging rights; it’s about setting ourselves up for even more success. The higher we finish, the more home-ice advantage we’ll get later—like facing a lower-seeded team in the first round, sleeping in our own beds, and having our fans behind us.

Every point matters. So every practice matters. Every game matters. I’m running myself ragged because I think we could go the distance, and not at all because I need a distraction from thinking about Jethro.

Nope. That’s not why.

No way.

My wrist vibrates again, and I look at the screen like a trained dog who’s heard the dinner bell. It’s Jethro again.

I have something for you. I’ll come by your office later.

The first response I think of isn’t exactly platonic.

Sometimes I hate my brain.

“And we’ll leave it there for now,” Murph says at the front of the room.

I pop up out of my chair and head for my office. I need to shake off these feelings, stat. So I get down onto the rug, where I hold the plank position for sixty seconds before starting a set of pushups. This will get my blood flowing in a productive way.

“Um, Coach?”

I sit up so fast that I bonk my head on the padded armrest of my office chair. “Shit.”

“Careful,” Liana says from the doorway as I extricate myself from the floor. “You all right?”

“Of course. What’s up?”

She frowns at me. “There’s a risk assessment meeting starting now?”

“Oh. Hell.” I grab my legal pad off the desk and head back out again.

“Should I bring you a cappuccino?” she asks, giving me a skeptical look. “You look a little ragged.”

“That’s my default setting in March,” I argue. “But, yeah, I’d love one. Thanks.”

When I reach the small conference room, I apologize on my way through the door. “Sorry I’m late. Who wants to start?” I sit down at the head of the table. Murphy is there already, along with Tate from PR, Kevin Tang the head trainer, and both our team doctors—Doc Whitesmith who’s our medical doctor, and Doc Baker.

“I’ll go,” the trainer says. He pushes a sheet of paper in my direction. “There aren’t any surprises on here. Volkov is holding up, but we’re sending him to the massage therapist every forty-eight hours. Wheeler’s bursitis is cooperating. There’s a few more knees and ankles on here, but nothing you don’t already know.”

“That’s great, Kevin. Thanks.”

Usually, he gets up and leaves at this point, but I see him hesitate. “There’s one more thing I’d like to mention, but I didn’t put it down on the sheet.”

“Go ahead,” I say quietly. If he didn’t write it down, then it’s sensitive, and everyone in this room knows to treat it that way.

“Pierre is making me nervous,” the trainer says, playing with his watch band. “He’s jittery. Red eyes and the sniffles. I just…got a bad feeling.”

Which means coke, probably.

I glance around the table at the other uneasy faces. Sadly, illegal drugs are all too common in pro hockey, and Pierre is a twenty-three-year-old hothead who likes his substances.

“Any proof?” Murph asks.

The trainer shakes his head.

“We could do a random drug test,” the doctor says. “Force the conversation.”

“Oof,” Murphy mutters. “Maybe after we clinch our playoffs spot?”

I kick Murphy’s foot under the table. “That kind of thinking won’t solve any problems. How about asking Kapski to casually check in with him? If it comes across as friendly concern and not judgment, there’s a chance he’d open up to his captain.”

“Yeah, okay,” Kevin says. “That could work. I’ll talk to Kapski.”

“I’ll ask Pierre for a chat,” Doc Baker says. “See how he’s feeling.”

“Good. We’ll all keep an eye on him,” I add.

The trainer leaves, and Tate and Doc Whitesmith give their updates. Nothing too serious there, so I start to relax.

The meeting is just breaking up when Liana swans in with a tray of espresso drinks. After we dive for them, Murph and Doc Whitesmith depart, leaving Tate, who’s eyeing me nervously. And Doc Baker, who is communing with his cappuccino.

“Hey, Coach?” Tate clears his throat. “There’s something I wanted to show you. It’s nothing to worry about,” he says, even if his expression says otherwise. “I just wanted to keep you in the loop.”

“All right. Let’s have it.”

He opens his laptop.

“You need privacy?” the team psychologist asks.

“Doubt it,” I grunt.

Tate makes a strangely uneasy face. Then he turns his laptop so the screen faces me. It’s on Pickr, a popular photo-sharing site.

It’s a picture of twenty-something me asleep on a team bus. I’m seated next to Jethro, who’s also asleep. We’re leaning toward each other, my head on his shoulder, his head against mine.

The sight of our boyish faces, blissed out and at rest, makes me take a sharp breath. But then there’s the caption: Look! It’s Jetty and Powers back in the olden days, acting like a couple faggots .

Blood drains from my face.

“It’s really nothing,” Tate says. “Just another dumbass on the internet. The pic isn’t new, although the caption is.”

A long beat goes by before I find my voice. “How did you find this?”

He chews his lip in a rare display of discomfort. “Since Newgate came out, I’ve been expanding my Google alerts for the team to include, um, some unsavory keywords.”

“Like faggot,” Doc Baker suggests. I’d almost forgotten he was here.

“Yeah, and a bunch more.” He shrugs. “Honestly, it’s barely worthy of our notice. I just thought you’d want to see it, since…” He hesitates.

“Since I disclosed my sexual orientation to you,” I say quietly.

He gives a single nod.

Doc Baker, unflappable as always, asks a question. “Are there more photos of Hale or Coach? And was the photographer an old teammate of theirs?”

“Probably,” Tate says. “This is the poster’s profile.” He changes the tab, and we see the photographer’s home page. It’s titled BladzeOfGlory . “It’s all hockey stuff. He stopped posting ten years ago. You recognize him, Coach?”

I glance at the more recent thumbnails, and one of them is a selfie. I do, in fact, recognize the guy. Duckson . I haven’t thought of him for years. He was always throwing around the f-word.

“He’s an old teammate,” I say numbly. Then I get up and open the conference room door. “Liana!” I yodel. “Find Hale for me.”

I flip back to the old picture and stare at the screen. For the second time, the image hits me right in the gut. We look so fucking young , our faces untroubled in sleep.

“Let’s not panic,” Tate says, watching me. “It just took me by surprise.”

The door opens a few moments later, and Jethro walks in. When he sees the odd collection of people in the room he frowns. “Something wrong? I was just coming up here to give you this.” He sets a small paper bag on the table.

“What is it?” I ask, trying to keep up with the conversation. I’m still reeling inside.

“Chocolate-covered pretzels. We made them for another bake sale. I found something Toby could make without a rescue operation. See?” He pulls a tin out of the bag and pops the top off it. It’s full of pretzels coated in dark chocolate with tiny blue sprinkles. “He did Cougar blue, for luck.”

Doc Baker reaches into the tin, takes a pretzel, and pops it into his mouth. “Oh, hell yes. These are great.”

“Thanks.” Jethro looks pleased with himself. “Now what did you need me for?”

Without a word, I turn Tate’s laptop to face him.

Jethro squints at the screen. And then he laughs . Not just an awkward chuckle, either. “Wow,” he says, grinning. “I bet Fuckson took this, right? That asshole. So predictable.”

The look I give him does a poor job of hiding my reaction. You think this is funny?

“What?” he demands. “This photo has been here…how long? Nobody cares. And didn’t you tell me once not to let the dumbest man in hockey ruin my day? Could swear that was you.”

“Yeah, but…”

Doc Baker’s and Tate’s heads swivel back and forth like spectators at a tennis match. They’re both clearly fascinated by this exchange.

“But nothing ,” Jethro says. “Since when do we care about randos posting shit on the internet? There’s a guy on Reddit who swears I had a nose job last season.” He touches his nose, which—like so many other players’—has a bump from being broken by a puck at some point in his career. “Relax, Clayzy.”

“Clayzy?” Doc Baker chuckles. “That’s a good one.”

“Old nickname,” I mumble. Then I reach for the laptop and scroll slowly through the other fifteen-year-old shots.

On some level I know Jethro’s right—this old picture doesn’t matter. But my heart is thumping anyway. I feel naked right now. Like anyone who looks at that photo will read my old heartbreak like a book.

Many of the other photos are poorly focused and poorly composed. Digital cameras just weren’t great back then, especially with a dingus like Duckson behind the lens.

But still, it’s like peering into the past. There’s our coach’s scowl. And our captain—Laytner—with his too-long hair and square jaw.

“Kinda curious…” Tate says slowly. “If you two were pals back in the day, then why does the whole team think you hate each other?”

The question sort of echoes against the walls of the conference room.

And I gulp.