Page 39 of The Roommate Game
“No, I tore a ligament.”
“Ouch. How’d you do it?”
“Truthfully, I don’t remember. It happened at practice when I was going over some new choreography with one of our coaches. I was in my zone, in tune with the music and my own energy. It was relatively simple—a triple Lutz, land, toe loop, land, but that second landing didn’t go according to plan. My skate caught a divot in the ice or something. I wasn’t expecting it, obviously. I couldn’t counter my balance or even fall to avoid impact. Everyone assumed it was a sprain at first, but the ligament damage was severe, which was why it took so long to heal.”
I stopped at a red light. “And now it’s good as new?”
“Mostly, yes. I carried my weight on a new team this year, and that felt like a mini miracle. I have to build on it. Next step, qualify for the championships and after that, assuming I do well, I’ll hopefully join a club with excellent coaching. Of course, I’ll need sponsorship and…” Rafe broke off with a laugh. “Oh, wow. Snoozeville. Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. I guess I’m a little excited, but my God, that costume is just dreamy! I can float on air, spin like a leaf in the wind, or…I could the last time I wore it.”
“Ah, so it’s a superstitious thing.”
“A little. I could use some good luck. I’ve been struggling a bit lately. My landings are wobbly and I’m not getting off the ice smoothly. So…yeah, I’ll take any bit of extra help.”
“I know all about that. I wear blue socks and only blue socks on game days. Black socks are for practice and white socks for gym workouts or free skating.” I felt his gaze on me in my periphery. “What? It’s not that weird. Pritchard eats a peanut butter sandwich on white bread one hour before every game. It’s got to be this certain kind of chunky PB, no jelly, no honey. He basically eats cardboard with nuts and chokes it down with alittle water. Not too much ’cause he thinks leaving the ice is bad luck, and he doesn’t want to pee his pants.”
Rafe barked a laugh. “Really?”
“Yeah. Everyone has something. Brady has a particular way of wrapping tape on his stick. It’s very involved, and it takes him for-fucking-ever. Ty puts his headphones in to get in his groove.”
“And what do you do…besides the blue socks?”
“Nothing else. My job is to pump everyone up. Make sure the guys know our school and the whole damn town are rooting for us. Win or lose, each and every single one of them is a game changer. Sometimes I overdo it, but you get more from people if they feel appreciated, ya know? I s’pose that makes me the head cheerleader.”
I snorted in amusement at the idea as I veered onto the interstate.
Rafe was quiet for a long moment. “Who tellsyouthatyou’redoing a good job?”
I furrowed my brow. “I dunno. My teammates do, I guess. We’re like brothers, and we’re supportive of each other.”
“That’s good. It’s—well, I was at a recent game, and I noticed you were on the bench at the end of the period. You seemed a bit subdued…for you, anyway,” he added in a wry tone. “But you were quick to jump up and pat your teammates on the back, offer advice, and support them. I didn’t see anyone else do that. Just you. I get the feeling you’re the adhesive binding everyone together. Who’s going to do that when you’re not there?”
“First of all, I think that was a real compliment. I didn’t think I’d ever get one of those from you. Geez, that’s kinda fuckin’ sweet.” I puffed up my chest and grinned, then risked a brief glance Rafe’s way, hoping to catch his eye roll. Yep, there it was.
“I’ve complimented you before. I told you I like your hair color.”
“That didn’t count.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Nope. I don’t accept it. Give me another one,” I challenged.
“Now you’re just being greedy,” he replied, infusing maximum primness into his speech. “And I see what you’re doing. You’re deflecting. You didn’t like my observation, so you turned it into a joke.”
True.
“What do you want me to say? I’m captain. It’s my job to pump everyone up. I don’t need everyone telling me how awesome I am. If we’re keeping things real, I haven’t been playing so great lately anyway.”
And now you can shut up, Langley.
“Why do you say that?”
“’Cause it’s a fact. My passes aren’t connecting, I’m not as sharp as I should be, and I’m slower than usual. Sometimes I feel like I’m skating through molasses, and I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong.” I shrugged nonchalantly. “Other days…I’m fine.”
“I can help.”
“What? How?” I snorted.
“I’m an excellent skater, and I’m fast. Really, really fast.” Rafe sat taller in his seat and flattened his hand on the console between us. “We can do drills together. We could start tonight. I’ll check the rink schedule and see if we can?—”