Page 43

Nicko, March 29th

W hat follows must be the longest NCAA game in history. After Zollweg and Aldridge get taken to the hospital on separate rides for further treatment, the coaching staff rounds us all up for interviews.

I expect being thrown off the team for starting this mayhem—which, honestly, I couldn’t care less about. The whole time I’m waiting for it to be my turn, legs bouncing, insides cramping, my mind is with Xander. I wonder what’s going on inside the Bat’s locker room right now.

Did they also blame Xander for stepping off the ice?

After spending two weeks with them in the fall, I can’t really imagine it. Then again, I would have never expected Zollweg’s mind to harbor these kinds of thoughts. Just like I wouldn’t have expected Aldridge to smash his nose in for it. Aldridge, of all people. The one to trash talk me in front of my teammates and complain about every single one of my passes.

If there has to be a secret homophobe on every fucking team, why couldn’t it have been him? I feel ashamed when the thought worms its way into my head.

My talk with Coach starts with a lot of silence. It’s not the harsh and uncomfortable sort, but actually kind of nice—a break from the war zone my mind has become over the last few hours. Most of the guys have already been in here, so I probably don’t have much to add. Or maybe I do—depending on whether they decided to be truthful.

Coach offers me a cup of coffee and a protein bar from the vending machine. I’m grateful for both.

“I want to start with an apology to you, Nicholas,” he tells me after a long moment.

I cough in surprise, quickly clapping a hand over my mouth so I won’t spray him with coffee.

“For what?” I croak out, taking the napkin he scoots across the table.

“I am the Head Coach. Captain of this ship, if you will. If behavior is poor, leadership is to blame.”

“No!” I cry out. “It’s not...I mean, we all didn’t know…or maybe didn’t want to know…?”

“Didn’t want to know?”

“About...that he...that Zollweg thought like that.”

“You liked Zollweg, yes? He's a good teammate? A good captain?”

I blink at this abrupt change of topic, my answer coming in the form of a hesitant nod. Obviously not after what happened earlier, but when I think back beyond the day the Bats made it into the regionals...yes. I did like him. Which makes me hate myself right now.

“It's always worse when the good ones show their true colors. We wish every asshole would be a Resnikoff. A bully on the ice. A dirty player,” he explains, his Bulgarian accent coming through thicker than usual. It takes me a moment to realize he’s referring to The Resnikoff. Enforcer of the Rebels, until that leaked clip before McCoy’s Pride Night.

Coach waits until I've caught on before leaning back in his chair with a sigh, hands folded on his stomach.

“But sometimes they are Jamesons. Good guys, popular. Real nice. Hurts more when you’ve been to their house, sat on their couch, met their wife and children. Then they turn out to be homophobic. Or racist. Or…” he frowns for a moment. “Or a women-hater. Hurts more because you thought you knew this guy, right? You’re friends. And then time goes by,” he lifts a hand, waving it in the air, “one week, two weeks, a month, a year...and you think of little things. Things you thought were jokes, yes? Things you ignored on purpose maybe. And you think to yourself: No, he has not suddenly turned into a homophobe. He was always a homophobe. I just did not want to see it because I liked other sides of him.”

“You were friends with Avery Jameson?!” I blurt out, equally shocked and impressed by this detail. I knew Coach used to play in the NHL. I remember him starting at the All Star Games, in the playoffs, and how he lifted the Stanley Cup over his head. I just choose to ignore these memories nowadays, because I used to insult him heavily from behind our TV screen whenever he played against the Pioneers.

“I once called Avery my friend, yes. Played together for years. So I think: fool me once…but I should’ve known to look deeper. With my own team. I did not want you to feel unsafe or unwelcome here, Nicholas.”

“Un...welcome?” I echo, my cheeks burning from the underlying message there. Suddenly, my skin is itching beneath my athletic shirt and pads. I should’ve taken all of this off, not just my skates. I probably look ridiculous, but the game is officially on pause, and nobody knew what to do.

“You’re...I’m sorry, I might not have the right words for this. I think you’re bisexual, yes?”

I’m stunned. I did come out to a few teammates in my freshman year, but since I never brought it up again—even retreated further into the closet after the leaked clip and the interview—I assumed he didn’t know.

“Y-yes,” I confirm, and I hate how my voice shakes, how my fingers tremble so violently I spill some of the coffee onto my jersey.

But after a few shallow breaths, I also realize my chest suddenly feels lighter.

Like an invisible string had been tied around it this whole time and Coach undid the knot.

“Yes, I am,” I repeat, this time nodding along to my own words. “But it’s never been...I mean, I didn’t want it to define me as a player. So I didn’t want to make an issue out of it, I guess. But no one ever...I never felt unsafe at B-Tech,” I promise.

Until now , my mind adds quietly, causing a shiver to run down my spine. I can only imagine what my fellow students have to say after I might have ruined our chance to advance to the Frozen Four.

“How about now? If the game resumes, would you feel...comfortable playing? Without Zollweg.” Coach quickly adds that last part, which makes me snort. Zollweg and Aldridge will both be suspended for the rest of the game and probably for the next one, too, for fighting off the ice.

I take my time, chewing on the inside of my cheek as I replay the fight in my head. “What about Elrod?” I ask, and Coach leans forward at that, his fingers reaching for a pen.

“What did he do?”

“I don’t want to be a snitch,” I backpedal quickly, but he holds up a hand to stop me.

“Is not about snitching, Nicholas. You do not have to tell me if you don’t want to. But if I don’t ask and you don’t tell, we protect the wrong people and hurt future players.”

I think about that for a moment, wishing I had Nate here to speak for me. To form the words and voice my feelings.

“Okay,” I whisper, placing my coffee back onto the table.

“I’ll tell you.”

***

The game resumes after three hours, with nine minutes left on the clock.

They are the longest and most excruciating nine minutes of my life.

We play it in front of almost empty stands. The few supporters that have stayed behind watch in deadly silence, so every time a stick collides with the puck, it creates an eerie echo. I’m grateful for every change of shift that takes me off the ice, although the game is far from tiring. There’s no will to win on either side; both teams just push the puck around. No one wants to put it into the net. Without Xander and Nate on the ice, the Bats seem lost.

Guilt is dripping from every pore of us remaining Badgers, even with Zollweg off the ice. Coach suspended Elrod for the rest of the game, while Bergerson refused to continue playing with “traitors” like me.

I feel bad for our backup goalie, Richter, who gets to see his first ice time of the whole season.

When the horn signals for the end of the final period, the relief is palpable.

I can’t bear to look at the scoreboard displaying our win.

No one wants to take the puck with them as we shuffle into the locker room like a congregation of mourners.

Katz is the first one to speak while we all get dressed, some after the world’s quickest shower, others skipping it all together.

“I wish we had lost,” he says, and no one argues with that.

We have another night booked at the hotel, but Coach lets us know we aren’t obligated to take the team bus back to Bonham, only reminding us that training will take place on Monday as planned.

When I leave the locker room, hood pulled over my damp hair and duffel bag slung over my shoulder, my brother is waiting for me.

“Nicky,” he says, pushing off the wall. He’s wearing the proper attire of suit and dress shoes, but all of his top buttons are undone and his tie hangs loose, like he couldn’t be bothered to do the knot.

“Nicky?” he says again, and now there’s a hint of insecurity in his voice.

“Yeah?” I croak out, my throat suddenly dry. I haven’t spoken a word to Nate since our fight, and now that he’s just a few feet away from me, the emotions crash into me like a tsunami. I’ve missed him.

I’ve missed him so fucking much .

“Oh, thank God, it’s you,” he laughs, and I hear his nerves in every syllable. “I was afraid I made a mistake because I’m not wearing contacts right now and I think my eyesight has gotten worse and–”

I cross the distance between us with three big strides, throwing my arms around him to interrupt his nervous babble.

“Shut up,” I tell him as I pull him close. “And just wear your damn glasses.”

Nate’s arms tighten around me as he leans into the embrace, his breath hitching next to my ear. “I don’t like them. They make me look ugly.”

“We look literally the same.”

“Yes, that’s how I know what they would look like on me.”

I snort at that and then, the next moment, I cry.

I hate crying, because the aftermath makes me feel like a kindergartner throwing a tantrum, paired with the headache of a college freshman, but I can’t hold it back.

I cry over what happened today. Over losing people I trusted and missing my brother. Over the dream I used to have—when I thought hockey was for everyone and my knee was still alright.

I cry and cry and cry until there are literally no more tears and the light in the hallway dims.

Nate is the first one to move, only leaning back a fraction so I can look at his face. His eyes are red and his nose is snotty, and seeing that makes me feel better and worse at the same time.

“Don’t cry,” I tell him uselessly.

He snorts, then reaches into his pocket to produce a pack of tissues for both of us, offering me one first. It’s the most Nate-like thing condensed into one single gesture.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asks as I blow my nose. The sound echoes louder than the trumpet of an elephant, causing him to huff out a laugh.

“Yes,” I sniff. “I’m mad that you didn’t trust me with your goals.”

“You had so much going on, Nicko.”

I shrug at that, just squeezing his elbow. There’s nothing more important going on in my life than my brother. I don’t say it out loud, but Nate must read the thought on my face.

“There’s Xander now,” he reminds me quietly.

“He’s not more important than you,” I grumble, heart squeezing in my chest. I instinctively look around for him, but we’re alone.

Nate chuckles at that, nudging our shoulders together. “But also not less.”

I won’t argue with that, mostly because it doesn’t matter anyways. Xander’s season is officially over now, so he’ll probably sign his contract in the upcoming week. And with that, whatever we had will be officially over, too.

“Look, I’m so–” Nate starts, but I interrupt him immediately.

“I know. It’s fine.” I just want to skip the apologies and have our fight be over.

Nate shakes his head. “I know you know, but I still need you to hear it: I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the Utonagans. And I’m also sorry I lied about the Pioneer Scouts.”

“You meant well,” I hum. “And you were right. I did need an intervention to get my head out of my ass.”

“Yes, you did. But it still wasn’t the right thing to do,” Nate sighs.

“It’s not just about the Utonagans, though,” I tell him. “I literally had to live your life for two weeks to find out you want to write a book? That you changed the combination of your lock? That you go for morning runs now?”

“Write a book?” he blinks at me in confusion, and I frown.

“It’s what you said in your essay for creative writing? That your life goal is to write a book.”

“Oh, that,” Nate snorts and waves me off. “Professor Fiore is a bit intense about athletes and them not taking college seriously, so I knew he wouldn’t want to read about me winning the Stanley Cup with you,” he grins and elbows me in the ribs.

“You lied in your essay?!”

“No. I can have more than one life goal, Nicko. First I’ll climb my way up from the Utonagans to the Pioneers. Then I’ll beat you in the playoffs so the Rebels will take me on and we’ll win the Stanley Cup together. And once we’ve done that three more times, I’ll write a book about it.”

I can’t help the hoarse laugh escaping my throat, my heart swelling in my chest.

“I was afraid I didn’t know my own twin, but you’re as dumb as always.”

My brother’s face turns serious at my words. “You’ll always know me, Nicky. I changed my locker combination so the guys would stop fucking with my stuff, and I still hate morning runs. And if that ever changes, you’ll be the first to know,” he explains and I nod, pulling him closer.

We stand in comfortable silence for a moment, just leaning into each other, when suddenly Nate breaks out into a grin. “There’s one thing I’m not sorry about, though: You and Xan finally got your shit together.”

I roll my eyes at that. “Guess we could’ve had that a lot earlier. Like, if I had been upfront with you and not switched schools at the last moment.”

“Oh, no,” Nate laughs, throwing one arm around my shoulder as he guides us to the exit. “I mean yes, that would have totally been the right thing to do, but trust me, you still would have hated him back then.”

He is probably right about that, and I almost wish I could go back to hating Xander now.

It would make the future so much easier.