Season's Change Read online

  “Your skating is still pretty fucked,” Olly pointed out, smiling. It felt good to be able to joke around a little, to exchange normal teammate chirps.

  “Shut up, Toe Loop.”

  Olly should never have admitted to the figure skating thing.

  “Don’t start pouting on me again,” Benji ordered him. “I just got you to smile.”

  Olly winced. “Sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing.”

  “Don’t you mind?” It was out before he could stop himself. Apparently, it was his week for heart-to-hearts.

  “Mind what?”

  “Getting stuck with me,” Olly answered. “I know you’d probably rather be living with Poiro or Luke or somebody.”

  “Buddy.” Benji leaned back in his stool, balancing it on its back legs. “I would love it if you would put your fucking dishes in the dishwasher, but other than that we’re cool.”

  “You can’t mean that. I know I’m not—fun. Right now.” Christ, he’d used to be fun, hadn’t he? He could remember it. Or maybe he wasn’t remembering things right. His brothers had always been yelling at him to leave them alone, but he’d thought it was in good fun—they’d never stopped him from following them around. And he’d had friends at school, friends from hockey. He’d gotten into all kinds of shit.

  “I don’t need more fun,” Benji told him. “I’m not the best at reining it in; I can get pretty crazy. I don’t want to get distracted. And Poiro and Luke are pretty fucking distracting.”

  “They’re good, though.”

  “Of course they’re good. We’re all good. Or we wouldn’t be here.”

  Not me, Olly thought. Whatever Coach O had said, the NAHA had needed someplace to stick him to get the Wolves out of the legal crosshairs, and avoid a very messy lawsuit. And he was playing like shit. That assist had been a lucky bounce.

  “Oh my god.” Benji flicked him on the cheek. Olly jumped. “I can see you stressing out over there, dude. Stop.”

  “I can’t,” Olly answered, which was maybe the most honest thing he’d said today.

  “Good thing I have a surprise. We’re going to yoga, bud.”

  * * *

  After lunch and a nap—well, a nap for Benji; Olly had stared at the insides of his eyelids for an hour—Benji packed them into his truck and headed across the Key Bridge into Georgetown.

  Their destination was an airy space with Yoga Georgetown on the door. Its front desk was manned by a blonde in leggings and a sports bra, who looked at Benji like she wanted to eat him. He was apparently oblivious as the two of them signed release forms.

  “Don’t you want to, uh,” Olly said, flicking his eyes toward the girl. He hadn’t missed the sidebar on Benji’s late-night activities, and he wasn’t the best judge of female beauty, but he thought even Poiro would have to admit she was a knockout.

  “Nah.” Benji signed his release form with a flourish. “I’m good.”

  They were the first ones there for class. The instructor, a serene-looking woman with iron-gray locs, got Olly set up with a mat in the back. She asked him a bunch of questions about his goals for his practice, which Olly stumbled through until she finally gave him a peaceful nod, told him to take the class as it came, and to focus on aligning his breathing with his movements.

  Meanwhile, Benji was sitting with his legs crossed, hands on his knees, straight-up meditating or something. Olly didn’t know that he’d ever seen Benji so still before, the kind of stillness that it would take practice to achieve. It gave Olly an uncomfortable moment to stare at him, from the full curve of his mouth to the breadth of his shoulders.

  Shit. Wrong thing to be looking at. Olly had been viewing his teammates as pieces of furniture since he was thirteen years old. It was not the time to break that streak.

  During his little moment, the class had filled up.

  Olly blinked.

  Blinked again.

  “Bud,” he whispered.

  Benji opened his greenish eyes. “Yeah?”

  “Why is this class full of old people?” They were the only people under sixty.

  “Oh, it’s a yin class,” Benji said, as if that was the most totally fucking obvious thing in the world. “It’s very, like, gentle and restorative. For healing your energy flow and stuff.”

  “Energy flow,” Olly said carefully. He’d never thought about healing his energy flow—what did that even mean—once in his goddamned life.

  “Dude. The season’s about to start. I wouldn’t take you to something intense like Ashtanga right now.”

  “Oh, obviously. You’d take me to yoga for old people.”

  Benji grinned at him, big and open. “If the shoe fits, buddy.”

  * * *

  Olly would not say his first-ever yoga class was physically difficult; he wouldn’t say he enjoyed it, either. The teacher led them through a sequence of poses that felt pretty good in his hips, and found places in his shoulders that he hadn’t realized needed to be stretched. But it was just moving his body from one weird pose to another for an hour. If Olly’s energy flow was being healed, he couldn’t tell.

  He was pretty pissed off by the end of it. Like, this was his life: doing yoga with old people because his head was apparently this fucked up.

  And it wasn’t even helping.

  They did a final relaxation thing, where they lay on their backs with soothing music playing, and Olly could feel tears squeezing themselves up under his eyelashes.

  He wanted to fix himself, but he didn’t know how.

  Chapter Seven

  Olly was already in the kitchen when Benji came out the next morning, staring at the coffeepot while it dripped. Olly had acted weird as fuck after the yoga class. Like, extra weird. He’d gone straight to his room and kept the door shut the rest of the night. Benji had resisted the urge to leave him a plate of chicken and veggies in the microwave, like a fucking ’50s housewife.

  “Morning, buddy.”

  Olly jumped a little bit, which Benji was getting used to. It was like he got so stuck in his head that he forgot about the rest of the world.

  “Want some oatmeal?”

  “Um, sure. Coffee should be ready soon.”

  “Thanks.” He didn’t like coffee that much but Olly had decided it was his contribution to mornings in the 505, so Benji was trying to develop an appreciation.

  Olly looked bad, though. Worse than Benji could explain by a lack of caffeine. The circles around his eyes were darker, and his skin bordered on clammy. Even his perfect hair was fucked up, like he’d been laying on it weird, or hadn’t used all his products, or whatever it was that he normally did. Benji had no idea what went into maintaining normal hair, much less Olly’s level of flow.

  “Are you okay?” he asked cautiously. They had their first regular-season game tomorrow, against Boston.

  Olly’s fingers went white on the edge of the granite countertop. “Yup.”

  “Sorry if yoga with old people got you down.” Something had gone sideways around then, anyway.

  Olly closed his eyes. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Well, yeah. I know.” Benji busied himself with the oatmeal. Alise said Tom Brady was staying off dairy, so he’d told Olly to switch the grocery order to almond milk. Apparently he was also supposed to give up tomatoes, red meat, and whatever the fuck the “nightshade family” was, but that wasn’t going to happen unless he needed to do something drastic.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing,” Benji ordered the stove. “We had this conversation yesterday.”

  “Okay,” Olly snapped, “and what exactly do you want me to do instead, then?”

  Benji put down his spoon, took two steps toward the coffeepot, and wrapped Olly up in the tightest hug he could manage, before he had time to think about how Olly would react. Olly didn’t tense up or tr
y to pull away this time, though.

  “Hey,” Benji said into his hair. This was not the best day to be talking into Olly’s head; his roots were pretty fucking greasy up close. “I only got here because people gave a shit about me, okay? And because I was somehow smart enough to take the fucking help they were trying to give me, even though I was the most clueless little dumbass fuckup you can imagine. I hate to see one of my buddies having a hard time.”

  “You don’t know me.” Olly was all muffled, talking into his shoulder.

  “I don’t have to know you. You’re on my team.” He paused. “But, like, I do know you, okay? You’re a Pro Hockey wizard and you’re funny and you speak French and shit like some kind of genius, and bad shit obviously happened along the line but it doesn’t have to be like that now. I believe in you, buddy.”

  Olly’s shoulders were shaking. “I don’t think it’s ever going to get better, though. I’m just all fucked up.”

  Benji squeezed him tighter. “Maybe it won’t get better today, maybe not tomorrow. But it will.” He paused. “I really think you should talk to someone. Like, what could it possibly hurt? If things are already this bad.”

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Doctors have to keep things privileged. I was worried about that, when I saw my counselor in college, but he couldn’t tell anyone what I said unless I was going to hurt myself. No one would find out.”

  “I need to get tougher. I can’t keep acting like this.” He tensed up, as if he was going to go run or watch video or start bouncing his stressed-out tennis ball. Benji tightened his arms.

  “It’s not about being tough.”

  “The team would hate me. You’d hate me,” Olly continued, like he hadn’t even heard him.

  “Buddy.” He gave Olly’s torso a shake. “Did you murder a puppy? Did you hit my sister? No? Then I don’t hate you.”

  “You don’t even know.” Olly pulled away, for real this time, and Benji let him go.

  What the fuck had gone down in Minnesota? He’d watched some interviews on his little stalker-binge, and Olly-in-Denver had seemed okay enough, even with the injuries his third year. Olly-in-Minneapolis had started looking like Olly-in-their-kitchen toward the end of December. Benji sincerely hoped that he was a better roommate than Crowder had been. Or he was going to have to take a long, hard look at his life.

  They managed breakfast, survived a short run down the trail and morning skate. Olly was silent outside of whatever he had to call at the guys he was skating with. Coach O had Olly lined up with Yelich and Persy. He kept over-skating them. Yelich looked ready to cry; who the fuck knew what Persy was thinking behind his Swedish Viking beard.

  “Bowie!” Mils barked at him. “Focus on your own fucking squad. You can stare into Olly’s eyes later.”

  “They’re so pretty, though,” he parried.

  Lukesy made a gagging noise. “Dewey didn’t know what he was setting loose on us.”

  “True bromance, man,” Benji told him. “Get some.”

  And then he knocked Lukesy off the puck and sent it sailing into the goal.

  Which was fucking nuts. Lukesy had gone fifth in the draft. Mils was an All-Star and had an Olympic medal, and it was still looking like they were going to be paired up.

  Pinch him.

  * * *

  Benji’s high from practice got punctured as soon as he checked his texts in the car. He couldn’t hold in a sigh.

  “What?” Olly was staring at the red taillights in front of them. He had his 1980s metal on again.

  “My agent is totally up my ass about getting on this social media shit.”

  “It’s not that hard.”

  “I’m not good at spelling and stuff, though,” Benji admitted. If Olly could be vulnerable and shit around him, he could admit the things he sucked at, too.

  “I could help you, if you want. It’s pretty important.”

  “Oh my god, not you, too. Krista’s always bothering me about it.” Benji tapped the car’s touch screen to skip Mötley Crüe. There were limits to even his tolerance. Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again” started. Could be worse. “Plus, my agent wants me to get, like, a makeover. But leave my fucked-up teeth.”

  “You could probably get a haircut.”

  “You’re a fucking traitor. We can’t all have your—” He flapped a hand at Olly’s loose waves, which somehow looked amazing again after a quick scrub with the soap in the locker room. He’d started leaving it down in the last couple of days; it was long enough to brush his shoulders. “Gifts.”

  “Okay, whatever. Your life. Your bank account.”

  “Are you getting chippy with me over my hair?”

  “It’s...” Olly paused, and winced. “Really bad. And not like funny hockey-player-mullet bad. Just bad.”

  “Fuck you, dude.”

  “I mean, you can’t have it all together. Or the rest of us would feel terrible about ourselves.”

  “Bud, I don’t know how I fooled you into thinking I have it all together.” Benji was only where he was because he had worked so hard for so long to compensate for his weak spots: cooking, edge work, self-regulation, every basic life skill he should have learned at home.

  The traffic finally let them crawl up to the turn for their garage. Olly parked next to the truck, then shot Benji a glance out of his blue eyes. In the dim light, they looked even darker than usual. “We can work on self-improvement together, then. But I don’t see you fucking stuff up like I do. Except with your hair.”

  Benji held out a pinky. “Promise me one thing, okay?”

  Olly pursed one side of his mouth. “What?”

  “Don’t shut yourself up in your room. Even if you won’t see a counselor or whatever—which is totally your choice—I want you to talk to me.” He thought about it. “And also stop apologizing for being a human who has feelings.”

  “That was three things.”

  “I don’t give a shit.” Benji paused again. Added, “You also need to help me get better at Pro Hockey.”

  “If you’re getting four things,” Olly said, very seriously, “I need you to give me one more.”

  “Anything, buddy.”

  “Let me fix your fucking hair.”

  When they got back up to the 505, Olly did some Krista-level Yelp triangulation and name-dropping that resulted in the first appointment Benji ever had at a barbershop that didn’t take walk-ins. He had to admit, his hair did not look like a giant puff-cloud when it was done, and she’d rubbed something through it that de-frizzed it, but involved zero weird tools.

  New season new Benji, or something.

  * * *

  Olly looked goddamned good in a suit, even in the airport at six in the morning for their first road game of the season. He was all lean and crisp-looking, in some gray windowpane number that made him look taller than usual. Benji knew nothing about fashion, but Olly was like one of those catwalk dudes with the cheekbones and the lips going everywhere. It was really amazing how well his suit fit him.

  Poiro did not share the same opinion of Benji’s suit.

  “Oliver,” he rasped over his cup of airport coffee, “how could you let your husband out in that.”

  Olly flinched. He did that a lot when he got chirped about their bromance, Benji was realizing. Hopefully he didn’t have a problem with gay people or some bullshit, although Benji couldn’t really square that with his buddy’s general character.

  “This from a man wearing velvet loafers,” Olly rallied.

  “Fix this,” Poiro ordered. “Mary, mother of god. The hair was just the beginning.”

  “You fix it, since you care so much.”

  Benji tried, “I don’t think I’d look good in velvet loafers, buddy.”

  They ignored him and continued squabbling as they boarded the chartered fucking jet—what was hi
s life. Poiro eventually lapsed into aggravated French, and Olly responded in kind.

  Benji collapsed into an open seat next to Lukesy. He was wearing a normal blue suit: no velvet, no print, not even one of those little fabric thingies in his pocket. “Bud, is my suit really that bad?”

  “Yeah, bro. Sorry.” Lukesy shrugged. “I mean, I don’t give a shit. I’ve got better things to do than stare at your ass like your two girlfriends.”

  “My ass is pretty great, though.”

  “Not in that suit, it’s not.”

  “Rookies! Shut the fuck up,” Sokolov yelled. “Too much energy for this early in the morning.” He sat, then heaved himself back up again. “Bowie, get a better suit. Disgrace to our blue line.”

  Lukesy gave him a soft pat on the shoulder. Benji decided it was time to retreat into his headphones and take a goddamned nap.

  * * *

  “Don’t ever let me go out with Poiro again,” Benji moaned the morning after the game. They’d shut the Demons out, which was a hell of a way to kick off their road trip. Olly had done okay, too. He’d dropped Yelich a few times, but managed to find Persy’s tape with a few sweet passes. And there was this moment where he deked the shit out of one of the D-men, and Benji had been able to see the smile on his face all the way from the bench. The result had been enough to put Poiro in a celebratory mood, which turned out to be a dangerous combination in proximity to New York City.

  “Weak” was Soko’s verdict. He had no goddamned pity. “Don’t know how you got so drunk and still kept curfew.”

  Olly had seen the way the night was going to go at the team dinner, stolen his phone, and plugged in a series of increasingly capitalized alarms (“drink some water now,” “forty-minute warning,” “call a lyft NOW,” “YOU ARE SO FUCKING LATE”).

  Benji didn’t think that was going to make anyone believe they were less married. But it had worked, so.

  Olly and Poiro showed up late, Olly exasperated and Poiro on the verge of death.