Season's Change Page 8

  They won 1-0. Olly felt something verging on happiness after a hockey game, for the first time in recent memory: he’d clicked with Luke and Bevvo, in a way he didn’t with Yelich and Persy.

  But of course, Luke and Bevvo were better hockey players than the guys on Olly’s line. They were faster, more experienced, earned more points. Luke had gone fifth in the draft; Bevvo had won a Cup with LA. Olly shouldn’t get used to it.

  He didn’t have time to dwell. Some journo had cornered Benji, probably to ask him about Robbo. Olly could already hear the color commentary: they were going to say he was scared to fight. McMeade was going to say he was scared to fight. What a fucked-up situation.

  Olly snagged a seat next to him on the bus. He was staring out the window, watching the Pittsburgh lights crawl by and turning his phone over in his hands. Olly didn’t know what to say. Settled on, “Have you heard from your sister?”

  “No.”

  Olly nudged him with his elbow. It was hard not to think about earlier, waking up with the long, warm line of Benji’s body against his back, but none of Olly’s issues were important right now.

  * * *

  Benji had an exemption from team dinner. Olly wondered if he’d show up, anyway, if Krista cancelled, but he didn’t.

  Poiro got a little too drunk at the restaurant, which was nothing new. Olly thought a come-to-Jesus moment might be headed his way if he didn’t watch it with the alcohol. But he and the younger guys went out after dinner, anyway, which meant Olly had the room to himself.

  It was tasteful, neutral, indistinguishable from every other hotel room before it, he thought as he changed out of his suit. Everything was quiet, after the mayhem of dinner and the arena. And it had been a long goddamned day, even without Benji’s suit drama. Olly felt his lips tug up into a smile: Benji had looked so sweet in the mirror, staring at the man in the suit like he didn’t believe it could possibly be him. He’d looked good as hell, too, which—shit, that was one of those thoughts Olly wasn’t supposed to be having.

  It was so goddamned hard not to.

  Olly picked up his phone. Did your rookie come home? he asked Soko.

  No mama bear, Soko responded after a few minutes. If he’s not back soon will call.

  Olly shouldn’t text him. Benji was fine. You okay, he typed, then deleted it. He frowned at his phone. Had an idea.

  He zipped on a hoodie over his T-shirt, stuck his feet in his sneakers, and headed downstairs.

  Olly found Benji in the back of the hotel bar, still wearing his suit but with his tie spilling out of his breast pocket. He was staring into a glass of whisky, head propped on one fist. It was a nice bar: polished wood, leather club chairs, music quiet enough for conversation. Olly hoped nobody knew who they were.

  “You okay?” he asked, even though he hated it when people asked him that. Well, everyone but Benji. Hopefully it worked the same in reverse.

  Benji picked up his glass, tilting the whisky back and forth. His eyes shaded toward brown, surrounded by all the wood grain and leather. He seemed to really be thinking about Olly’s question, his dark brows drawing together at the center. “I don’t know.” He offered the glass to Olly. “Do you want some? I hate scotch.”

  “Sure.” The glass was still warm from Benji’s fingers. He took a sip, rolled the peaty burn across his tongue. Swallowed. The liquor settled into a warm liquidity in his stomach. He hadn’t had anything stronger than a beer, singular, since that night in Minneapolis.

  Benji was smiling a little, looking at him. “You like it?”

  “Yeah. My dad’s a big scotch guy.”

  “I fucking hate it.”

  Olly shrugged, flagged down the bartender, ordered a Heineken. His dignity wouldn’t extend to Bud. “Trade you.”

  “Thanks.” Benji clinked the lip of his bottle against Olly’s rocks glass.

  It felt like they were in their own little world, tucked away in the farthest corner of the bar. Olly tried not to enjoy the familiar lines of Benji’s face as they smoothed out. He’d shifted toward Olly a little, opening the angle of his shoulders. The white of his shirt collar contrasted with the golden tan of his skin. Olly looked down at the surface of his drink, so he wouldn’t look at the line his throat made as he swallowed.

  “Robbo cancelled on dinner,” Benji said finally. “No fucking surprise. Kris promised she’d come, anyway. Then I’m sitting in the restaurant, this goddamned place where I can’t read half the shit on the menu, and she calls.” He stopped. Took another pull from the beer. “She’s making up some bullshit about a headache, and I know she’s trying not to cry. Finally she goes into the whole thing—it was just going to be a fight, everyone fights in hockey, it would have been a funny story, Rob didn’t mean anything by it.

  “It’s always, Oh, Benji, you’re so sensitive, he likes trying to get a rise out of you, don’t make it so easy on him. But now poor Rob is embarrassed, and my goon D partner broke his nose, and it’s all my fault. Because it can never be his fault.

  “You know she didn’t just come down to DC to help me move, right? She caught him screwing some other girl. Again.” He stared at the label on his bottle, tracing the points of the red Heineken star with the pad of his thumb. “Our family situation was pretty fucked up. Mom didn’t work much. Always had some new man paying for her shit, because she’s really charming when she can pull it together. But it would never last with the good ones, since she couldn’t keep it up for that long. Kris and I swore we’d never be like that, never depend on someone else like that. And she was working, taking classes at the community college.

  “Biggest fucking regret of my life, telling her to come out with us after this one clinic Rob and I were both at. As soon as they met, it was right back to the same shit. She said she didn’t want to get married until she finished her degree, but she did. And now Kris is in the same damned situation. Just in a house with more bedrooms. Wearing more expensive clothes.”

  Olly reached out and gripped his forearm. “Benji. Jesus, I’m so sorry.”

  He rolled his shoulders back, circled his head around on his neck like he did when he was getting ready to go out for a shift. “I can’t fix it. I know that. I can’t push too hard because I don’t want her to stop talking to me at all. And she swears she knows what she’s doing, that she’s gonna make it as, like, an Instagram influencer or whatever.” He gave Olly a sad smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. Shrugged. “But I hate to see what it does to her, staying with him. She’s all I’ve got.”

  “No, she’s not.” Olly reached across the narrow space between their two stools, and wrapped his arm around Benji’s shoulders. Pulled him in for a sideways hug. It felt like the right thing to do, with how tactile Benji always was. “I haven’t known you that long, but people care about you. And I’ve always got your back, okay? Whether it’s fighting Robbo or just, you know, talking.”

  “You’re not fighting Robbo, bud,” Benji told him, sliding his arm around Olly’s rib cage. “I’ll fucking murder him first.”

  “Okay, tough guy.” Olly didn’t let himself think about how good Benji’s body felt, or wonder what this would look like if someone put a cell phone picture on Twitter.

  They finished their drinks. Talked about the game, Olly waving it off when Benji tried to compliment how well he’d played. He’d just been out there with better guys, and he wasn’t going to stay on that line. He’d barely centered the second line in Colorado; maybe he’d been playing up there more his third season, he guessed, but then he’d fucked up his knee.

  “I don’t even want to watch the commentary,” Benji said. “I’m gonna get shit on.” He was done with his beer; Olly swallowed the last sip of the scotch, then gestured for the bill.

  “Never listen to what those fuckheads say,” Olly said. Which was very much do as I say: he’d never been able to resist reading his own bad press. And there had be
en plenty in Minnesota. Fuck, there had even been plenty after the trade, randos on the Eagles Instagram saying he was overpaid, that he was made of glass. It used to motivate him; but then it had gotten all fucked up, like everything else.

  He wasn’t going to worry about that right now, though. His issues had occupied enough of their time, and Benji still looked like a worn-out shadow of himself. “Hey. Come on, give me your phone. We need to post a shout-out to Loic for the new suit.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Benji had a voicemail from Krista after they landed in DC. Coach O had an optional afternoon skate session, and Benji wanted to go instead of fighting with Kris again. About half the team was there, mostly the younger guys who didn’t have families. Plus Dewitt, who was always trying to set a good example. Bevvo bounced up and gave Olly a hug and a backslap, which was nice to see. Benji hoped Coach O kept Olly on the second line. The Eagles weren’t so stacked through the center that they were knocking down a superstar. Lukesy was his boy, but he was a little...picky. Not in a diva way, but more that he liked to play how he liked to play, and that did not involve playing center.

  So okay, maybe he was a little bit of a diva. But Dewitt wasn’t begging to play center, either.

  Poiro slipped in late, followed by the goalie coach. Olly said he’d gotten back after curfew in Pittsburgh again. Benji mouthed busted across the room; Poiro responded with a rude gesture.

  It was an easy practice. Coach O had Olly with Lukesy and Bevvo again, and he looked lighter when they were done, blue eyes wrinkling at the corners when he laughed at something Bevvo said. Benji liked Olly’s laugh: his whole face got involved, and it always seemed to take him by surprise to find himself laughing his head off.

  They went shopping afterward. Poiro tried to invite himself along, but Benji nixed it. The new clothes and shit made him all nervous and off-balance; and he trusted Olly not to make fun of him, or troll him into getting something ridiculous. He tried not to get into his whole, like, history too much, the way he had in Pittsburgh. None of his teammates wanted to hear his sob story. Olly had been nice about it, though. Supportive, the same way he was being now.

  “You said Loic is still helping you?” Olly asked in the car, eyes on the taillights in front of them. “You don’t mind that he’s, you know.”

  Benji blinked, looking up from the message string with his agent. He’d been using it to procrastinate on calling Krista back. “That he’s what?”

  “Gay, or whatever.”

  He shrugged. “He knows what’s up with suits, that’s all I care about.”

  “That’s good,” Olly said, after a second. And then a new text popped up from Benji’s agent.

  It was a photo of Benji walking off the bus in Pittsburgh, screenshotted off—he squinted—@HockeyHimbos on Twitter. It wasn’t quite as bad as it could have been, like maybe the picture showed his block, but not...all the tackle. His agent’s text said EXPLAIN.

  “What the fuck was that noise you just made?” Olly asked.

  “Someone got a shot of the pants.”

  This was dire enough for Olly to take his eyes off the Beltway. “Oh, no.”

  “It’s on the internet.”

  “Well,” Olly said. “I think the women fans are going to love you.”

  “And maybe some of the guys, too.”

  While Olly navigated the ever-shitty traffic, Benji did something new: he googled himself. The good news was that his dick was more interesting to Twitter than not fighting Robbo.

  Who is this big rig and why do I want him to punch me in the face was the first thing he saw. The leading response was, He won’t fight so he’s not your type.

  “This isn’t the worst thing,” Olly pointed out. “You needed more social media engagement, anyway.”

  “I’m pretty sure this is the worst thing, bud.” Benji locked his phone and chucked it in the back seat. It started buzzing immediately. He felt a squirming thread of guilt for ignoring his agent—or Krista, it was even odds—but what the fuck was he going to say? He was on his way to fix the problem. Thinking about the amount of money he was about to spend on fucking clothing made him feel physically ill.

  “Benj.” Olly braked so some asshole with diplomatic plates could swerve across their lane. “I’ll do your social media for you, if it’s stressing you out that much. Or sit next to you while you do it. It’s really not that scary.”

  “I don’t want to be on Twitter for this bullshit. I want people to be talking about my hockey, not my dick size.”

  “They’ll be talking about your hockey, dude. You’re killing it.”

  Benji let his head thunk over against the window. “I’m gonna get murdered in the locker room.”

  “Yeah, but next week they’ll be onto some other shit. Poiro told me Yelich is proposing to his girlfriend. Fuck, Poiro’s gonna get caught with his dick out at some point.”

  “At least my dick is bigger than Poiro’s dick.”

  Olly made a choking noise. “If that’s how you want to look at it.”

  Benji rolled out his neck and took a couple of cleansing breaths. He’d learned to deal with getting chirped at as part of his whole anger management, personal growth journey. Normal bullshit in the locker room, normal bullshit out on the ice. Didn’t mean he had to like it.

  Groaning, he fished his phone off the back seat and called his agent.

  Once they arrived and Benji’s agent had tired himself out, Loic FaceTimed into round two of personal shopping, giving directions to a woman who hustled Benji in and out of a variety of outfits. By the end of it, he had multiple suits and pairs of pants that were actually going to fit. For, like, the first time ever. Apparently people even got shorts tailored? Who the fuck knew.

  “I don’t see how people do this for fun,” Benji informed Olly, once they’d gotten all his new shit into 505. At least the stuff that wasn’t getting tailored. So like ties, socks, and underwear, only.

  “Everyone who’s seen you wear clothes knows you hate shopping.”

  “Hey, now.” He swatted the back of Olly’s head. “Apparently my ass is so spectacular it won’t fit in pants for regular people. I don’t see your ass needing special pants.”

  Olly smacked him back. “Not everyone has your gifts, okay.”

  “Your ass is great, bud. It’s just not gonna trend on Twitter.”

  Olly had no response for that one.

  Chapter Twelve

  They beat Toronto, and then lost to New York. Benji was pissed, even if he was trying to laugh it off—he’d missed a block on the game-winning goal. Soko dragged him out for a drink, which left Olly feeling oddly aimless. It hadn’t been that long since he’d moved into the 505, but he’d gotten used to having Benji around. They might get chirped at for their bromance, but he couldn’t deny that he felt better with Benji. Not in a gay way, okay, but Benji could get him out of his head, and didn’t seem to mind that he’d gotten stuck with the team fuckup.

  Olly was back to skating with Yelich and Persy. They’d put together solid pressure on Toronto, and he’d gift-wrapped Yelich a goal from a face-off during the New York game. His first in the NAHA: Yelich had practically been crying during his celly. And it had gotten a point for Olly, not that it had mattered in the end.

  The 505 felt quiet. Olly could never forget that Benji was there: watching Animal Planet or David Attenborough nature documentaries in the living room, making something in the kitchen, asking if he wanted to go for a walk or dragging him back to old-person yoga. Olly should be glad for the peace and quiet. Even with his roommates back in Denver, he’d always been happy to have the place to himself.

  He tried to focus on the Our Planet episode about the oceans, but gave it up when even the cool drone footage of the dolphins couldn’t hold his interest. He was scrolling through Insta, thinking about what he should have Benji post next, when a text popped up o
n his phone.

  Good assist, from his brother Sami. Killed that faceoff.

  Thanks.

  Sami sent back a gif of one of Olly’s cellys from Colorado, which was never going to stop being weird. He wasn’t famous even in hockey circles; he did not need gifs of himself on the internet. The goals are coming little bro.

  Sure yeah.

  You like it better down there though.

  Definitely. Sami’d had the best view of Olly’s meltdown with the Wolves, since he was getting his PhD in something in physics at UM in Minneapolis. If pressed, Olly would say he was closer with his oldest brother, Joey, but Joey hadn’t had a clue what was going on in his life, either. And Joey hadn’t been in touch much since Olly had stopped taking calls from Dad. Which hurt.

  It hurt a fucking lot, okay, to have Joey misunderstand something like that. To chalk it up to Olly being the bratty baby of the family. To Olly not wanting the help his dad had been giving him his whole life.

  But there weren’t many parts of Olly’s life that didn’t hurt. Even the good things felt temporary, like they’d go to hell as soon as someone finally leaked something to the press, or Crowder got drunk enough to forget his NDA, or Coach O decided he was more trouble than he was worth and traded him to Buffalo.

  His phone vibrated again. He accepted the FaceTime request.

  “Heya, broski,” Sami said. He was sitting on the floor in Olly’s niece’s room. “I told someone I was texting you, and she needed a good-night from Uncle Olly.”

  Olly smiled as Sami flipped the camera, and waved to Ada. She waved back from under her Moana-themed bedspread. “How’s my favorite night-owl niece? Did you finally get your parents to move your bedtime back?”