Season's Change Page 9

  “Mama let us stay up with Daddy to watch your game. And Daddy says ’cause you got an assist we can watch all the other ones. Matty fell asleep, but I didn’t.”

  “Sounds like you’re my good-luck charm, then.”

  “Woah, woah,” Sami interjected from off-screen. “Bedtimes are real. Say good-night, Ada.”

  Sami switched off the light and slipped out of her bedroom, camera bouncing as he jogged downstairs to his office. Olly had a brief, swinging view of Sami’s stacks of textbooks. Olly had been fine at math and science in school, but there was Honors high school physics and then there was Relatavistic Quantum Field Theory. Joey had done a few years of college before he started at the port, mostly to play hockey, and Levi had gone straight into an electrician apprenticeship; but Sami had always been the smart one. He was athletic, too, obviously, but Dad had let him take the hockey scholarship to Ohio State. Even handled it with something approaching grace when he’d quit after his freshman year.

  Nobody had thought Sami was going to the show, though.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” Sami said finally, fixing the camera and propping his chin on his hand. It was what their mother did when she wanted to get serious. “I wanted to really see how things were going in DC. I know shit got a little messy up here.”

  “Why? You going to tell Dad about it?”

  Sami rolled his eyes: the same blue eyes he, Olly, and their mom all shared. “No. Come on.”

  “Didn’t stop you from telling him everything last year.” As much as he’d known, at least. Olly had made sure that nobody knew the why behind any of it.

  “I was worried. I thought Mom and Dad could help you. You weren’t letting me.”

  “Yeah, thanks for that.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I can’t believe I raised a son who’s running away the second it gets hard.” Olly’s career had never been anything but hard, even when things were going well. His sexuality was a fucking land mine that would go off the second he put one foot wrong. He couldn’t date, he couldn’t have a relationship; he’d flown solo at all three of his brothers’ weddings, brushing off the well-meaning questions about when he’d be settling down himself. Kids were out of the question, even though guys from his draft class were starting to pop up on social media with fat-cheeked babies in tiny sweaters.

  But most of all, he couldn’t be honest with his teammates. He couldn’t be honest with his own family. He had to lie, by word or action or omission, every single goddamned day of his life.

  And his father thought he quit when it got hard.

  “I’m sorry that I did the wrong thing,” Sami said, after a pause. “But you and Dad were always close. I didn’t mean to make things worse.”

  “Sure.”

  Sami blew out a breath. “Bro, I don’t want to fight with you. I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “That’s what you said in February, when you showed up on my doorstep at 3 am with no coat, no shoes, and a giant black eye. And then you moved into a hotel and locked yourself up with your agent and the scariest fucking lawyer I’ve ever seen. I’ve known you your entire life—you were not fine.”

  “Things are okay now,” Olly said. “The Eagles’ system is a better fit for me. I’ve gotten some assists.”

  “I’m not talking about hockey. I’m talking about you.”

  “It’s the same thing, isn’t it?” There was the bitterness again, rising up and threatening to choke him. It all came back to fucking hockey. Everything he loved in his life; everything he hated.

  “It’s really not.” Sami paused, added, “I don’t think Dad ever got that. Remember that tournament when you were what, twelve? You had the flu and you kept puking all over the place. I don’t know how you were even standing up, but there you were, taking face-offs and then throwing up the second your shift was over. Or when you broke those ribs in sophomore year, and you taped them up and kept going the whole season because Dad said the scouts would be watching. I remember thinking you were such a tough little SOB, but...” He trailed off. “Now I’ve got kids, and I can’t imagine doing that to them. Or wanting them to do that to themselves.

  “I mean...” Sami stopped again. “Dad wasn’t a walk in the park for me, either. I know he meant well. But I think, maybe, you got it the worst. Even if you never seemed to mind it.”

  Olly swallowed. His eyes were stinging and his throat was closing up. He couldn’t speak.

  Sami shut his eyes, looking tired and...dad-like, honestly. Not like their dad. Like Matt and Ada’s dad, who attended tea parties and would never get thrown out of a youth hockey game.

  “You’re my baby brother, Olly,” Sami said finally. “I want you to be happy. And I want you to know you’ve got a family that loves you and will still love you even when life gets hard. Messy. Not-fine. Whatever. You don’t have to face down everything on your own.”

  “Thanks, Sami.” Olly still felt a little wobbly, but he made himself add, “There’s a good group of guys down here. I know they’ve got my back. Coach O, too.”

  Sami smiled. “Yeah, you and that roommate look like good buddies on Instagram. I was hoping that wasn’t social media BS.”

  “Benji’s a good dude.” That was inadequate, but Olly wasn’t going to tell Sami about the yoga and the pinky-promises and the crying; and he didn’t want to open the door to thinking about what would happen to all of that, if Benji knew the truth.

  They talked for a few more minutes, Sami filling him in on some gossip from their youth team. Olly hadn’t talked to any of them in years, even though he could remember being at graduation parties, swearing they’d be buddies forever.

  It all felt like it had happened to a different person, back when the worst thing in his life was that he was going to become a professional hockey player instead of going to college.

  As they said their good-nights, Olly couldn’t help thinking about that tournament Sami had mentioned. The one where he had the flu. He couldn’t remember the games themselves—it was a long time ago, a haze washed in stomach acid and thrown-up Gatorade.

  What he did remember: the weekend before, sitting tucked into a corner of the basement while Joey and Levi had friends over. They were in high school at that point, and the friends snuck in beer through the back door. They had either forgotten Olly was there or were letting him stay as long as he kept his mouth shut. They’d been playing Mario Kart and he’d been internally debating whether he dared ask for a turn, when two of the friends had started fighting over the controller. The bigger guy was a wrestler, and he pinned the other one, right there on their grody basement carpet. Olly had felt a shock of heat and the burn of the thought, I wish that was me.

  He’d scrambled up the stairs immediately, cheeks flushed red and hands shoved in his pockets. Crawled into bed and didn’t know what to do with the things he was feeling.

  But he’d still known they were wrong. Had been terrified someone was going to look at him and know.

  The flu felt like a cosmic balancing of the scales. Playing through it had been his twelve-year-old attempt at penance; or maybe he’d been afraid to show any weakness. If he hadn’t played, had given any hint of a flinch, he’d thought people would be able to see it all over him.

  It was all tangled up, now, the terror and the stomach acid and the sour burn of the shame.

  Maybe it shouldn’t have been that way. Maybe it wouldn’t be, for Matt or his other nieces and nephews, if they ever played with the same promise Olly had.

  But Olly couldn’t help the way that it had gone for him.

  He put his phone down and restarted the documentary, settling into the darkness of the living room and the hypnotic rhythm of David Attenborough’s voice. Olly watched walruses fall off cliffs, bouncing down rock faces until their lifeless bodies washed in the eddies of the tide; and glaciers cal
ve into the sea, lifting waves to the top of the world. He didn’t sleep, exactly, but he settled into a kind of daze, deep enough that he was startled when he heard Benji’s key in the door.

  “You’re up,” Benji said from the doorway. The light from the hall turned him into nothing more than a silhouette and a voice as he threw his jacket on the breakfast bar and collapsed onto the couch at Olly’s feet. He’d taken off his tie; his shirt gaped at his throat.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” Olly answered, even though he hadn’t really tried.

  Benji yawned, scratched a big hand through his messy curls. “Can you ever?”

  Olly shrugged and curled deeper into the couch. The episode ended and the next one began, and at least he wasn’t alone on the worried track of his memories anymore.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Benji hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the couch, but the beers with Soko had knocked all the energy out of him. He hadn’t been in the best place after the game; he hated fucking up, and he should have read the play better, gotten into a stronger position. But he hadn’t. And he could tell himself that they’d had five more minutes in the third period to equalize until the cows came home, but it wasn’t going to make him feel better. He’d just have to make fucking sure they beat Florida.

  Olly was asleep at the far end of the couch: his eyes were closed, his breathing was regular, and he seemed to be drooling on the cushion. He’d played well, irritating the shit out of whichever New York players were on the ice. So that was something.

  His feet were tucked under Benji’s leg, and Benji had wrapped a hand around the warm skin of his ankle like it was a fucking teddy bear. His hair was redder than usual against the gray of the upholstery, falling out of the knot at the back of his head to curl against the angles of his cheekbones.

  It was late—neither of them had set an alarm—and Benji should get up. Make breakfast, do his morning routine. But he didn’t want to move, and Christ knew the last time Olly had gotten any sleep. He looked peaceful. Relaxed.

  So Benji didn’t go anywhere.

  He was halfway through an email from the PR office about some upcoming charity shit when Olly finally woke up. The leg under Benji’s hand tensed. He realized that he’d never gotten around to letting it go, and that his thumb was making slow circles into the skin over Olly’s anklebone.

  Olly blinked at him with sleepy blue eyes, lifting a hand to push his hair out of his face. There was a crease from the seam of the pillow dented into his cheek. He looked disoriented and kind of cute, like a cat caught napping that was pretending it had been awake the whole time.

  “Morning.”

  “Hi,” Olly mumbled, swinging around to put his feet on the floor. “What fucking time is it?”

  “Late. Still plenty of time until skate, though.”

  “Shit.” Olly buried his face in his hands and scrubbed at his eyes. They were both still wearing after-game clothes; Olly’s normally pristine white shirt was crumpled and an extra button was undone. “I need coffee.”

  Benji gestured expansively to the kitchen as Olly stumbled to his feet. “Did you sleep, at least?”

  “Guess so.” He twisted around to watch Olly shrug his shoulders under his wrinkled shirt. The coffee machine gave its good-morning gurgle; Olly reached up to dig his fingers into his hair, shaking it out of the last remnants of the knot he’d had it in. It caught the light angling in from the windows leading onto the balcony.

  “Your hair looks real gingery today.” That was, okay, a nonsense thing to say.

  Olly gave him the finger over his shoulder. He tied his hair up again and was back to Viking raider mode. Viking raider who couldn’t grow a beard mode, maybe. Did Vikings come from Finland? He wasn’t sure.

  Benji dragged himself off the couch—whatever else he was feeling about Krista, she had A+ taste in living room furniture—to take a piss and change out of his suit pants. He was surprised he wasn’t more tired; the couch might be comfortable, but he couldn’t spread out like in his own bed. But his body’s only complaint was the echo of an ache in his shoulder, where he’d gotten rammed into the boards. It didn’t feel serious, but he’d talk to the trainers. Benji had been told point-blank that his lack of an injury record was a major advantage. So he took injury-prevention seriously, and had zero qualms about telling the coaching staff if he had a twinge.

  Olly was leaning on the counter when he got back out, looking like he was about to fall back asleep.

  “Go back to bed, bud,” Benji told him. “I’ll get you up when we actually need to leave.”

  He shook his head reflexively, then kind of drooped. “Yeah, maybe. You don’t mind?”

  “’Course not, bro. Go sleep.” It was obvious he needed it.

  Benji made breakfast—scrambled eggs with spinach and chicken sausage—left a plate out for Olly, then unrolled his yoga mat in the living room for a quick practice to loosen up his hips and shoulders, and to formally bid his fuckup from the night before goodbye.

  * * *

  By the time he was done, they needed to leave. Olly had left his bedroom door open; Benji knocked on the frame, then eased in with a travel mug of coffee. He realized it was the first time he’d been inside Olly’s room. It was a white box: nothing on the walls, a half-unpacked suitcase shoved against the dresser. Their road hotels had more personality.

  Olly was facedown on the bed, head stuck underneath a pillow. He’d changed into track pants, but he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He was too skinny, Benji thought; he could practically see the outlines of his ribs in his back, rising and falling as he breathed. Benji would be shocked if he was the 185 advertised on his stat sheet.

  “Rise and shine, buddy,” Benji said, wafting the coffee cup toward Olly’s face.

  Olly responded with a whiny noise in the back of his throat before he pushed himself up. He blinked up at Benji with his sleepy blue eyes and grabbed for the coffee.

  “You’re pathetic.” Benji low-key loved seeing him all off-kilter and early morning sleepy.

  “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me,” Olly mumbled into the mug.

  “Think you’re tired, bro.”

  Olly rubbed his eyes. “I’ll be ready in a second, promise.”

  “Breakfast’s in the kitchen.”

  “Thanks.” He paused. Benji could practically see his brain trying to work. “Um, not just for the wake-up call. For, um, everything.”

  Benji smiled down at him, feeling weirdly warm. Probably from holding the coffee. “Duh. What are friends for?”

  * * *

  They only had a day until they hosted Florida, so morning skate was light. Olly watched Benji amble off to go talk to the trainers afterward, saying something about a twinge in his shoulder.

  “Oliver, walk with me,” Poiro ordered, materializing at Olly’s shoulder like a cranky Francophone ghost.

  “Where?”

  “I don’t fucking know! Just walk. Fucking Puritan Americans. It’s about the journey.”

  Olly rolled his eyes. For someone who had nothing in common with Olly’s brothers, it was startling how much interacting with Poiro reminded Olly of interacting with his brothers. Only, when he’d been ten years old.

  They took the elevator down to street level—why the Eagles practice rink was on the top floor of a parking garage, Olly would never know—then headed out into the chilly October sunshine.

  Poiro ordered two Americanos at the Starbucks across the street. Olly turned down the offer of a chunk of his coffee cake. Poiro shoved half of it in his mouth while they waited for their coffees. He looked a little demented, all long limbs and elbows with his hair going five different directions and crumbs stuck to his chin. Say what you would about Poiro, but unless he was drunk off his face at three in the morning, he had a lot of self-possession.

  Olly started to get worried.

  “A l
ittle bird told me something,” he said as he picked up their coffees and herded Olly to a table.

  He was still speaking French. The bottom dropped out of Olly’s stomach. “Yeah?”

  Poiro collapsed into a chair. “This fucking team might send me down to wherever the actual fuck Hershey, Pennsylvania, is.”

  The air whooshed out of Olly’s lungs in relief. That probably made him an asshole, right? But he’d been sure Poiro was about to say, I found out about you sucking another man’s dick. He settled on a “Fuck” in response.

  “Quote, ‘continued misbehavior will not be tolerated.’” Poiro sneered it out like a pissed-off Professor Snape.

  “Throwing up on the plane is not a great look.”

  “It doesn’t affect my game.”

  Olly shrugged. Poiro was a bastard to score on in practice, but he wasn’t starting over Stormy, either.

  “I don’t need any judgment from you, Oliver. One beer and you’re home like a good little wife.”

  Olly rolled his eyes again. He refused to let Poiro see how much it bothered him. “Sure.”

  “You’re so fucking uptight.”

  “Whatever you say, bud.”

  “I can’t get sent down,” Poiro mumbled to his coffee.

  “Then cool it with the partying.”

  “But that’s my personal life!”

  Olly shrugged. “Can I tell you something?”

  “I don’t care about your hair-care routine.”

  Olly continued as if Poiro hadn’t spoken. “I almost got put on waivers last season.”

  That made him listen.

  “I was playing like shit, but it wasn’t only about that.” He chewed on his lip. “The stuff off the ice—it shouldn’t have mattered, but that didn’t keep it from mattering. And I wasn’t showing up hungover to anything.” No, his sexuality just didn’t fit into the NAHA’s narrative of marrying an Instagram model by twenty-three.

  “Fuck me.” Poiro put his face in his hands. “I hate being boring. This is such a boring fucking town.”