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They almost made it through second period without a scrap, but Andrew should’ve known better than to hope for anything resembling restraint where Josten was involved. Something about the left-winger got every d-man saddled with him itching to get sticks down and gloves off, and this game’s Oiler dipshit was no different. The ref’s whistle sounded fast and the linesman rolled his eyes - they knew the routine by this point - but Richards still yanked at Josten’s jersey and reared his fist back, geared like a cannon. It was probably hard to hear the ref calling for them to knock it off over the baying roar of the crowd, whipped up after an admittedly pedestrian start to the season finally exploded. Josten was too good at that, relied a little too heavily on skating circles around defence and goading them into bloodlust, usually with something completely out of pocket while Diaz or whoever took a shot at goal. A venomous dangle on the sheet if ever the Hurricanes had one. It was rare for Andrew to actually overhear Josten’s razor-sharp taunts from all the way over in goal, but from how Knox or Morgan had had to come up and reel him back in, it seemed to go pretty far beyond the usual chirp. Right as Richards was about to send Josten to the dentist, Josten hissed something nasty enough to stop him from following through, and with that split second wasted Josten headbutted him hard. There was blood on the grate of his helmet and his smile cut vicious across his face before Richards slammed him back down to the ice for his trouble. Andrew felt the impact of it in his canines but he didn't move. That wasn’t what he was for.
After all that, they didn’t even win. The Oilers took it 2-1.
“Just bill him,” Kevin said, waving it away because naturally 65 bands was nothing to a hall of famer that still got sponsorships rolling in a decade after he retired. No one would be bitter about it since most of the guys on the team grew up with Kevin Day plastered on their walls if it weren’t for the attitude. That kind of heart-bursting juvenile idolatry wore thin around day two of practice with the living legend when he casually informed you during evasive passing drills that you were a disgrace to the sport. Still, usually the cereal box appeal was enough to tamp down the outrageous standard he set.
‘Usually’, as it turned out, did not apply to Neil Josten.
Coach Simmons bore a hole through his own temples trying to chase a junket-shaped migraine away. “The kid’s loaded, another fine is not gonna cut it.”
“You can’t bench him,” Kevin stated when he should’ve been persuading. Superstars never learn how to beg. “We can weather through the adjustment period, he’s worth it.”
“The press would probably be the first to agree with you, but I’m not here to sell ESPN+ subs.”
“You’re also not thinking about the team, Kev,” Assistant Coach Bard chimed in, scratching at his bald spot mindlessly. “What message is it sending that he’s out here handing over penalty shots without any, ah, any consequences?”
That was the kicker that Kevin couldn’t refute, at least not after this last game. It was probably the only thing that gave him any pause in his insistence that Josten’s play outweighed his baggage.
He shouldered past that doubt anyway. Stubborn as always. “He has trouble with provocation. If you’d listened when I told you to hold off on his announcement-”
“We had no choice! Maybe you shouldn’t’ve recruited from a pool that included true crime darlings!” Simmons exploded, and Andrew could feel Kevin’s eye-roll from across the room. Bard noted Andrew’s presence for the first time since he arrived and avoided eye contact, as he was wont to do. Coach Simmons was not so spatially aware, or maybe he’d just stopped giving a shit about propriety in front of Day’s last charity case. “Those fans of his are rabid and they don’t even care about hockey! You need to fix this, Kevin. You should’ve fixed it two goddamn games ago.”
Not two weeks since getting knocked out of the playoffs last year, Kevin already had three piles of potentials for the entry draft ready to whittle down to a top twelve for more concerted scouting. Unfortunately he’d decided that Andrew was the best second pair of eyes he had.
He had shoved one such file onto Andrew’s passenger seat right as they were about to head to practice, eyes insistently pounding from waking up too early after another Friday night dinner that ended with too much wine, Andrew’s hands at four and eight as the car warmed up. He smelled like the spare room at the Walker-Day household, all rumpled fresh linen. “New potential left-winger from Baltimore, what do you think?”
He flicked his eyes over and tried not to balk openly at the name scribbled on the front. “Neil Josten sent us a tape?”
The trunk slammed as he got his gear in the back. “You know him?”
“Yes, Kevin. From the news.” Andrew picked up the file, paged through it, holding Neil Josten in his hands. Lighter than air. “He sent the Butcher of Baltimore’s whole crime ring to prison last summer.”
From the file itself most wouldn’t be able to tell. The picture attached was of Neil fiercely smiling, old scars criss-crossing his face, carving the ice all seemingly carefree. A sophomore despite being old enough to graduate; turned out rejoining your father’s criminal empire to take it down from the inside after a life on the run could impact your matriculation somewhat. Who knew?
Height: short. Speed: unreal. Shots on goal: higher than actual goals. Assists: fairly high but should’ve been higher considering his speed. A team player on a team that didn’t trust him. That wasn’t in the file; thought stats backed it up, that particular insight was simply common knowledge.
The real highlight was his assistant coach’s recommendation on his work ethic. He’d had to relearn to skate after his father broke both his legs as a child. Andrew already knew that part, everyone did. Neil’s scars were splashed across the deposition, not to mention news channels and social media for months, even after the verdict. A strong contender for trial of the young century, especially when no one could agree on whether Neil was an American hero, a tragic figure, or a duplicitous mastermind.
Either way, it was hilarious that after all that he told the world that all he wanted was to play hockey.
“Oh.” Kevin said, securing his seatbelt, reacting like Andrew just told him Neil could play violin or balance a spoon on his nose. “Alright, well, watch the tape, tell me what you think.”
Kevin was too old to be so coy. Andrew knew Kevin knew what Andrew would think because it was obvious.
It was rare for Kevin to get so thoroughly dressed-down for his decisions, and even rarer for him to take it to heart, but it was worse when Coach Simmons made it official: Josten was benched for two games. So naturally Kevin was sulking at the bottom of a glass, his sullen attitude clashing somewhat with the kaleidoscopic chaos of Dave & Busters. Renee had popped the ‘Papa of the Birthday Girl!” party hat on his head when they brought the cake out but it had since slipped onto his ear. Must’ve been all the revelry. In fairness, Kevin took to preparing his daughter’s birthday with her like he approached everything: with an intense, obnoxious focus.
Despite that, Andrew admired his restraint, in that he delayed his moaning about Josten only once Kima ran off with her friends to beat a bunch of NHL stars- scratch that, birthday chaperones- at arcade games.
“He’s too fast for common sense to catch up with him.” Kevin raised a finger, squinting at the various TV screens until his eyes settled on a hockey game, tracking the plays. His old team, the New Jersey Devils, were annihilating the Ducks handily. Of course they were. They still had Coach Wymack. “Y’know, he turns up to media training, every session, and doodles plays in the margins. Interesting plays, but-” He caught himself, frustrated. Andrew nursed his drink, something pink and fizzing and a little too sherbert-y, even for him. Kevin had been passing this argument to himself like a puck against a wall, recalculating angles and excuses. “Simmons doesn’t understand the pay-off we’ve got here, short-sighted bastard.”
Andrew nodded. “Mm-hmm.”
“And Bard’s no better, the pushover,” Kevin drawled, a little too loudly for them to remain completely incognito, especially near the barstools where a couple of curious looks widened over the possibility that Kevin Day was ranting over cheap beer at an arcade. Andrew’s even stare kept their heads back on their drinks regardless. “Except he won’t let me push him over, of course not.”
“Of course not.” Andrew repeated, a twitch to his mouth when Kevin narrowed his eyes at him. So easy to rile up. It still took him a minute to catch on occasionally.
“Stop that.” He eyed the persistently fizzing drink Andrew had barely touched. “You want something else?”
“A topic change would be nice.”
Instead, Kima marched up to the table, her pout a mirror of her father’s. Kevin looked her over quickly before turning on his chair to face her. “Run out of tokens?”
“Jean’s cheating.”
A loud indignant Marseillaise squawk carried over the cacophonous blend of game ‘music’. “Va chier! I am not!” Moreau stomped over, Knox in tow flicking his arm.
“Jean, Jesus, she’s like, twelve!”
“She is a sore loser just like her father,” Moreau spat. “Coach?”
“Not your coach off the clock, Jean,” Kevin groaned as if he didn’t have as hard a time saying no to Moreau as he did his own kids. “Can’t you two play different games?”
“Your spawn is besmirching my honour.”
“At air hockey?”
“Yes, at air hockey!”
While the grown men argued over the merits of allowing a preteen to participate in such violent games, Andrew leaned over to where Kima was still pouting, snapping his finger to get her attention. She immediately perked up; she was a born troublemaker and Uncle Andrew never turned down the opportunity to co-conspire. Especially against the French.
“He leaves his left open when he’s under pressure,” he murmured. “Use the angles to back him into a corner.”
She grinned wickedly, even as Andrew’s expression didn’t shift from a neutral boredom. He leaned back to his seat as if they never spoke while Kima agreed to a rematch, best of three.
Kevin watched as the most famous birthday chaperones at the Dave & Busters chirped at a bunch of tween girls on the way to getting destroyed at air hockey, his face squishy sentimental. Barf. It was almost enough of a distraction until highlights from their game against the Oilers flashed on the screen.
At this angle, Josten looked ferocious, body curved like a coiled spring even before Richards had taken a fistful of his jersey. Primed for violence.
“I’ve never known a rookie this volatile.” Kevin amended, “Present company included.”
“Gosh, Kev, and here I thought I was all mellowed out.”
“Ha ha ha,” he scoffed, and Andrew let himself smile a little at that. “Still. You should be enough of an endorsement of my methods.”
Andrew hummed. He’d been in juvie when Kevin found him. He was dying, back then, a cornered animal staying alive for only one person, in there for only one person. Kevin had turned up and given him a purpose that aligned with his existing priorities. Hockey still wasn’t Andrew’s saving grace, as Kevin still liked to believe it was. He’d had posters too. He’d been scared to want the greatness Kevin saw in him. He hadn’t thought he’d make it to twenty.
Now he was at Dave & Busters six years past his expiry date.
He took a longer sip of his drink and suppressed a burp, only to blow it Kevin’s way. “You’d think he’d be able to take a punch with all the practice he’s gotten.”
Kevin annoyed him with a look of surprise that finally broke through the gloom. “You read the court files?”
“Did you?” Andrew deflected. Kevin shrugged, as sheepish as his ego could manage. “Jeez, Day. Look at you getting all extracurricular.”
“The records are open. I’m allowed to investigate my investment when it’s not behaving itself.” He sighed, because none of his projects were just investments. Must’ve been hard to inherit a bleeding heart. Andrew wouldn’t know. Kevin wiped a hand over his face. “It’s stupid. He’s stupid. He’s gonna end up a no-name duster at this rate.”
“Maybe you should let him.”
It had taken two years for Kevin to convince a fifteen-year-old he could be anything, let alone the NHL’s supposed next great goaltender. Josten seemed twice as stubborn and far too famous to slide that long. It wasn’t a serious suggestion, but Kevin scowled at Andrew, betrayed, like it was his fault Josten was tanking his own potential and alienating a team that already had trouble with Coach Day’s attention on him. Andrew could take it. That’s what he was there for. He waited for Kevin’s ire to focus into his mythic determination, the grit that got him to record-defying heights as the best centre American hockey had ever seen, would probably ever see.
Sure enough, Kevin said, low and slow, “He’s got Hall of Fame written all over him. I can get him there.” He looked away, craning his neck. “I know I can.” Up on the screen, Neil Josten spat blood onto the ice and grinned back at Richards, too defiant to believe. “Even if he is a fucking idiot.”
The next game featured a Josten-less barn, which made for slightly less rowdy game, but that likely had more to do with Dallas Stars’ superior coaching courtesy of Dan Wilds than it did with one volatile element being absent. That and it was an uncontroversial line-up; Andrew played the second period only as that was where the Stars had a tendency to push through and score most. His calves burned with the effort to stay on guard for so many shots back-to-back, but as Kevin had predicted, the Dallas forwards were getting frustrated that they couldn’t break through, especially since Andrew largely kept his mouth shut if he wasn’t talking to the Hurricanes. He didn’t have to chirp, he pissed them off plenty by locking the goal down. No ego about it, there was no point. This was simply Andrew’s day-job.
Did he enjoy watching grown men huff and tantrum as they skated off after another unsuccessful shot? Sure, who didn’t? The crowd reflected his schadenfreude more than enough.
When he managed to shoot the puck back out of a pretty stellar breakout shot, he let himself bask in the sound of pounding fists against the hockey glass, acrylic rattling in its frame. It felt like thunder in his blood.
The score settled 3-1, Hurricanes’ favour, and Andrew even let Boyd give him a shoulder squeeze while the rest of the team jeered and hollered. He could barely feel it through the padding anyway.
His performance had the unintended consequence of being invited out by the rest of the team, which Andrew usually tried to keep to a minimum. His sociability had limits, even if he largely didn’t hate them. Knox and Boyd were dangerously sincere without being overbearing (it helped that they were currently the best in their lines), Davis, Morgan and Moreau were more interesting than your average player, fellow goalie Foster kept quiet and usually paid the tab in advance, and of course there was Josten. Josten who hadn’t even sat on the bench at the game earlier, which of course is what the press asked Manning and Boyd about instead of their clean game against the Stars.
Bard hadn’t been wrong about the effect of a superstar rookie with a bad attitude on morale. Josten was not particularly well-liked by anyone on the team, Or, not liked. None of this was about likeability. It was hard not to fixate on Josten, on or off the ice. It was partly why such a fervent fandom had popped up during Nathan Wesninski’s trial. In the first few weeks, Josten was dogged by them at practices, outside his housing, even when he was buying toilet paper from 7/11 at three in the morning. It made him, understandably, a weird mix of blunt and hostile. None of them could even chirp him about the elephant/mafioso in the room because his spine was a hair-trigger from snapping. Too nasty to be so sensitive, as Tilda would say. It won’t take long for people to figure out you aren’t worth tiptoeing over all those eggshells.
Even the ones who made an effort kept a wide berth after practice, likely waiting for a more organic in-road, not recognising that Josten would never let one open up.
And yet, he came out with them to the bar anyway. He’d dressed up too, and expensively. Cashmere turtleneck hiding deep teal under a tan jacket, scars prominent on his clean-shaven face, he looked every inch the man he wasn’t supposed to be anymore. He sat at the table with the team, casting himself amongst but apart from the rest, though no one actually looked at him. Anyone who would have was either at the bar or playing pool, which left Andrew.
On the only other occasion where they had both attended a post-game social thing, right at the start of his tenure, Neil hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol the whole night, which of course did not further endear him to his fellow teammates. Social drinking was half the contract after all. If you couldn’t trust a man to let his hair down off the ice, how could you trust him to have your back on it? Deeply insecure logic, but that was what most team sports required. At the bar, Andrew picked up a rum and coke and a seltzer. Josten did not seem to have a sweet tooth either. What a boring life he’d fought so hard for.
Andrew settled down one chair removed from Josten and slid the seltzer over. It was the first movement that broke Josten’s little isolation bubble and he stared at Andrew’s hand as it pulled away, condensation from the glasses making his palms shine. He raised his own and downed half of it, enjoying the sasparilla burn.
“Soda for the boyscout.”
Josten’s eyes quirked, still looking at Andrew’s hand rather than his face. “I didn’t ask.” His voice was quiet but it carried. It sounded like he was used to it being a warning. Instead Andrew tipped his head down to capture that very blue gaze. The one the papers waxed lyrical about in all their profiles - piercing, or glacial, or cunning, or dazzling, or dreamy, or simply gorgeous.
Andrew held it easily enough. They were blue. That’s all. He swallowed when Josten blinked.
“You didn’t,” he recovered, “And yet here it is. Over in polite society I hear they sometimes say ‘thank you’.”
Josten smiled. There was something too weary about the way it made his mouth stretch. “What would you know about polite society?”
He picked up his drink and openly checked the bottom of the glass. Huh.
“Think that little of me?” Andrew said, voice carefully blank.
Josten shook his head. “Not you. Bartenders like to make deals with gossip rags.” He sounded a little British at the end, words half-swallowed in distaste. It was casual but Andrew gripped his glass, mouth tacky with sugar. Josten looked back at him with an update. “All clear.”
The music shifted into something with less of a heavy bassline and Andrew watched as Josten periodically drank his seltzer. Andrew nursed his drink too, staying on his backfoot of whatever he’d planned on saying to Josten and finding that the quiet between them wasn’t tense. It was almost nice, if nice was the sort of thing that applied to men like Andrew. Or Josten, for that matter. The rest of the table ignored them, getting rowdier as the night wore on. At one point Manning and Johnson slid in booth-side with their eighth or ninth beer, slurring their complaints onto supposedly sympathetic ears.
“-sick of Day’s bitching.”
Manning shoved Rivera with a messy snort. “Careful, his mini-me might hear you.” He eyed Andrew and Josten like they were one objectionable anomaly.
Andrew thumbed the rim of his glass and hummed. “Hmm. Is he talking about me or you?”
Josten didn’t even look up from where he was inspecting the dirt under his fingernails. “Can’t tell. Manning’s about as precise with his insults as he is with his shots.”
The table quietened. This quiet was tense. “What’d you say?”
Finally Josten looked up and smiled, this one practically camera-ready.
“I said maybe if you were any good, Coach Day wouldn’t have to pay you to bench-warm every game. When was the last time you played again?”
Manning snorted and angled his body away from Josten; he didn’t want a fight either but he wasn’t willing to give his big mouth the memo. “You won’t even be warming a bench by the time this season’s over, snitch.”
The screech of Josten’s chair as it pushed back and clattered to the floor was easily muffled by the beat drop but Andrew heard it anyway and stood up as Manning did. His hand was on Josten’s wrist in moments, just holding it where it was outstretched ready to- what? Pull Manning’s scalp over the table, claw his eyes out? There was a lot of aimless fury in Josten’s tight expression. Easy. Andrew could take it. Josten’s expression extinguished the moment he realised who had him.
“Let go,” he started but Andrew kept his stare even until Josten stepped back. Manning looked at Andrew, probably, maybe could’ve said ‘thanks’, but Andrew was busy knocking a cigarette out of his pack. He kicked Josten’s designer boot hard enough to scuff the leather. They were going outside, and Josten was going to lead the way. Josten shot one last look of poison at the table and acquiesced to being shepherded into the brisk outside.
The back-door slammed behind them and Andrew lit up the cigarette, taking a deep drag. He’d earned it. After a few moments Josten sighed out of clenched teeth.
“I was fine.”
“You were embarrassing. That-” Andrew nodded towards the door, towards Manning, towards his spit-fire display like they had blades on their feet and ice to cool off the worst of it, “Was embarrassing for you. You picked us.”
“The Hurricanes are passable. I picked Coach Day.” Josten enunciated ‘Coach Day’ like it featured heavily in rosary prayers, which was half the problem. “Don’t act like you’re any different.”
“Oh?” Andrew could see Josten’s shoulders reach his ears. That cashmere wasn’t doing anything to keep out the cold. “Been doing some digging, have we?” He tapped the ash off and asked around the filter, “Find anything interesting?”
“I didn’t realise you had a brother. He gets left out of your Cinderella story a lot.” Josten was all live-wire raw, looking for a fist to the face, and truth be told, if Andrew was a decade younger, he would’ve found it. Aaron and Andrew were like a leg cut in half by a bear trap. Kevin had used all his pull to keep Aaron’s name out of interviews and profiles. It was one of Andrew’s only requests for taking his offer, for taking him away from his guard-post before his shift was up.
Andrew was not a teenager anymore. Still, a baited monster should make sure his fangs are visible even if he plans to keep them clean. He inhaled, cherry aglow, and blew the smoke aside. “Careful, Josten.”
“How did you two survive your mother?” It seemed Kevin was not kidding about Josten ignoring his charm school training. Andrew waited, waited longer than necessary, waited until Josten squirmed in his spot. Good. The quiet could let him hear how petulant he was being, at the very least.
Finally Andrew answered: “Patience.”
“Bullshit. Andrew Minyard extolling virtues?”
“It’s how I play. It’s how I win.”
“You win by playing?”
“You win by winning.”
Josten scoffed. “Insightful.” It sounded every inch the insult of a man that believed he’d already been read cover to cover, that had no more lies to give. This was obviously Josten’s biggest, most successful lie.
“Does that scare you, Neil?” Andrew put his cigarette out on the wall behind him, pushing off against the brick. “That I can tell?”
“Tell what?” Josten said, a little unmasked desperation in his tone. Up close, his eyes were bunsen burner blue, too hot to hide. “Tell what?”
“Nothing,” Andrew chirped, walking right past Josten to his car. He didn’t look back. “Night night. Try not to run into traffic.”
The Hurricanes’ next practice, scrap-heavy with pit chaos handling, ended early when Josten checked Manning against the boards so hard he dislocated his shoulder. Even though Bard was the one that ruled him benched for a third game running, it was Kevin’s face that Josten avoided.
Andrew watched him trail the paramedics off the ice. Andrew was sure he was the only one who heard him say ‘sorry’.
The afternoon after Josten’s second benched game, Andrew found him looking out longingly at the fresh sheet, no blades on his feet. A pathetic sight for the ages. If Andrew had a camera he’d have the perfect splash header for a profile about lost dreams in the NHL. Instead he slammed the boxing pads against a chair to announce his presence. Josten ducked before he turned, eyes accusatory but focused somewhere other than some far-off distance.
Andrew walked down the steps and stood across the aisle from Josten. “Let’s go.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.”
“Me neither.” Andrew slid the pads onto his hands and held them up. “C’mon.”
They could’ve gone somewhere else, but they wouldn’t be interrupted here. Besides, Josten never struck Andrew to be all that good at visualising anything beyond where he’d be in five minutes. The ice looming through smudged plexiglass would be a solid reminder.
“You’re kidding,” Josten said, looking between each pad, then back up to Andrew, incredulous, “Did Coach suggest this?”
“Sure. Will that make you heel for once?”
“He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t want to encourage me to get better at fighting.”
“With the way you throw down, the only way is up.” He leaned back on his leg, figuring out pressure points like a tongue searching for gristle between molars. “You don’t even know how to block.”
Josten scoffed. “I know how-”
“You just choose not to, right?” He shrugged, never letting the pads down. “So fine. Get it out.” Josten stayed staring up at him. Andrew was not a fan of asking twice but he did it anyway. “Do it.” His voice bit the words out. “Didn’t your pops teach you how to fight like a man?”
At last, Josten swiveled to face him properly, fists bunched. “Don’t-”
“We can talk about you instead. How old were you when he started treating you like a punching bag?” This was the first thing his mother taught him; bones knit together stronger than they were before they broke. “How long did it take for you to come up with your suicidal plan? Did you dream about it while you were on the run?”
“Andrew.” Spoken like a warning. Andrew has long become used to the sound of his name writ dangerous. He has almost come to like it that way.
“Hey Neil, how long did it take you to learn how to run after he tried to take even that from you?”
Josten surged to his feet and pushed Andrew hard. Andrew could not be moved. “Shut up.”
“You first. Fists up. Elbows down.” His neck cricked just to look down his nose at Josten, and he let his eyes lid halfway for the perfect goad. Josten should’ve recognised it all as the bait it was but red was so hard to distinguish from red. “Be a good little goon and hit me.”
Predictably, Josten didn’t listen. He swung wide and haphazardly, fists hard but lacking real drive. He twisted his wrists too much attempting to slam his knuckles up at Andrew’s fingers to make them bend, make them hurt. Andrew just adjusted. It was easy to anticipate where Josten’s eyes sought out flesh from rage, and Andrew felt a familiar serenity in watching him tire himself out. Andrew knew the way ragged anger tore your throat as it left your body and said nothing at Josten hurling chest-deep snarls and cries into the cowhide. They should’ve taped his knuckles up but the spontaneity was the point. No one else could do this for him, and he wasn’t about to let someone hold him up while he found his feet. That left this.
At one point Josten stopped, hard breath fogging between them. He wasn’t looking at the pads but at Andrew, swiping his nose where it threatened to run.
“Aren’t you gonna hit me back?”
“I’m not sparring with an amateur whose stance is all wrong.” His eyebrow quirked up when Josten’s indignance soured right onto his face. “Especially not one who doesn’t want to defend himself.”
That apparently warranted no comeback, but Josten did adjust his feet. They kept it up until the street lights flickered on.
Andrew dropped the pads and that broke the spell for Josten too. His knuckles had gone mottled and pink. He watched them and Andrew watched him. “I’ll be at the gym, same time tomorrow.”
It wasn’t obvious whether Josten would turn up, and even if he would, whether he’d actually engage with Andrew if he wasn’t chomping at the bit. Regardless, Andrew had asked Boyd if he could borrow his old boxing gloves and Boyd, magnanimous hoarder that he was, brought them in after digging through his storage unit. The one that was in Raleigh, at least.
Josten had a habit of surprising Andrew, beelining for him without stopping at the rowing machine, his usual haunt. He eyed the gloves with an unasked question but took them when offered.
They’d only gone about five minutes before Josten moved back on his heel and disengaged, arms flopping to his sides.
“This feels unfair.”
Andrew looked down at his hands. “Then take the gloves off.” Josten took a second to think about it (a rarity for him, Andrew reckoned) but did not take the gloves off. “Ready to go again?”
The nod this time was far more definite.
The Hurricanes’ next practice only started off tense until Josten teamed up with Manning against Knox and Cho in a 2v2 bagger drill and managed to keep his tongue civil. He also notably kept himself on the other side of Manning’s bad shoulder, careful to shield it against the others with sharp movements and swooping gestures. Manning even patted his back after, chirping him about how far he had to go to get there.
“Mean howitzer, Neil,” Knox breezed, and Josten nodded, nearly demure.
It was another surprised when Josten found Andrew before they ditched their gear and showered. He stank like fresh sweat and stale deodorant. Coach Simmons had worked them hard and put them all away exhausted, but Josten seemed eager to go another few rounds.
So instead of relaxing under perfect water pressure, Andrew dug his pads out of his locker and wordlessly led them to the gym. Josten looked over his shoulder and his frown was clear in the mirrors as they walked past.
“Where are the gloves?”
“If you want them again, ask Boyd yourself.”
Josten grinned, and this one looked more toothy than usual. “Is he a better boxer than you?”
“Certainly better than you.” Andrew rolled his back out with a small groan to let his shoulder blades stretch before turning to face Josten. “Do you want another teacher?”
“No.” Josten swallowed and settled into his stance. “I’m fine.”
Though he suffered from the same issue of excess energy without enough focus, it was clear to Andrew that Josten had tried researching actual technique: his hooks were shortened, his shots alternated more significantly, and his breathing had gotten more purposeful.
He was sweating profusely when he finally let his gloves down, hair curling up around his ears. “How was that?”
“Sloppy.” Not a judgement in particular, but Andrew was no coach. He wasn’t here to actually help Josten punch better, even if Josten insisted on feedback to improve. “Had enough?”
“No.” He shook his hands out and sniffed, focusing on Andrew’s left pad before he asked, “One more?”
Andrew cricked his neck and nodded. He was already ready.
They kept it up for a couple of weeks before Josten was able to talk while they worked: “What’s in it for you? Oh, wait, is this how your hands can handle incoming pucks so easily?”
Ugh. Andrew levelled him with a bored look. “Not everything’s about hockey.”
“So what is this about?”
Over the last couple of weeks, while Josten hadn’t said much, he had let pieces of himself go in front of Andrew. For one, Andrew had seen the patchwork of scars on his arms (the ones Josten had refused to show in court) when Josten had let his sleeves roll up before they’d started. He’d started taping his fists up to the elbow because he was a fan of overkill, and a few days ago he’d asked Andrew to help him with it. Andrew had looked at his own feet until Josten had said ‘it’s okay’. Another lie. For two, Josten would start walking Andrew to his car, which progressed to driving Josten home, which progressed to regular stops at convenience stores on the way to pick up jerky and Powerade. Early dinner of champions.
So it made sense that Josten had started poking around Andrew’s edges too. Balance is second-nature to a skater. He was getting better at it in the barn, with the team. He had stopped letting everything stop at his throat until it tore itself out, allowing serrated insults to erode into (still annoying) insistent suggestions. Some of the players didn’t quite trust the shift at first but when even Moreau stowed his attitude long enough to keep Josten under his eye at their next game, the team mostly fell in line.
That next game had netted them an eye-watering six-point lead. Josten had scored half that six without laying down a single scrap.
Turnabout's fair play after all, so Andrew indulged.
“Part curiosity, part nostalgia.”
“Hmm.” He caught Andrew’s right pad with an impressively fast uppercut before crossing and laying one, two, three jabs at the left. “Juvie?”
“Nope. Juvie taught me hockey.” But that was nothing to tell. Everyone knew that’s where Kevin found him; it would probably end up on Andrew’s trading card. From young offender to netminder extraordinaire.
“Your brother, then?” Despite the glaring mistake that question should be, this time Josten was not attempting to spit something back at Andrew. It was much more considered than that. “Saw him at one of our games once. He’s pretty stocky for a med student.”
It was an open enough blindspot. Josten should know better than to show his hand like that, show that Andrew occupied space outside the dam they’ve been building here. There was no pressure, but Andrew heard the brittle give of eggshells under Josten’s skates anyway.
He shifted his weight between his feet and kept his eyes unfocused. “Mind your combo. Some of those hits are supposed to be light.”
Though his eyes burned to wake up this early, Andrew knew there was only a slim window between Aaron’s rotations and his post-pilates bullshit with Katelyn.
“Morning?” Aaron shouldn’t have sounded so surprised. He was the one with the stupid schedule.
“Yes,” he croaked back. “Unfortunately.”
“Ha,” Aaron barked, “You sound like shit.”
“And I’m sure you look like shit.”
Aaron grunted in frustration. “We look the same-! Nope, not doing this.”
“Why, is the cheerleader nagging you about blood pressure?” The silence was telling. “Oh my god.”
“We’re both med students, obviously we care about this stuff.”
Andrew snorted, swiping his hand hard down his face to stop himself saying something idiotic like ‘miss you’. “Did you come to my game the other day?”
“Oh,” Aaron’s voice muffled a bit, like he was tugging on a moth-eaten sweater. “Yeah. I met your teammate, the famous one.”
“We’re in the NHL, nerd, we’re all technically famous.”
“No, yeah, the one from the news. Neil Josten.” He exhaled through his nose like an old dog. “He said hi. He wasn’t playing. Obviously.” He chewed his lip. “He seemed annoying.”
“He is.” Andrew chewed his lip too. “Did you say anything to him?”
“No,” he said, cautious. “Should I have?”
“He knew you were a med student.”
“Oh, yeah,” he snorted, “I was probably still wearing my lanyard.”
Andrew nodded. “Okay.”
“That it?”
“Sure,” Andrew huffed. “Busy saving lives, Dr. Grey?”
“Mostly ER stuff. Kinda banal at this point, but I think I have a shot at a dedicated neural clerkship.”
Andrew had already fought valiantly enough during this conversation but his eyes started to droop. “Dougie Howser.”
Aaron sighed. Almost laughed. “Stop naming fictional doctors and go to sleep.”
“The gangly one from M*A*S*H!”
“Fuck off, Andrew,” Aaron barked again, followed by a much quieter, “Love you.”
The call beeped off and Andrew flopped his phone against his face. He flipped his pillow to the cooler side and fell right back to sleep.
They were already halfway through the season and Josten had been undeniable on the ice. The press turnaround couldn’t keep his name off their features, though this time Josten took the team chirping about it on the chin, especially when his response was pinning any and all articles featuring other Hurricanes to their lockers and sending them fan-edits of each other on socials.
Boyd, caught up in the spirit of their soon-to-be historic run, sent the group-chat an Andrew ‘thirst trap’ set to Ginuwine’s Pony that featured high contrast clips of him swathed in chunky padding, catching pucks competently, and barely emoting at junkets. It was actually pretty funny, so he sent back a yellow thumbs up. Josten liked the video with a flaming red heart and suddenly everyone else in the chat was digging up similar edits and videos featuring Andrew Minyard as the subject of the least sexy fan-edits ever.
Andrew kind of wanted to send some of his own of Josten, but most of those videos also seemed to splice the Josten of now, vibrant and victorious, with the trial footage he’d been working to overwrite. Exercising restraint was easy enough. Besides it was much easier to find actual thirst traps of vintage Kevin footage from the 90’s where he was a lot less conservative about keeping his shirt on.
Truthfully Andrew hadn’t expected Josten to want to keep up their extracurriculars, but they did, near-daily, although sometimes Josten only wanted ten minutes of punching before he decided gas station taquitos were more his speed. The jalepeños, withered as they were, still made his nose run on twice-recycled napkins. Andrew always grabbed a hand-straining fistful of them because Josten had a tendency to hork his food like someone would take it away from him, and finding 3-for-2 pastry crumbs under his custom leather seats was an indignity Andrew refused to suffer.
Josten hummed while he sucked his fingers clean (despite the wealth of napkins) and Andrew snorted.
“Savouring every last morsel?”
“It hits the spot every time.” He leaned back, patting his stomach under his sweatshirt. “Mom let me fill up a whole sandwich bag of them after I got shot one time.” He lazily lolled his head to the side, away from Andrew. “It was like a reward for sticking around.”
The ice in Andrew’s slushie jostled where he squeezed his cup. “Some reward.”
Josten’s laugh barked flat in the small space of the car. “You’re just a snob. They’re really good with the hot sauce too, I think they ran out of packets today.”
“Masochist.”
“You have to be, right?” As if Andrew knew, as if Josten trusted him to know. “It only took me four months to run again, after…” After. Josten waved his hand until it landed on the passenger window, his nail tracing figure eights in concentric circles. “It took eight more to learn how to skate again.” His hand lifted like it was a skater, lifting off and taking flight before landing into another figure eight. He huffed a derisive laugh, embarrassed. “I was so slow.” He didn’t look away from his own graceful hand movements. It was hard for Andrew to look anywhere else either. Neil had crawled until he could fly again. His voice was low when he asked, “Have you ever broken a bone?”
“In a way,” Andrew said after taking a long sip from his drink. His teeth buzzed sugar-sweet and clenched.
Neil’s head lolled back over very deliberately, backlit by the fluorescence of 99 cent signs. The glow picked up the silver-pink edge of his scars. His eyes searched Andrew’s face, and then he pointed, right where a surgeon had saved his sight thirteen years prior.
“There.” Neil murmured, and instead of touching Andrew’s scar he touched his own eye, flicked up in the same shape. “I was being polite. Juvie again?”
“Tilda.” He couldn’t say ‘mom’ or ‘mother’ in this space. Not when Neil’s had gotten him taquitos for staying alive. “She found out I’d been selling her pills on to kids at school.”
That part was left out of the police report. Not even Kevin knew that Andrew had been asking for it that day. He had paid the debt off for it three years later anyway.
Neil turned his whole body to face him, turned into it like a solid punch. “And she didn’t appreciate your entrepreneurial spirit?”
“No idea,” Andrew admitted. He closed his eyes, head hung down so he wouldn’t swallow the words instead. “I couldn’t hear much after the hammer-” he flicked his finger against his cheekbone. He’d woken up to Aaron unscathed at least, only blubbering as always. Andrew hadn’t been able to cry without his whole face burning so he’d just scrunched the starched sheets in his little fists and asked Aaron what colour eye-patch he should get, which only made Aaron howl louder.
“What about…?” Neil trailed off, waiting for Andrew to fill in the gap.
“Aaron.” He paused then shook his head.
Neil considered that. A few moments passed where Andrew held his breath in his sinuses. Then Neil nodded to himself.
“Makes sense.” It did make sense. It was what Andrew was for. Neil held it without any further commentary, poking the side of Andrew’s slushie. “May I?” Andrew handed it over and Neil took a quick sip, nose wrinkling immediately and the freezing near-medicinal cherry that flooded his mouth. “Ugh.” He looked down at it then back at Andrew, lip fish-hooked in disbelief. “That’ll rot your teeth.”
Andrew raised an eyebrow. “Think you’re in the wrong industry to get precious about dental integrity.”
Instead of handing the drink back, Neil dug around in the ice and chewed the tip of the straw. “Exactly, why accelerate the inevitable?” He grinned to himself and caught Andrew’s eye in the rearview mirror, all blue mischief. “What happened to all that patience?”
Andrew took his drink back and took the top off, downing the rest and valiantly suppressing the sting of brain-freeze. “It’s all used up.”
Hill and Jordan were Neil’s forwards in the last period against the Red Wings, and d-man Freskin had been tailgating Neil like he was ready to hitch his wagon. Despite that, Neil had gone all Michelle Kwan and out-skated the whole offensive zone, focused on assists rather than shots. Hill and Jordan were already a good team, but with Neil stealing attention and feinting a flashy shot at goal before handing off to them, they netted a combined hatty that had the crowd roaring.
“Eyy, check out Cool Hand Neil!” Jordan crowed when they were stripping off gear in the away locker-room, walls eye-wateringly red. “God, I would’ve knocked that guy’s teeth out.”
“It wasn’t worth it,” Neil said, though he sounded more distracted than cocky. He wriggled out of his padding and headed into the showers stalls to change out while everyone else politely looked elsewhere.
Smelling like two too many spritzes of cologne, Boyd found Neil right as they were about to head to their session. Neil would probably have a lot of frustration to work out and Andrew’s arms ached in anticipation of absorbing and dissolving it.
That seemed unlikely now with how Boyd and company looked ready to take Neil out on the town. “You coming out with us? There’s this club in Foxtown, I know a guy who knows a guy there, it’s supposed to be a good time.”
Andrew disengaged until he felt Neil’s fingers tug at the back of his hoodie, though they left once Andrew stopped and waited.
“Heading to the gym actually, but, uh,” he shrugged with a look at Andrew, “Next time?”
“Next time for sure.” Boyd smiled. “You too, Minyard.”
Opting for something vaguely half-committal, Andrew offered a two-finger salute and took Neil with him to look for the hopefully-empty gym, duffel relatively light on his shoulder.
As they were coming out through the lobby, Kevin looked up from where he was bitching about the d-line with Renee on the phone and smiled fiercely at the two of them, Andrew with a firm nod and then Neil.
“Keep it up, Josten.”
Neil should’ve been elated; it was the closest thing Kevin got to ebullient praise. Instead he dipped his head forward, avoiding his gaze. “Yes, Coach.”
Once the gloves and pads were back on, it was clear that Neil was stuck in his head. Maybe the way Freskin had forced him to play the game had gotten under his skin, but Andrew couldn’t read this expression at all. The lights were off in there but Neil kept his shoulders hunched and tense, muscles roping as he struck true wherever Andrew sent him.
Eventually Andrew stopped moving the pads around. Neil wasn’t looking for finesse, he just needed to hit something until the compulsion stopped.
Problem being, the road ran out before his energy did, right when he slammed the pad just so and Andrew’s finger bent back unnaturally. Without thinking, Andrew hissed at the twinge and his frustration at letting it show was as immediate as the regret on Neil’s face when he stopped.
“Andrew. God, shit,” he panted, trying to pull his hair back with the awkward glove in the way of his hands. “Sorry.”
“Did he say something?” When Neil didn’t answer, Andrew elaborated, “Your personal gnat.”
“Freskin? No,” Neil said, but he wasn’t focused on the pads, or himself, or Andrew. It was like his vision only extended out to where the tips of his gloves ended.
Andrew slammed the pads together. “Neil.”
“You should hit me back.”
“No thanks.”
Neil let out a pathetic ha. “Why not?”
“Because this isn’t a punishment.” Andrew rolled his eyes but Neil wasn’t there to really see it. Instead he was looking at his hands, constrained as they were, kept away. Andrew’s jaw twitched. “It’s an outlet. That’s all.”
“Right because that sort of thing is, uh, it passes down doesn’t it.” Neil looked up at Andrew, that smile stretching weary and resigned again. He hadn’t seen any fangirls in the crowd in a few games, and the rest of the team were a united front against any and all distractions that weren’t about Neil’s performance on the rink at junkets, but this had to have been about his sordid past.
“Not Freskin, then.”
Neil shrugged boulder-heavy. “Some feature in the Atlantic. Retrospective on my,” he choked a humourless laugh, “My ‘violent tendencies’. Extrapolations, circumspections on how I, how I’m, a, uh,” his teeth molars creaked with the grit he was holding them with, “‘Chip off the old block’.”
“No.”
“No?” Neil scoffed, completely incredulous. “No. Andrew, if you knew what I-”
“If I knew what?” It was ridiculous, as if every scrap of shame Neil had given him wasn’t drawn like blood from stone. “What are you, Catholic? Pain is not absolution, and if you think that’s what you deserve, what you believe I should dole out to you, then this is over.” He kept his voice low but his anger felt the give of its chain thinking of Neil using him like a whip. If Neil needed forgiveness for being born to a father like Nathan Wesninski, Andrew needed to join a seminary. “Do you understand these terms?”
Neil pulled his gloves off and for a second Andrew’s stomach dropped like a bad bluff. But Neil pulled Andrew’s pads down instead, his grip firm but gentle on his pulse-point.
“Are you okay?” Neil asked, then clarified. “Your finger.”
“I’ll live.”
“Not good enough.” Neil held up the hand with the dinged finger. “Can I see?”
It was a lousy deflection. Andrew still nodded. Neil slid the pad off his hand and picked out the one he hit, and he asked Andrew to move it, test it out, just checking it wasn’t anything too bad. It wasn’t. Andrew had weathered a lot worse. He let Neil double-check anyway.
“I understand the terms.” Neil said quietly, letting Andrew’s hand go once he was satisfied he hadn’t messed up the best hands on the team. He slung his gloves over his shoulder and stepped back, finally. “Do we need a notary?”
“I think Kevin’s busy,” Andrew drawled, though he wouldn’t put it past Kevin to muscle in on consolidating anything to do with Neil’s best behaviour.
Neil’s smile was smaller and private. “Pity.”
Andrew was still ruminating on the lingering sensation of Neil’s careful hands on his when he realised someone was trying to include him in some kind of conversation.
“It’s a relief, don’t you think Andrew?” Knox glided up to him, flipping his legendary flow off his face with his helmet under one arm, honey-golden locs quite the contrast against the ice. He didn’t notice his fans swooning in the stands because most of them were women, When it was clear Andrew hadn’t been listening, Knox rolled his eyes and held his fist up to his mouth like a microphone, “Neil’s improvement, care to comment?”
“‘They’re a really good team over there, obviously, just gotta get pucks in deep’,” Andrew sneered, batting Knox’s gloved mic down, but nothing much he did could deter Mr. Sunshine. People on the team used to crack jokes about them being twins, the Hurricanes’ short blonde gay California transplants. Knox had tried to explain the worlds between SoCal and San Jose culture, but that hardly made a dent, so he’d rolled with it despite Andrew never rolling back. Supposedly that made the joke even funnier. Still, Knox got away with a lot with Andrew. Since they were ‘twins’.
“I think it’s nice that Neil’s settling in so much better. It was touch-and-go there for a while but he seems a lot better off now.” His voice loped into something faux-casual. Apparently Knox had had a hand in theatre while at UCLA. He must’ve been a stagehand. “You’ve been training with him or something, right?”
“Eyes forward, Knox.”
“Ah, ‘course, of course...” He skated off, turning long enough to zip his lips with a sly smile. Andrew narrowed his eyes and mirrored the action with his glove a little lower down at his neck, which only made Knox laugh brightly before joining back for their quick pre-game warm up.
The Bruins got rowdy real quick, and made a yard sale of Boyd before Andrew could warn that their centre was on him. A scrap was inevitable but Andrew wasn’t expecting a 5-on-5 before the clock ran out on the first period, and the tension only rose from there.
Checks were doled out like candy and both sin bins started to look like a party. By the time Neil was on for third to sweep up the trash they were still tied up on nothing. Luckily he had a habit of outrunning an iced shot from the d-zone to strike iron while the opposition scrambled back for control.
Except Andrew found himself crowded again, subject to an odd-man rush that had him smashing to the ice to save a kronwaller from turning his goal red. When he got to his feet, those same two forwards didn’t slow their drive and thought it was smart to crush him into the pipe. The crowd booed and at least one of the forwards got carted off finally, but the other smacked his stick against the ice as if that would intimidate Andrew.
“Pathetic,” he stated, boredom overriding the wince where his ribs felt like bruised fruit.
“Eat shit, goalie.”
It didn’t matter. He indicated that he could keep playing for the rest of the period and held his ground. He watched the forwards, vaguely hearing Bard repeat the names of plays that Morgan nodded at, directing things to Neil but Neil wasn’t looking at them. Of course not. He was watching that shitty Bruins forward like he was overdue for the butcher’s window.
He was supposed to stay back, ready for Morgan to pass back to him for an easy slap-shot. Neil decided that he’d shadow Moreau in tailing the forward. The commentators were gonna have a field day with this one. It wasn’t unheard of for a forward to do this, obviously, but it was unusual to see how dogged he was on one particular forward when he’d just come on, especially when he was making Moreau’s life infinitely harder. In the end, Neil was so focused on preventing the other team from scoring that it left the game at a goose egg impasse. Sure, they won the penalty shoot-out, but locking down the goal was a lot harder when Andrew had been winded.
There seemed to be a consensus with Moreau talking about Neil to Simmons like he wasn’t there. “Putain, what on earth was that? Are there auditions for miniature defenseman I was not made aware of, Coach?”
Simmons made a gesture to leave it to the locker room but Neil got as much into Moreau’s face as he could without slicing through his skates. “Maybe if you actually held the line like you’re supposed to, I wouldn’t have had to get under your feet! You saw them, they rushed the goal like it was nothing, where were you?”
“Josten, c’mon man, we were doing so well…” Rivera groaned, but Neil didn’t back down, not even when Simmons came down on him and threatened another benching. It wasn’t that they didn’t get it, the whole team had gotten significant action, but there was a line. Scraps were scraps but they were supposed to be in service to a win. No one player could be more important than the sanctity of puck to net. And yet Neil had crossed that line and he refused to come back over it.
He didn’t back down from their usual arrangement after the game either, even when they were both clearly dead on their feet. Neil didn’t bother with gloves, only taping up to his wrists. He kept catching Andrew’s eye when he hit home but none of them had the drive Andrew had seen behind the boards, up in Coach’s face, or seconds from checking the Bruins’ forward into an early retirement. The steam had run out but he still needed the ritual, needed someone to handle him while he worked it out.
Andrew still told him, “You’re pulling your punches.”
“Just checking you’re paying attention.”
It was just supposed to be hockey. That’s all. This was some big favour for Kevin that Kevin hadn’t asked for because Kevin didn’t need to ask for Andrew to carry it out. It was a favour to the team, one volatile element soothing another into cooperation. It was the future of hockey, so noble as Andrew was to offer all of that. Neil was fire-bright and perfect for titles and cereal boxes. A champion in the rough, all skill and heart and the determination not to waste either. It was a job. This was just a job.
When Neil pulled back he didn’t gesture to make another move. He watched Andrew instead. Andrew took his pads off, throwing them onto the bench. He’d grab them later. Maybe.
“I’m going out for a smoke,” he said. He didn’t wait for Neil to follow, and at first he didn’t.
Lighting his second cigarette, Andrew heard the backdoor swing open and body settle a space away from his.
He inhaled sharply and blew the smoke out through his nose, keeping his tone wry. “I knew you were ambitious, but playing two spots at once…”
Neil fidgeted with the tape on his knuckles. “I’m putting the rage somewhere more productive, wasn’t that the point?”
“The point is to hit me until you’re no longer a menace on the ice.”
Neil waved his hand. “Semantics.”
“What’s a synonym for ‘benchwarmer’?”
“You tell me, how bad’s the bruising that shithead gave you?”
With a side-angled glare, Andrew saw Neil return his expression defiantly. It was one thing to see it play out on the ice. It was another entirely to hear Neil confirm it. No one player is worth more than a goal, especially not the goddamn goalie.
“You can’t be serious.” His mouth twisted into a grimace. “That’s what I’m for.”
The look on Neil’s face wasn’t hard to read, the one that said he disagreed.
Rather than voicing that though, he offered, lightly, “I can take it too.”
“You’re not there to ‘take it’, you’re there to play. You’re there to win.” Andrew gripped the bridge of his nose. This conversation stung like bad brain-freeze. “You deserve to win. Kevin says you’ll be kissing Stanley by next year.”
“That’s nice,” Neil said, breezing past that revelation as if that wasn’t the sort of thing 90% of the NHL wouldn’t sacrifice their firstborn to hear from The Kevin Day. He knocked his curls against the brick and confessed, “I don’t like winning without you.”
Andrew didn’t need to check for a lie in Neil’s face when he was stupid enough to believe it. That much was obvious.
The store-bought pie had gone largely untouched during dinner, which seemed like a waste, so Andrew was taking a concerted effort (and a fork) to it, leaning back on the kitchen counter. If he got sick enough he might’ve felt compelled to wash up, but it was probably Kevin’s turn so maybe not.
Renee shouldered in with an empty wine bottle and smiled at Andrew. She pulled out the cutlery drawer and got a fork of her own.
“I didn’t say I was sharing,” Andrew said. Renee tapped her fork against her arm and Andrew held the tin out for her to get a bite.
“I love a gourmet dining experience,” she said, cream catching on her nose. She swiped it off with her hand and licked that instead. “Kevin says you’re doing very well this season.”
“As if you don’t know.”
“True,” she mused. “He’s so cute when he’s enthused. I haven’t seen him like this since we met you.”
Andrew didn’t have much to say to that. “I’m not staying over.”
“That’s alright.” She took another mouthful, getting a decent amount of chocolate this time. “We forgot to change the sheets in your room this week anyway. Work’s been hectic for me, and well, you know Kevin’s schedule.”
“It’s the spare room.”
“Right.” She dumped her fork in the sink and yawned. “Sorry, Kevin.”
Andrew dumped his fork in after hers. “Not sorry, Kevin.”
She laughed. “He’s so proud of the work you’ve done this season.”
“Me? Not the new kid?”
Renee looked at him sideways. “You really think his attention would ever move off you so easily?” She tipped her head back, silver undercut fresh and silky past her ears. “Once you’re in his circle, there’s only one way out.”
Andrew hummed. “Lucky us.”
Renee hummed back. There were maybe three people in the world who were strong enough to be truly, truly kind. It seemed cruel to saddle her with Kevin Day, but there was no accounting for taste. Andrew watched her eyes stay clear as she said, softly, “I was about to say the same thing about you.”
“Mmm.”
“Us. The team.” She paused. “The ‘new kid’. Getting a lot out of those boxing pads I got you, or so I hear.”
“Well,” Andrew said slowly, “They’re a good outlet. Or so I hear.”
She smiled that good Renee smile. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?”
“I have,” he sighed dramatically, “A session with Josten tomorrow morning. Rough week.”
She raised an eyebrow and he shoved the pie tin back at her.
Andrew did his best not to think of her expression when Neil was pummelling his palms for an hour on a Saturday morning.
The next time Neil and Andrew were on the ice together was the game against the Rangers when Neil cemented a hat-trick by the time the final period ran out. The rest of the team hopped the boards to swarm him, but Neil only stayed for a moment, opting to skate over to Andrew instead, lettuce plastered to his neck. He needed a haircut badly, and a shave, and a bath.
He was smiling regardless, mad and warm, beaming out of his bucket like there was nothing that could make him glow like the expression on Andrew’s face.
Andrew blinked up at him. “Happy?”
Neil clacked his stick against Andrew’s, leaning in, just barely. “Yes,” he whispered, as if it was their secret.
Of course the team was going to throw a celly for making it to semi-finals. Simmons treated them to a tavern situation where some hog roasted on a spit and beer was served in tankards. It was a little renfair for Andrew’s tastes and when prompted he said so, much to Boyd’s delight.
“Christ, we need to have Minyard on press more often!”
Andrew stated, “They would be much shorter,” which only garnered more guffawing at their corner of the table. He caught Renee’s eye between her covering her wine glass and rapt in conversation with Moreau about- something pretentious if it was holding his attention, and she smiled at him, fond, before gently rebutting Moreau’s point until his ears turned red.
Kevin had already started dozing off into her shoulder by the time the second course came around and she patted his head absently with every grunt he made at the noise around him.
Neil was much further down the table on Andrew’s side, socialising much better, his seltzer losing its bubbles with neglect.
Waiting for a lull in the food and merriment, Andrew knocked a cigarette out of his packet and Boyd made room for him to get up.
No matter how unfamiliar a place could be, Andrew could always wind his way out to the nearest back exit. He ignored the surprised sputtering of a busboy quickly scuttling back inside, leaving the air smelling faintly of cheap pot.
The stars weren’t out tonight, but the moon was good and fat and high in the sky. The door creaked open and let the hubbub into the quiet of the alley before it closed behind an obnoxiously shivering left-winger.
“Shit, it’s cold,” Neil buzzed.
“Is it?”
Neil twisted his body around so they were standing face to face, Andrew against the brick, head tilted to take it all in. The denim fleece should’ve been plenty to keep him warm, but Neil moved in closer anyway. He didn’t ask, he just delicately took the cigarette from between Andrew’s fingers, taking a longer inhale than any lung should tolerate.
“How criminal.”
Neil exhaled with a shrug, lips sheened with just a hint of spit or seltzer. “I only wanted a taste.”
“Is that all?”
“Depends.” Neil took a step closer. “Do you want it back?”
Andrew hummed, took the cigarette from Neil’s mouth and inhaled. It tasted faintly like peppermint. When he blew out the cloud of smoke into Neil’s face he couldn’t say how blue those eyes were for the way his pupils burst black and intent. When he was done, Neil snatched the cigarette out of his way, closed the scant gap between them and kissed Andrew hot and desperate, cherry crushed underfoot.
Andrew sighed into his mouth, fingers tight in the curls at Neil’s nape. He swallowed Neil’s whimpers and gasps, burning flush for how easily Neil relaxed against him.
They separated for a moment and Neil looked at him, nose against his cheek. He panted slightly, closed his eyes and smiled in disbelief. This time when he leaned in, he cupped Andrew’s cheeks and kissed all over them too before coming back to his lips, pressing against them semi-chaste and unbearably sweet. Always a surprise. So Andrew, for once, let himself be held.
It was nice.