It’s not my goal, and Cauler’s my sworn enemy. But it was a downright beauty of an assist, and I won’t be afraid to acknowledge my good work today. I’ll have a crisis tomorrow. For now, I turn to where Cauler’s got his arms up, just as Zero and our blueliners close in on him for hugs and helmet pats. Usually I just offer fist bumps after goals. I’ve never been a hockey hugger.
Now? Now I throw myself into it. I jump to get my arms around Zero’s and Cauler’s shoulders, pulling them down to my level as my skates hit the ice again.
“What the hell?” Zero says, laughing. “Atta boy, Terzo!”
Cauler doesn’t say anything. But he smiles. And, oh, I am so fucked.
His smile has never been more beautiful than it is now. Shy. And genuine. And at least in part because of me.
NINE
I’ve been feeling good lately. Cauler and I aren’t at each other’s throats anymore. If anything we’re circling around each other, waiting to see who’ll make the first move.
What is my life, right?
The season’s started off great, 2–0, and I’m keeping pace with Delilah in points and trying real hard to have fun. It doesn’t always work. But at least I’m not a robot on the ice all the time.
Things have been good.
Which of course means the universe has to go and pull the rug out from under me.
I’ve got my feet up on my chair in the tape room, hood up over my head, Dorian sitting to my left, and I’m content.
Kovy’s going on about a shifty forward in our next opponent’s arsenal when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, keeping my focus on Kovy until I can check the notification.
There’s a tagged tweet from the NHL Network.
I swipe the notification away without reading it and relock my phone just as one of the guys says, “Hey, look at our superstars!” He motions to the muted TV behind the captains. There’s an action shot of me in my USA gear opposite one of Cauler when he played for the Gamblers. Below us is a graphic comparing our USHL stats. When it fades, it’s replaced by two NHL Network analysts, Hugh and Alyssa, standing in front of blown-up green-screen photos of me and Cauler.
Kill me.
Someone unmutes the TV in the middle of Hugh saying, “—unique situation with the top two prospects sharing a college team. I’m curious to know how you think that will impact their draft stock, if at all, Alyssa.”
The thing about Alyssa? She’s never been swayed by the whole Mickey James legacy. That’s why she’s my favorite analyst in hockey. She was on a segment about the future of USA Hockey once, talking about the most exciting talent lined up for the next winter games, and she’s the only one who gave Delilah the hype she deserves while everyone else focused on the men’s team.
So I know she’s going to tear me apart. I just wish it didn’t have to be in front of the Royals.
“Honestly, Hugh?” she says. I brace myself. “I think we’ll see Jaysen’s value overtake Mickey’s in the end.”
“Really now?” Hugh raises his eyebrows, pretending to be surprised. Like this wasn’t all planned in advance. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s no secret that Mickey has been … distant from his teams in the past.”
My heart drops right into my stomach and instantly starts dissolving. So that’s where she’s going with this.
“Everyone has always given him the benefit of the doubt,” she continues, “blamed it on team dynamics. Now that he’s sharing a team with Caulfield, same players, same dynamic, there’s no excuses to be made. It’ll be clear that it’s an issue of personality.”
I feel my chest caving in, sucked into the black hole opening where my heart was just a few seconds ago.
“Harsh,” Dorian says. I would expect a lot of chirping from the guys after a comment like that, but they’re quiet, focused on the TV.
“That’s a very good point,” Hugh says as the screen transitions to game footage. “They have very similar stats. Mickey does have a slight edge, but he doesn’t seem like much of a team player.”
“Players with his skill are usually looked to as team leaders, but not Mickey,” Alyssa says. Right on cue, a clip plays where my linemate scores a goal, and while the rest of the players on the ice gather for the celly, I skate past them to the bench without cracking the barest hint of a smile.
I remember that game. It was the middle of a three-week stretch where I spent every moment of free time lying in bed, staring at the wall. I ate nothing but canned soup and bread and butter, failed two major tests because I didn’t even show up, almost got put in the hospital by my billet family, and felt absolutely nothing the whole time.