“I didn’t lie.” I get to my stall and step out of my dress shoes, loosening my tie.
“Dude, she literally kissed you!” Kovy argues.
“You act like she stuck her tongue down his throat,” Cauler says. He kicks his shoes off with a little too much force, so they slam against the bottom of his stall.
I think I’m the only one who notices. They’re all too busy speculating, noisily and without shame. All I can focus on is the way Cauler’s got his jaw clenched.
He’s jealous.
“The kid has the social skills of a rock, but he’s still got Nova freaking Vinter,” Colie says at one point.
I’m about to say something like no, you asshole, I do not have Nova, Nova is not a thing to be had, but Cauler beats me to it.
“You realize how creepy you’re all being?” he says. He lets the band of his compression shorts snap against his hips, and I look way the hell away.
“Is that jealousy I’m sensing, Cauler?” Zero says. It’s a passing comment no one else pays much attention to, still trying to get me to admit to the nonexistent thing going on between me and Nova. I’m almost tempted to tell them about eighth grade, freshman year, the on-and-off summer before I left for Michigan just to shut them up. But that’s none of their business and would probably just rile them up even more.
The goal horn and the rumble of a cheering crowd shakes the locker room, muffled, but enough to get everyone to look at the TV where Delilah’s got her stick raised above her head as her linemates crowd her against the boards.
“That’s three points tonight, Terzo,” Dorian announces. “You got your work cut out for you.”
That’s fine by me. I smile as the camera pans over the crowd, the rows we just vacated the only empty seats in the building, waiting to be filled by the women’s team once we take the ice. One thing about the Hartland student body, they come out in support of all their teams, men’s and women’s alike. The camera homes in on my family for a second, Jade holding her hands over her chest and looking down at Delilah with this kind of adoration that makes my heart clench. My sisters scream around her.
We get our warm-ups in on the practice rink while the women’s game finishes up. The energy is high, the guys are ready to go, and even I’m actually kind of excited to hit the ice.
Until we get back to the locker room for our final pregame talk and Dad’s in there waiting for us. Coach Campbell’s got this smug look on his face, like he’s about to bless this team with the greatest moment of their lives.
Judging by the way most of them react, they agree.
“Kill me,” I mutter.
Dorian leans over to me and whispers, “If I kill you, can I have your skates? They’re sick, dude.”
“Your feet would never fit in them,” Barbie says from Dorian’s other side. “He’s got fetus feet.”
Coach actually introduces Dad, like it’s really necessary, before handing the floor off to him. I try to tune him out when he starts his motivational speech, but there’s only so much I can do with my whole team enraptured by him. Most of them have probably looked up to him since they first laced up a pair of skates, same way their parents looked up to Grampa, Wayne Gretzky, Gordie Howe.
He looks so much older than I remember. Maybe because I’ve seen more of him in tribute videos and on the walls of this arena at my age than I have in person over the past seven years.
It’s hard to see myself in him. Not even because I look more like Mom, with her dark hair and eyes and olive skin. But in the way he carries himself, all inviting smiles and squared shoulders.
We don’t even play hockey the same. I had to learn to adapt it to my size on my own, and that makes our play styles nothing alike.
People like Dad for more than his name and his skill. They never have a bad word to say about him, because he’s not a bad person. Just not a great parent.
By the time he finishes his speech, my teammates are on their feet, thoroughly impressed and ready for puck drop. I’m slower to stand, all the buildup from warm-ups burned out of me. The boys press in close, all reaching a hand into the center of the huddle. The best I can do is a hand on the backs of Dorian and Barbie in front of me as the captains lead us in a cheer loud enough to make my ears ring.
Dad pulls me aside on my way out. “We’ve got NHL Central Scouting here, and a scout from the Sabres,” he says. His excitement is tangible as he puts a hand on my shoulder and shakes.
My heart twists. I feel cold sweat on the back of my neck. Being in Buffalo would make a life of hockey so much easier to cope with. Buffalo is home. It’s where I grew up. It’s where Nova is when she’s not working. It’s where I belong.