The dock is empty, and I can’t tell if I’m relieved or disappointed that I don’t have an excuse to keep quiet. I go to my usual spot at the end and sit, kicking my legs out over the water. Cauler sits too close. For someone who can’t stand me, he’s got no problem being in my space.
A gust of wind comes in off the lake, making me shiver. I pull my feet up onto the dock and wrap my arms around my knees. My hood blocks him from my periphery, which is fine by me. Can’t stare at his mouth that way.
I wait for him to say something. To tear into me for that play, call me out for being selfish. Tell me whatever we were is officially over.
But I want to fix this. I want to get back to the flirting, the kissing, if we can. At least then we were having some fun with each other.
“Sorry for being a little shit,” I mumble.
“You’re always a little shit,” Cauler says. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
I look down at the lake and sigh. “In the game yesterday. Just now on Twitter.”
Cauler hums. I glance over as he brings a knee up to prop under his chin. “That game was a joke all around. I’m over it. Mostly surprised you know how to send a tweet, honestly.”
I don’t say anything. I’ve got that same heavy feeling in my chest that I got before I came out to my sisters earlier. Words trying to force their way through my teeth before I’ve had time to think them through. It’s just …
“It’s hard, playing in front of my dad,” I blurt out.
Cauler laughs a little. “I can tell you for a fact it was hard for some of the boys, too. Figured you’d be used to it by now.”
I shrug. “He only retired a few years ago. Not like he had time to come to my games. Raleigh’s a long way from Michigan. It’s just—” I cut myself off. He doesn’t want to hear my sob story. I should be grateful I got into the NTDP. It wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for Dad pushing me and leaving me in Buffalo.
“It’s just?” Cauler presses.
I heave out a breath and tug on the strings of my hoodie to keep my hands occupied. “He expects a lot. Like … a lot. Or at least I assume he does? I don’t know. I kind of panicked at the end of that game. I hadn’t done shit and he was watching and … I don’t know.”
“You realize if you’d’ve passed to me, you’d’ve got an assist, right?”
“Yeah. But then you’d have two goals.”
“And you would’ve set me up for a game winner on a beauty of a play with seconds on the clock, and everyone would’ve been obsessed over our on-ice chemistry instead of pitting us against each other like always.”
I press my forehead against my knees. “I know.”
“You’ll look a lot better to scouts if you focus on the team and winning instead of racking up goals.”
“I know.” There’s this desperate kind of pitch in my voice that makes me squeeze my eyes shut. I am not about to cry in front of him.
He totally hears it, too. He’s close enough I can feel him pull his other leg up, his elbow pressing into my arm as he adjusts himself. “If you want a parental figure who’ll be disgustingly proud of everything you do, I’ll give Ma your number. Go a shift without scoring on your own net or falling on your ass and she’ll be blowing up your phone about how great you’re doing.”
I huff a laugh through my nose and turn my head, resting the side of my face on my knees so I can look at him. He tilts his head back, looking up at the colors of the sunset peeking through gray clouds. My eyes follow the long stretch of his throat, down to the silver necklace resting at the base of his neck.
“She didn’t know a thing about hockey when I started,” he goes on. “She cried when she saw me standing on skates without falling. Basically called Mr. Cicero a miracle worker, she was that impressed. Never really got over it, either. She’s amazed by everything.”
“How’d you start playing if she didn’t know anything about it?” I ask.
“Kyle Kane’s from the same neighborhood as me. We were on our way to my first football practice, actually. Black kid says he wants to play sports, teachers send home football and basketball pamphlets, y’know. But Ma and I ran into Kyle Kane playing street hockey with some kids a couple blocks from home. Black man playing a sport that’s not football or basketball with a bunch of little Black kids?” He smiles. Shakes his head a little. “I was instantly obsessed. Dad started working a ton of overtime, and Ma started babysitting a bunch of kids before work at night so they could pay for me to play.” He turns his head to look at me. “Don’t know if you knew this, but hockey’s expensive.”