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  Keisha wore one of Robbie’s spare jerseys. She was tall, but the jersey dwarfed her. The red complemented her dark skin and hair, today styled out and around her head like a halo, but the bulkiness of the jersey combined with her skinny jeans and tall boots made her look like she was wearing a poncho.

  She waited for all of us to take our helmets off before she took a breath and began. If I weren’t on the ice, I’d be cheering her on as she belted, “And the rockets red glare,” the way everyone else in the stands did.

  As Keisha finished, there was extra commotion. I turned my head to see the rest of the theatre kids there, whooping and hollering Keisha’s name. I couldn’t have missed them in warm-ups; they must have come late and wormed their way to the glass. Heather stood in the front next to Craig, one of the best dancers in the theatre program and the leader of the self-dubbed “Gay-Bros.” Heather waved at me and mouthed something I couldn’t read. Craig pulled his shirt up and pressed his bare chest to the glass. I tried not to laugh as I put my helmet back on, double-checking to make sure the cage was secure before I took my position at Robbie’s side. It was time to buckle down.

  The referee moved between Robbie and the opposing center. They kept their heads low, coiled, ready to spring.

  As soon as the puck dropped, Robbie was on it. He sent the puck back from the face off to Smitty as Durrell rammed one of their forwards into the boards. I was already rushing down the ice. I might not have been the best player on our team, but I was fast as hell.

  Smitty fed the puck to Raiden, who tapped it back toward Robbie. Barely two steps, and Robbie sent it back to Raiden. We’d practiced this play hundreds of times. I’d scoot up the outside and slip in, giving it my best slap shot with Robbie there to catch the rebound while Raiden screened the goalie. If the goalie knocked the rebound out, Raiden would do everything he could to shove it in. We had a sixty-one percent success rate.

  “Tristan!” Raiden yelled as he passed me the puck.

  The puck connected with my stick and I took off toward goal. The crowd got louder the closer I got to the goalie. The sound of cheering and screaming was addictive. Thinking of the game as a performance revved me up.

  The goalie made his move, scooting forward out of the crease, glove out. I envisioned the goal, just high of his blocker. Flashing lights, everyone cheering, especially Heather, who afterward might give me a congratulatory kiss. I pulled my stick back for a slap shot.

  “TRISTAN! HEADS UP!” my brother screamed.

  The hit came so fast, I didn’t know what direction it came from. My feet left the ice and I flipped onto my back, sliding until I slammed into the boards, hard. From the ice, I saw who hit me: a six-foot-three defender named Kris Jones who was just coming off a seven-game suspension. It might as well have been a freight train. A sea of booing washed through the arena. I glanced toward one of the refs before getting up to see if he’d call it—he didn’t.

  As I scrambled to pick myself up, Robbie scooted between players, puck miraculously in his possession. The goalie moved toward Robbie, challenging him even farther out of the crease than he’d done with me. Just like me, Robbie lifted his stick. Tension weighted the air; everyone sucked in a breath. Robbie toe-dragged a good two feet to the side then flicked the puck up top shelf so fast the goalie couldn’t raise his glove.

  The goal horn blared. Everyone screamed. Robbie did this little boogie he always did for his goal celly, fists pumping and hips wiggling. I glanced at the scoreboard: not even twenty seconds after the puck dropped, and Robbie already made it 1-0.

  My eyes moved to one section of the arena that was sectioned off as an unofficial press box. A lot of scouts were typing away at their laptops, a few on their mobiles. I scanned the crowd. Our parents would be watching somewhere. At least our dad would be watching; Mom would be on her iPhone. I couldn’t see either.

  We circled Robbie, tapping each other on the helmet and back before Robbie led us to the bench, fist bunched and bumping past the other players.

  “Good choice, Robbie,” Coach said, rubbing and clapping his shoulders. “Smart move.”

  I sat on Robbie’s other side. Coach looked at me and gestured down toward the end of the forwards. I slid to the end of the bench. I’d be on the fourth line for the rest of the game.

  “It’s all right, Butter,” Coach said once we changed lines. Everyone on the team had at least one nickname. If you were really good, sometimes you had two or three. I wouldn’t have minded Butter if it weren’t for the reason. When we were freshmen, our then team captain said, “We should call you guys Butter and Margarine.”

  “What? Margarine?” Robbie had asked. “Why the hell am I margarine?”

  “Because,” he’d said with a grin, “you’re Better Than Butter.”

  As the game progressed, my time on the ice lessened. I was no longer the gimmick; I now was on the fourth line, dumping and chasing the puck, blocking pucks before they could get to our defense, let alone Janek.

  When the end buzzer came, earning us a 3-1 victory—Robbie earning a goal and two assists—I exhaled with relief. Thank God it was over. We skated out to Janek, tapping him on the helmet per tradition before going back to the locker room. Even though we weren’t supposed to use our cells in the locker room, I texted Heather, wait for me.

  I slipped my cell back in my bag as I stripped down. Back in middle school, I used to be self-conscious about changing in front of the others. I think all of us were—the dreaded puberty years—but we got over it quickly. After playing, we were all hot and sweaty and had swamp ass and wanted to cool down. No one really looked or made jokes, except to Henry, whom we joked must have been a porn star in another life, and those were mostly in envious admiration, not that anyone would admit it.

  “Good game, boys,” Coach Benoit said as we filed in and out of the showers, clapping Robbie on the shoulder with a “you’re never going to believe who was here to watch you” gesture. He led Robbie off to the side of the locker room. A huge smile crossed my brother’s face—it must have been a big name.

  When the next shower became available and I walked under the spray, my heart started pounding rapidly. My head swam. I squeezed my eyes shut, hand pressed to the wall to keep me steady, hot water pounding against my forehead.

  “You okay?”

  I turned to see Robbie standing there, towel wrapped around his waist. The dizziness immediately cleared. I tried to cover up a bit out of habit. You’d think for all the money the school would have, they could have afforded shower curtains on the stalls. “Yeah, just was a little dizzy,” I mumbled as I stepped out of the shower.

  “From the hit? They should have called it. If I wasn’t in position to get a breakaway, I would have beat his face in.” Robbie took my place, still keeping the towel on under the spray. I didn’t know what that was about, and like hell anyone would ask.

  “Sure,” I said as I left the room, grabbing a towel and drying off as I moved. I stopped halfway out and turned back to my brother. “I need you to do me a huge favor.”

  “Hm?” Robbie said, a full foamy lather over his hair.

  “Heather invited me to a party.”

  “So go.”

  I stared at him, trying to figure out a code word to remind him I had to stay by his side. Robbie looked at me blankly, then groaned as he finally got it. Rinsing the lather, he said, “We’re all supposed to go to Durrell’s though.”

  “What’s this about?” Durrell asked, stepping out of the next shower. At six-foot-two, Durrell was a menacing stay-at-home defenseman, crushing our opponents into the boards. One of those guys who was great at everything. He always made honor roll, and he’d be drafted when he was eligible next year, barely missing the high school window with a March birthday while Robbie and I made it on the last day of deadline in September. Durrell did golf and ran track in the off-season. He played guitar in a band and was even t
he secretary of the Political Science club. He was already offered a full ride to every college he applied to, hell, probably even from colleges he didn’t apply to. All the girls had crushes on him. Literally. Except the lesbians, and even then they thought he was awesome.

  Because really, he was that cool.

  “Heather’s having some people over,” I said. “Was trying to see if Robbie would go with me.”

  “Can anyone go?” Durrell asked.

  I blinked a few times. “I uh. . . I don’t know. I guess a few?”

  “I’m down,” Durrell said suddenly.

  “. . . you are?”

  “Yeah. Solidarity with Robbie.”

  “What about solidarity with Robbie?” Raiden asked, walking into an adjacent shower. That was the one crappy thing about a team; there were never secrets.

  “We’re going to Heather’s instead of mine to party,” Durrell said.

  Raiden looked confused. Or maybe he was just squinting under the showerhead’s heavy spray. “Who the hell’s Heather?”

  “She’s that girl who Tristan hangs out with all the time,” Robbie said. “You know, the one who’s in all of the musicals?”

  “She hot?”

  “Not my type,” Robbie mumbled.

  “Then nope. I don’t know her.”

  “Hey,” Janek called, Czech accent heavier the way it always was after the physical exertion of a game. Like it sucked out his energy to force an American accent. “So we’re partying at Heather’s now?”

  “I don’t know if this is a great idea,” I said hurriedly. “I don’t want to just, like, invite the whole team without asking her.”

  “So ask her,” Durrell said. “We’ll contribute pizza money and beer.”

  “And wings. Can’t go without wings,” Beau added as he slipped into another shower stall. “Did I forget anything?”

  “Chips,” Janek said. “And guacamole. And what are they called? The things that look like M&Ms?”

  “Reese’s Pieces or Skittles?” Beau asked.

  “Both,” Janek said. “Definitely both.”

  Robbie gave me the corniest thumbs up he could muster, like he was saying, Hey, you got your way, even though he damn well knew I didn’t.

  I hurried to change into a clean pair of underwear, nice jeans, and a dark, long-sleeved polo shirt. Tucked to the side was a spare change of clothes and board shorts, the things I always brought to Heather’s enormous house with its hot tub. Throwing my bag over my shoulder, I wove through the corridors until I got on the main concourse. The second Heather’s friends saw me—a group of about fifteen—they started cheering. I ducked my head, embarrassed.

  When I was close enough, I said, “Great job, Keisha.”

  Heather cut Keisha off before she could speak, “I think you stole the show with your gymnastic prowess.”

  “Gymnastics? I thought it was a touchdown,” Craig added.

  I groaned. “Please don’t tell me it was that obvious?”

  “Back of your jersey said T. BETTERBY.” Heather nudged me playfully. “You ready?”

  “Uh, yeah. So about that,” I began slowly, clearing my throat. “I kind of messed up.”

  “What do you mean?” Heather’s eyes became harsh.

  “I asked Robbie about coming, and Durrell heard, and Durrell thought it was an open invite so . . .” I shifted my weight and mumbled, “I think a bunch of the guys want to come over . . . like all of them.”

  “Are you serious?” Heather gawked.

  “They said they’d pay for pizza and beer and whatever,” I said hurriedly. “They’d hold good on that. I mean, I could tell them to get lost, but uh . . .”

  Craig lifted his arms to the side like a cross and gazed at the ceiling. “OH, LAWDY, THANK YOU JAAAAYYYZUSSS!”

  “Huh?”

  Craig simply beamed. “You’re telling me a bunch of gorgeous, ripped hockey studs are coming to Heather’s humble abode?”

  “Gorgeous?” I snorted. “Most of them don’t have teeth.”

  Craig seemed to think for a moment. “I can live with dentures.”

  “Enough about dentures.” Heather beamed, though something didn’t quite seem sincere. “If they’re willing to pay for beer and pizza, I’m okay with it.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “So, uh, I guess I’ll meet you guys there?”

  “Absolutely. We need to get ready,” Heather said, wrapping an arm around Craig’s back and the other around Keisha’s shoulder. “Come on, dolls.”

  Keisha looked over her shoulder at me and smiled. I half-waved, then hustled back to the locker room. The guys were already laughing about the party and how wild it’d be with all the theatre girls. Some were making bets on how many girls they’d make out with, and what about making out with two at a time? These bets were broken up with claps on my back, the guys telling me how awesome I was for organizing this.

  Except it wasn’t awesome. At all. In fact, it kind of sucked.

  “You ready to go?” Robbie asked by Raiden’s side.

  No, I thought as I led them out of the locker room and into the frigid night.

  5

  Parties at Heather’s house had always been fun. Her mom worked graveyard shifts so nothing was off-limits: the pool, the hot tub, even the spare bedroom. The few times her mom got a night off, she sometimes joined us, jokingly asking which of the guys were straight and over eighteen. Awkward.

  Almost as awkward as the way the team walked in, standing with their thumbs hooked in their pockets around the island in the kitchen, drinking beer that Beau got with his fake ID. Usually once I got to Heather’s, she’d turn on the hot tub, everyone would get in our bathing suits, and jump in. Sometimes there’d be a few make-outs, or tops might come off from quasi-drunken dares. But my teammates didn’t have bathing suits, so no way that was going to happen even though Craig slipped out and turned the jets on. Wishful thinking, I guess.

  I stood near the sliding glass door, watching steam rise from the hot tub. Small snowflakes dropped from the sky; it was pretty.

  Heather handed me a bottle of Smirnoff Ice Raspberry Burst. I didn’t like beer, but malt tasted pretty close to soda. Especially the Raspberry kind. Grape was just vile. I opened the top and took a sip as Heather filled a cooler with other bottles.

  “What’s with the pussy drink?” Ray-Ray asked, sipping from a can of Moosehead. Because, really, what else would a bunch of hockey players drink?

  “It’s just . . . something we do,” I mumbled, torn between putting the drink down or downing it fast. But, to my surprise, Durrell moved in.

  “Mind if I give it a try?” he asked Heather. Smooth.

  She grinned as she opened a bottle and handed it over. “It’s cheesy, but I really do like it.”

  “I can see why.” He grinned and she laughed. I looked around the kitchen—my brother wasn’t in here. So much for Durrell coming in solidarity with my brother.

  Music started blasting. I recognized the song as Garrix’s “Animals,” which we always played in warm-ups to get us pumped. Heather’s face gave the faintest twitch, but she said nothing.

  There was commotion in the next room. I ducked my head in. A bunch of the guys sat around her 65” TV playing a copy of NHL 16 that Smitty always kept in his bag on Heather’s XBox. A few of the acting kids crowded around them, Ray-Ray already making out with a girl I barely knew named Tina, while Beau’s girlfriend—he must have picked her up on the way over—rubbed his shoulders as he played against Janek.

  My brother was on the couch next to Raiden, chucking Doritos at Janek’s head any time he made a mistake in the game.

  “That’s what you get for playing as the Rangers!” Robbie taunted, breaking into laughter when Janek turned his head, catching a chip in his mouth.

  “Hugh five!” Raiden said to Robbie as they s
lapped their hands. I’m not sure why they started saying Hugh Five instead of High Five, but it stuck enough for everyone in the locker room to pick it up, even Coach Benoit. I thought it was kind of stupid, but I thought almost anything my brother came up with was stupid. Especially if it was something my brother came up with Raiden. Then it was extra stupid.

  “Hey, T,” Durrell said as he walked next to me, bottle of Amstel Light in his hand. Talk about being pretty quick to ditch the Smirnoff Ice.

  “Hey. Where’d Heather go?”

  “She went to change into a bathing suit. Something about a hot tub.” Durrell leaned against the counter. “You want to join us?”

  “Do you even have a bathing suit?” I asked skeptically.

  “Underwear’s close enough. Figure that’s enough to stay modest, not that I care.” I hesitated enough for Durrell to pick up on it. “Hey, I know you two are kinda tight. You okay with this?”

  “With what?”

  “With me getting to know Heather. She’s really cool.”

  I wanted to say no. I really did. Instead, I said, “Hot tub sounds great. Give me a few to change.”

  “Cool. We’ll save you a spot, T.”

  “Great,” I muttered, trying to sound enthusiastic as I walked up the steps to Heather’s room where I stashed my hockey bag. I rifled through it for my board shorts and changed into them, deciding whether I was going to ditch my shirt or not. I pulled it off and looked in the mirror. Not bad. Not that Heather ever noticed.

  When I stepped into the hallway, I almost collided with my brother and Raiden.

  “What are you doing up here?” Robbie asked, eyebrow raising.

  “Could ask you the same thing,” I retorted, noticing the pipe in Raiden’s hand. “You can’t just smoke up in Heather’s house.”

  “We’re not going to smoke up,” Raiden said with a buzzed slur, arm draped around Robbie’s shoulder. “We’re totally going to watch Lifetime movies and cuddle.”