Page 37 of Home Ice

"Tell me something about him. Did you two have special birthday traditions?"

I nod, waiting for the tears to swell my throat shut, but surprisingly, they don't. "The Friday before his birthday, we would drive to San Francisco. Every year. Twelve hours with no breaks except for gas and restrooms. It was always dark when we got there, and we were both exhausted, but he insisted on driving us around. He picked a different neighborhood to explore each year, but he made sure we always ended up at this park high above the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge. From up there, you could look down across the bay and see the whole city. It always got so cold, but neither one of us wanted to be the first to give in. Every year for thirteen straight years, we would toe up to the line of hypothermia because we didn't want to make the other one leave that spot."

"You drove all that way for the view? It must be amazing."

"It is. Maybe I'll show you someday. Uh, on my phone. Pictures, I mean. Obviously we wouldn't go together." Why couldn't my heart have stopped earlier? "That's not why we went, though. That was just a bonus."

I try to lean forward, away from him, but he doesn't let me. "So why did you go? Thirteen years ago must have made you a teen when you started going?"

"I was fourteen. The year after Mom..."

"I'm so sorry. The year after your mom passed?"

I snort so hard I worry that I might have shot snot on his arms. "No. She's still alive. Here in town even. That was the year after she left us. She couldn't handle my transition, so she made a choice. And it wasn't me. But you don't care about that."

"Hey." He rests his chin on my shoulder, and his stubble rubs against my cheek. "I do care."

I hope he doesn't care if my body explodes and makes a giant mess over him because that's what's going to happen if we sit like this much longer. Thankfully, he lifts his head, and even though my back is still pulled tight against him, it lowers the high pressure hiss inside my body to a thrum. "That wasn't a good year for either of us, so Dad asked me what I wanted most. He couldn't give me what I really wanted, so I settled for my second choice. I told him I wanted to see the ocean. And he took me. For his birthday, he took me to the ocean. I fell in love with the sound of the waves rushing onto the shore, so every year he took me back. It was his birthday. We should have done what he wanted to do, but we did what I wanted instead."

"I think giving you what you wanted is what he wanted."

From the moment I came out to him, everything in his life was about me. Fighting Mom and schools and doctors. Even his birthdays were about me. And just when his life got to the point where he didn't have to worry about me—when I was doing well, when I was on track for the career I always wanted—he died. These should have been the years when he could have finally had the life he wanted, but he's not here. How can he be here and then just not be here? How can the entire fucking world pretend nothing has changed when everything is different now?

"Stop that."

"Stop what?" My voice is shaking, but it's finally not because of tears. It's because Brant keeps prodding me with his shoulder. My chest and head bounce forward with each nudge until I laugh.

"I don't know what you were thinking, but I could tell by the way your stomach tightened it was no good. So don't go there."

I roll my head back so I can see him. "You think you can tell me what to do?" I ask.

He chuckles. "Probably not, but it's worth a shot. Are you comfortable?"

I let my head fall back against his shoulder, and I nestle myself tight to his chest. Silver is curled against the couch right under us now. And as big as he is, if we want off the couch, we'll have to either jump over him or wait for him to move. "Yeah." So very comfortable.

"Me too, so let's stay just like this."

I accidentally purr, and I don't even care. Staying just like this sounds like the best thing in the world.

CHAPTER 28

THE CREDITS

BRANT

Practice for the next week is insane. It always is the week before opening day. After our offseason workouts and training camp, we're in the best shape we're going to be, but there's nothing like a live game to give us that last little push. And everyone's anticipation is building toward that first face-off. Even more so when you're a goalie trying to work back to your starting spot, and you have a coach who gives fewer clues than a blank wall.

All week, he works Milo and me equally. I try to count the number of shifts we each face during our scrimmages, desperate for some hint. But when I walk into the practice center Sunday morning for our team film session, Milo and I have faced the exact same number. That means Coach is going the extra mile to not tip his hand. So when he calls us into his office after going through the film for the St. Louis game, I don’t know what's coming. That terrifies me more than facing down a three-on-one breakaway.

Milo and I walk together to his office. Each of us tries to comfort the other in case he's named the backup, but it's no good. We both want the number one title. And we both deserve it. At least I hope I've proven to Coach I do. I still have that doubt in the back of my mind. The one that flares every time I extend my leg further than seems possible or twist at an angle that makes onlookers wince. But until I hear that pop, I'll keep fighting for this.

When we get to his office, Coach doesn't tell us to have a seat. He barely even gives us time to get through the door. "I'm Solomoning you," he says and looks back down at the papers on his desk like that's all that needs to be said. Milo turns toward me. He's from Sweden, but after years of playing in leagues all over the world, his English is perfect. There are still times he comes across an English word that he's not familiar with though. I think this is one of those times. The problem is, I'm not familiar with it either.

"Salamandering us?" I ask.

Coach grumbles under his breath. "Solomoning, Morrison. Everyone knows that story. The baby, you whack it in half. Bam. Now everybody wins and nobody's fucking happy. Got it?"

Not at all, but I don't want to be the first one to admit that. I look at Milo and give him the silent signal for "it's your turn to be the idiot in this conversation." He tries to shake me off, but I'm insistent.

---