Page 22 of Save the Game

“Max,” Coach Mackenzie says softly, and the use of my given name has me meeting his eyes. He’s leaned forward in his chair, closing the distance between us. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

I nod, tightly. I knew he’d say that, but the sincerity with which the words were spoken make me feel like a child in need of comfort. The desire to hug him is so strong in this moment, I have to knot my hands together to keep from reaching for him.

“I’m not a doctor, Max. I’m not qualified to do anything more than teach you hockey skills.”

“I know that,” I say quickly, “I’m not trying to…I’m not looking for medical advice. I just wanted to…well, I guess I just wanted to talk to somebody. And I thought maybe you could give me personal advice.”

“Okay. Thank you for trusting me.” He runs a hand down his sternum, as though smoothing an invisible tie. His phone vibrates on his desk, scooting across the surface hectically as it rings. I glance at it.

“You can get that,” I tell him.

“No,” he says. “What happened last night?”

“Oh, that,” I breathe, running a hand through my damp hair. “It was…I was having such a good night, sir. Like, I was having fun. I haven’t had fun outside of the hockey rink in months, but Luke is so easy to be with, and he…I don’t know. I feel like I don’t want to be around people; sometimes I look at other guys on campus and think I wonder if it was you, which I know is wrong. I know it is, but I can’t fuckin—sorry—I can’t help it. But it’s different with Luke; he’s just…he’s magic.”

I cringe as soon as I say it, self-conscious. What a ridiculous thing to say about someone I’ve only known a fucking week. Coach Mackenzie smiles a small, private and somewhat sad, smile.

“Yes,” he says, “I know what you mean.”

I nod, and fix my gaze back on my shoes as I tell him every detail about last night. He listens in silence again, letting me get the whole thing out in one go. He doesn’t laugh or smile again, nor does he look like he pities me. He’s just…there; it’s exactly what I needed.

“And then he texted me today,” I finish, “and he said he’s sorry. And now I feel like shit because…well, what the hell does he have to feel sorry about? He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You can have a relationship that isn’t predicated on sex, Max. If you’re not ready, you’re not ready.”

“I know that,” I say, flushing. “But…I wanted to. I just couldn’t. It’s so fucking stupid—god, sorry.”

“I’ve heard that word before, Max,” he says wryly, and I smile at him. “And it’s not stupid. I have never heard anything less stupid in my life.”

His phone goes off again, vibrating through another phone call. The moment it stops ringing, a text message comes through. I point at it.

“Somebody needs you,” I tell Coach.

“You need me,” he replies succinctly, and I breathe in so sharply it hurts.

“It…it might be Anthony Lawson,” I say, and he nods.

“Oh, it is definitely Anthony Lawson,” he confirms, in a dry tone that makes me laugh. “He gets worried when I do not make it home at the time I tell him I’ll be home.”

“You should answer him. Really, sir, I don’t mind. I think…I’d better get going, anyway. I’ve taken up too much of your evening.”

“Max,” he says, exasperated, “you are not inconveniencing me. I am glad you’ve chosen to confide in me, and I hope that in the future you feel like you can come to me if needed. You have my phone number, and if you walk in that direction,” he points out the window, “you’ll eventually find yourself at my house. I cannot possibly stress this enough: I am always available should you need it.”

“Yeah, okay. All right. Thank you.”

“And, about your friend, Luke.” I nod. Yes, please help me with my friend, Luke. “You should talk to him, Max. That’s all you need to do—talk to him. You’ve done nothing wrong, and as long as he wasn’t forcing himself on you in any way, he hasn’t either.”

“But…do you think I need to tell him? About…about what happened?”

“Do you want to tell him?”

“No,” I say vehemently. “No, I don’t want him to know. He can’t know.”

Coach Mackenzie looks at me steadily, green eyes narrowed slightly. He’s gotten a little bit of a tan, and the scars on his forehead stand out stark against it. His phone vibrates again.

“You don’t have to tell him, not if you don’t want to,” he says, and I sag in relief. “But you should reply to that text. Or go talk to him in person. You’re stressing yourself out over what happened, and he might be as well. Just talk to him.”

“Yeah. I’ll do that. I’ll do that tonight,” I stand up, cupping my hand over the back of my neck and kneading slightly.

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