Page 18 of Home Ice Advantage

“No, competent,” Eric corrected him. He wondered if there was a berachah for not embarrassing yourself in front of your annoying fucking boss. There were a lot of weirdly specific ones, but probably not that specific. He muttered a little encouragement to the ball, anyway, before he sent it careening into the right corner pocket.

“Goddamnit,” Sullivan exclaimed.

“See?” Eric couldn’t resist. “And I didn’t even take the best setup.”

Sullivan’s head whipped around with the kind of energy that a hawk had. He wasn’t glaring, exactly, but there was a very intense focus, a frustration vibrating out of him. Eric thought, smugly,good. Instead, he said, “We ever decide on a bet?”

“No,” Sullivan said, and folded his arms over his broad chest. “And at this point, I don’t think you should get to pick the forfeit. That’s cheating.”

“I won fair and square, you obnoxious little—”

“I’ll buy you dinner on the road,” Sullivan cut him off firmly.

“Are you kidding?” Eric started. Thelastthing he wanted was to spend time with Sullivan outside of work. Especially in an unfamiliar city, where he couldn’t escape. Sullivan’s whiskey-brown eyes were looking at him. His eyebrows drew down in a frown. He was leaning forward a little, into Eric’s personal space. A few more inches and he’d practically be in Eric’s arms. Eric wondered how it would feel, his sturdy body pressed against Eric’s. He wondered—

No. He had to stop thinking like that. He had to be normal about Sullivan, no matter what he looked like, no matter how oblivious he was to the distance between them. Somehow, Eric’s mouth was saying, “Fine, whatever.”

“Okay,” Sullivan said. For some reason Eric had the distinct impression that he was being laughed at. “It’s a bet.” Sullivan glanced up at the glowing TV screens over the bar, which were playing the Patriots game. “Ah, shit. It’s almost midnight already... I should go.”

Eric frowned at the empty glasses stacked up neatly on the table next to him. They had a flight to catch early the next day, and he’d been here in a dive bar, wasting time talking shit with a coworker he hated. “Yeah, same.”

He didn’t look at Sullivan when they settled the tab. He didn’t look at Sullivan when they left the bar and, without further conversation, went on their separate ways. He realized that he didn’t even know where Sullivan was staying. Whether he was living out of a hotel, whether he’d already figured out an apartment. It wasn’t his business, and he didn’t care.

Falling asleep that night, knowing what he knew.

Even the victory felt hollow.

Ryan had always loved road games. You didn’t necessarily get the chance to see another city if the timing wasn’t perfect, but he liked the excitement of knowing that he was going to be in a new place for a few days.

He’d liked being on the plane with the boys, shooting the shit about nothing or playing cards or pranking anyone who was dumb enough to fall asleep while the majority of the team was still awake. He’d liked the excitement of heavy steps down the bus stairs, knowing you were heading into enemy territory. He’d liked hotels, even when he’d had to have a roommate, enjoyed the crisp clean sheets and heading down bright and early to see what was available at the hotel buffet. He’d liked playing in other teams’ barns, especially when they’d win it, savoring the satisfaction of watching faces fall and the crowd go silent.

It turned out that the excitement was still there, just tempered, as a coach. He stood waiting for the guys to corral themselves onto the bus to the airport, watching the rookies goofing off and knocking each other’s hats to the ground, some of the older guys texting their wives, the equipment managers hauling the last few boxes of gear before the team would start loading their own bags.

At his shoulder, Jesse Keen, one of the veteran left wingers who’d been there through the previous administration’s entire tenure, had his arms folded over his chest as he watched. He was frowning. Keen hadn’t impressed Ryan very much in the small sample size.

In the previous lineup, Keen had been a defensive specialist, skating heavy minutes on the penalty kill and rounding out a third line that could do a little bit of everything. He’d never broken fifty points, but he’d been a reliable source of secondary scoring. He had yet to make it onto the scoreboard this season. Ryan wasn’t up his ass about it, but he was keeping an eye on the situation. Sometimes this was just bad luck, sometimes it was a confidence issue, sometimes it was some other thing working its way in and wreaking havoc on a guy’s game.

“Everything good, Keen?”

“Oh, yeah,” Keen said. He had the kind of nondescript face that your eyes skated right over, and thick hair cut in a way that reminded Ryan a little bit of Wolverine. “I mean, would like a little more ice time, if you’re asking sincerely.”

Ryan blinked at him.

“Joking,” Keen said, in a way that indicated that he was not, actually, joking.

Ryan made another mental note to keep an eye on him. He hadn’t expected everyone to immediately fall in line to the new way of doing things, but Keen hadn’t had a point yet so far that season. He had been smiling that same determined, brittle smile about it, but Ryan had the feeling that ice time was going to be an issue. Same as deployment. He had started the season determined to kill everyone with kindness, but that depended on the personnel.

This was a circular little not-quite-road trip, starting in Columbus, swinging through Pittsburgh, stopping in New York, and then up to Toronto, with some time to head home and do laundry in between.

Columbus was the kind of city that had a bad rap, but that Ryan had always enjoyed. The city was the kind of place you could legitimately describe as up-and-coming, and the Battery’s goal cannon was one of a kind. It was especially funny watching the rookies, and some of the veterans, jump. Aronson hadn’t specified where he wanted Ryan to pay the forfeit, so Ryan had decided to get it out of the way as quickly as possibleandbefore he’d have to pay Toronto prices.

As the team went up the ramp to the plane, Ryan turned to Aronson and said, “I made reservations in Columbus for the night before the game.”

Aronson turned an unimpressed brown stare at him. “Columbus? Really?”

“Hey, they have nice places there,” Ryan said, feeling a little defensive. “We can’t all be from Montreal.”

“I feel,” Aronson said, his lip twitching in an effort to hide the smirk, “like you’re just trying to avoid paying New York or Toronto prices.”

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