Page 21 of Home Ice Advantage

“Maybeyoudid,” Eric said. The worst part about the whole thing was that the tuna was actually delicious. He chewed and swallowed, furious.

“What do you mean, maybe you did? You played a long time, too.”

“I’m not—” Eric didn’t want to say it here, when Cayde was smiling at them and bringing out more dishes. Didn’t want to say the worst things he thought sometimes, about toiling away so long, fighting every other night and bruising his knuckles and blacking his eyes, no Cup to show for it. “I’m notlikeyou.”

Sullivan looked at him intently, like Eric was one of the roster players on one of his teams, the kind of guy he would have motivated by reading the roster before heading out onto the ice. He leaned forward a little, shifting to try to get closer, his whole body tense and focused solely on Eric. Eric thought for a wild, insane second that Sullivan was going to try to take his hand. Under the table, his foot bumped against Eric’s; just the simple contact sent a shock up his spine.

Sullivan flinched, like he had felt it too, but said, “We were both undrafted. We both worked our way—”

“We are nothing.Nothing.Alike.”

They both had to pause because Cayde hovered at the edge of the table, looking very concerned. “Um, I’m very sorry to interrupt, but I wondered if you might want to put in an order for your main dishes? Or if I could bring you another bottle of wine?”

Eric blinked.

He hadn’t looked too closely at the menu. He’d grown up in a kosher household, but once he went away to live with a billet family, he’d fallen out of the habit. It was fucking difficult—almost impossible—to keep kosher when you were one of the few Jews in the league, and the team didn’t even think about trying to billet you in an appropriate home.

He’d never really managed to get back in the habit again. But he still thought about it every time he ordered something made with lobster broth, every time he ate pork or a cheeseburger.

His mother wasn’t very judgmental about the way he lived his life, but he knew that she was always secretly disappointed. The same way she probably would have been disappointed about other things he hadn’t told her, like the fact that he was perfectly fine dating Danielle from shul, but he’d really preferred David.

“I’ll—uh—the sea bass?” he said, after a second.

Cayde nodded, and then smiled brightly at Sullivan. “And for you, sir?”

Sullivan frowned and said, “I’ll do...the halibut, thanks.” He very studiously did not look at Eric, frowning, instead, at the woodgrain of the table.

Cayde glanced from one of them to the other, like he was trying to figure something out. “You know what? I think maybe the occasion calls for some wine, really. Can I show you the list?”

“No, it’s okay,” Sullivans said, and winked. “We both have to work late tomorrow.”

Eric could almost see Cayde’s sigh of relief, the way his whole body relaxed, and he realized something kind of horrific. That fucking kid thought they were theretogethertogether. And Sullivan. Stupid, oblivious Sullivan. He had no fucking clue.

Eric imagined the floor opening up underneath him, swallowing him without a second thought. That would have been preferable to tuna ribbons and a very fresh-faced young queer kid assuming that he wasdating his boss. His obnoxious, optimistic boss who said shit likeit’s not the vibe I’m looking forand seriously meant it.

“You okay?” Sullivan asked, his eyebrows raised.

“Fine,” Eric said, and put his head down and concentrated on demolishing the rest of the oyster mushrooms that Sullivan had ordered for him.

He carefully minded his own fucking business for the rest of the dinner. He didn’t argue. He didn’t snap. But it didn’t help. Toward the end of the evening, Cayde came sweeping back in with a wink for Ryan and a grand flourish: a torte and a poppy cake, to split.

“Complimentary,” he said, beaming. “I just wanted you to end your night on the sweetest note you could.”

Sullivan looked at him, bemused. Eric kept his mouthfirmlyfucking shut, even when Sullivan, calculating the tip and scrawling his signature on the bill, said, “The waiter was nice, but do you think the conversation was a little odd?”

“All in your head,” Eric said, curtly, and counted down the seconds until he could flee.

Chapter Five

November

The road trip hadn’t been as successful as Ryan had hoped. They’d won a few and lost a few. The thing that was both frustrating and heartening was that the team played up to tougher competition, but down to lesser competition. The kernels of what could be? They were there.

When he watched Williams and Cook on the ice, the way they seemed to know where to find each other even without looking, he was encouraged. They had played well in Toronto and New York especially. But when they went down two goals in thirty seconds against Columbus, Ryan had to duck his head into his hand behind the bench to keep his face under control.

They regrouped after the trip to go over the tape, to look at who was underperforming, to consider whether the lines and pairings needed to be shifted. The coaches often stayed late, sharing a beer in Ryan’s office while they discussed the details. He wasn’t surprised to find himself at odds with Aronson again.

“I thought youlikedKeen,” Ryan said, frustrated. He’d moved Keen up to the second line, temporarily, to see if they could get him going again. He’d also slotted him onto the second power play unit for the same reason. Not the first unit, of course. He didn’t want to gettoocrazy.

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