Page 73 of Goaltender Interference

Aiden ordered them another round and slid one of the glasses across the bar to Saarinen.

“Hölökynkölökyn,” Saarinen said, lifting the glass to him.

“Hol—”

“It’s like cheers. Hölökynkölökyn.”

“Hölo—”

“Hölökynkölökyn.”

Aiden lifted his glass, too. “Hölö—hölö—fuck it,” he said, and did the shot.

Saarinen laughed and drank one, too.

Aiden could do this. Aiden could definitely do this. He just needed to drink more.

By the time Aiden was drunk enough to process the fact that he was at a karaoke night with Matt’s teammates, everyone had loosened up a bit. True to Saarinen’s warning, Fournier had been monopolizing the mic. His voice wasn’t bad, exactly, it was just—a lot. But it was at least the kind of music everyone could dance to. There was a drunk couple in the crowd singing along, and Fournier directed his attention toward them, serenading them from the stage, dipping the mic forward.

The nice thing about being drunk at a karaoke night with a bunch of Royal was that Aiden could mostly lurk on the fringes and watch, and no one really bothered him too much. He did shots with Morozov. He did shots with Lee. He avoided the Morin twins as much as possible.

He tried not to think about all of the places he’d rather be right now. He watched Matt and the rookies, three of them in addition to Crane, all huddled around him—three on chairsand Crane sitting on the table—hanging on every word he said. Aiden sidled a little closer to try to hear what he was saying over the din of Saarinen attempting to forcibly take the mic from Fournier. He could only catch fragments.

“...you know, the first playoffs is, you really can’t prepare yourself for it.”

“What’s more difficult, the mental or the physical aspect, because I hear the grind—”

“I’d say both equally, although my first playoffs were unusual—”

“Oh, yours were—”

“Yeah, although it wasn’t that bad, really, I was just excited to be there, but the grind is real—”

It was kind of cute, the way all of their big, rangy bodies, still not quite done growing, angled in, their faces turned toward him, like sunflowers. Just soaking in everything he had to say. It was nice watching Matt in his element, although it did make Aiden miss his own team and the way he used to be able to talk to Gabe during team events like this.

Matt looked up and smiled when he saw Aiden, like Aiden wasn’t lurking at the edges of the bar like some sort of serial killer. “Aiden,” he said, raising his voice, “think it’s time for the rooks to take their turn, eh?”

“Oh no,” one of them—Cormier?—said. “Cap, I don’t think I can—”

“You can do it in a group,” Matt told him, kindly but firmly, a smile on his face that reminded Aiden more than a little of some of his old captains, “but unfortunately, you gotta do it. It’s the rules.”

Cormier looked a little green, but Crane slung an arm over his shoulder and said, “No worries, bud. We’ll all go, eh?”

“That’s the spirit,” Matt said, “knock ’em dead, boys,” and as they headed en masse for the stage, Matt gestured for Aiden to come to him.

Aiden didn’t even think about not following the instruction; he weaved his way around a few of the Royal defensemen, and slid into the seat Cormier had vacated. On the stage, the rookies staggered their way through some Top 40 radio hit that Aiden vaguely recognized from hearing it everywhere over the summer but couldn’t name. Crane was in the front, letting Cormier hang behind him. One of the other children—Koskinen?—hit the falsetto part with an exaggerated gusto that set the hair rising on the back of Aiden’s neck. Like hearing dogs howling in the distance at night.

Aiden glanced back at Matt, who might have looked completely sober to someone who didn’t know him well. Aiden could tell from context clues, like the flush high on his cheeks and the easy smile and the little slump to his shoulders, that he wasshitfaced. Matt slid a shot glass sideways across the table to him and then his arm over Aiden’s shoulders.

“Oh, very smooth,” Aiden said, and rolled his eyes.

Matt grinned, his fingers squeezing Aiden’s bicep. “Having fun?”

“Uh—yeah,” Aiden lied.

It wasn’t as bad as he had thought it would be, butfunmight have been a step too far. It was just a reminder of the things he had lost; the things Matt had that Aiden had given up, the reminder that he was holding Matt back just by being here. The knowledge that Matt belonged here, with these guys, and that Aiden was at best an interloper. He leaned into Matt’s side anyway, and Matt shifted in the chair to accommodate Aiden’s weight against him. It felt so fucking good that Aiden almost pushed him away on reflex.

Aiden added, “Not entirely drunk enough to appreciate Fournier’s singing.”

---