Page 17 of From Coast to Coast

“Sorry,” he mumbles, sitting down next to me on the bench as we rest after our shift. “I don’t usually play D-line.”

I squirt a stream of water over my face and down the back of my neck. My legs are on fire and we’re only halfway through the second period. “It’s all right, you’re doing fine,” I lie, and he smiles weakly. “You’ve got to back Gordon up, though, when you’re on the weak side. He can’t cover the net alone.”

“Yeah, sorry. I played forward, mostly, in college. I’m still trying to reroute my brain to defense. All I can think about is cutting off the fucking passing lanes.”

“Leave that to the wingers,” I advise, and he nods. Poor kid clearly wishes hewasone of the wingers. I nudge him with my shoulder. “You’re doing fine. We’ll get it.”

He grimaces, which is a sentiment I understand. On the ice, Remy slides up and bends to take a face-off. He wins, backhanding the puck through his open legs and onto Zolkov’s blade. He fires a shot that rings off the crossbar and deflects to the opposite side. Chewing on my mouthguard in agitation, I watch as the opposing team is able to travel coast-to-coast and score yet another goal.

Zolkov’s line ismyfucking line. I can read him like a bookand would have been there to cover the rebound on his shot. We sure as shit wouldn’t have turned over the puck in the offensive zone and then let them score a fucking goal. Fuming, I count down from a hundred in my head, waiting to be sent over for my shift. I want tohitsomebody.

It never comes. Instead of rotating through the lines, Coach puts the top line back out after three comes off, changing the forward pairs in the process. Everyone looks confused, but nobody says anything—why would they, when I’m the one whose ice time is being reduced. By the time the game ends, we’ve lost by a humiliating margin of five points and looked like an entire team of rookies.It’s just one game, it’s just one game, it’s just the one game,I chant, trying to say it to myself enough so that eventually I’ll believe it.

I’m barely aware of the bus ride to the airstrip, or sitting down in a random window seat. I don’t have to worry about somebody unwanted sitting next to me since the only friend I have on the team is Zolkov. Turning my face toward the window, I wait for him to board the plane. When I feel a body hit the seat and an arm brush mine, I look over. It’s Remy, not Z.

He’s not looking at me, but has his head tipped backward against the headrest and eyes closed as though he’s already fallen asleep. His hands are resting loose in his lap and one might think he’s relaxed if they couldn’t see the way a muscle is pulsing in his jaw. Zolkov boards the plane and narrows his eyes when he sees Remy seated next to me. Before he can pick a fight, I shake my head and shrug, trying to nonverbally convey that he doesn’t need to come to my rescue.

Remy waits until the plane takes off and levels out beforehe speaks to me, voice pitched low as though he doesn’t want to be overheard.

“So, that was a clusterfuck.”

I nearly laugh even though he sounds as dejected as I feel. Peeking over my shoulder I ascertain that Romero, my line partner for the evening, isn’t within hearing distance. I don’t want to make him feel worse than he likely already is.

“Romero hasn’t played D since college,” I tell Remy softly. He makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat.

“We have enough D-men to cover the line,” he says. “There is no reason to play a kid they signed as a winger in that position, unless we were short defensemen.”

“I know.”

“You played twelve minutes of that game, Grayson.Twelve. What the fuck? That was…I don’t know, self-sabotage or something. It’s like they wanted to lose.”

“I know,” I repeat, and sigh, trying to ignore the sick feeling in my gut. He’s right, but he’s also wrong. It’s not the team they’re trying to sabotage, but me. They want me gone.

“Bullshit,” he mumbles, more to himself than to me.

“It’s just one game,” I say, starting to sound like a broken record. “Maybe this was just a fluke. It’s early in the season.”

“Hopefully. They need you and Zolkov together. You guys have that freaky, fucking mind-meld thing going on.” I laugh and he grins at me. “And you need to take more chances on net. Put that big body to use.”

Huffing a laugh, I shake my head and stretch my legs out as much as I can. “What is it with you and wanting me to score goals?”

He turns in his seat, a challenging glint in his eye. “Your rookie year you had twenty-one goals and sixty-nine assists; you won the Calder Trophy. Calgary signed you for onebefore extending that to eight after your first year on the team. Last season you only scored four goals, and had thirty-eight assists.”

“I remember,” I say, a little peevishly. His lips twitch.

“You lit the league up your rookie year. You and Troy Nichols, skating circles around the rest of us. God help us all if the pair of you were ever signed to the same team.”

“What I wouldn’t give,” I mumble.

“You, me, and Zolkov. Let’s get this team back to the way it used to be. I don’t want to play for a team that shoots itself in the foot, because they have a personal beef with one of the players. Let’s show them that they’re wrong. Let’s show them that you can be the best D-man in the league and suck dick at the same time.”

“Remy,” I say, eyebrows raised and tone serious, “you are an inspiration to the masses.”

“Shut up.” He rolls his eyes, flopping backward against the seat and tipping his head back. “You know what I meant.”

“Yeah,” I say, no longer joking, “I know what you meant. And that sounds great to me, but what are the odds of them putting the three of us together?”

“I’d say pretty good, unless they want to finish bottom of the league and be fired by management,” Remy deadpans.

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