Page 57 of From Coast to Coast

Alex laughs. “I like it. You know there are other choices, though, right? And anyway, don’t stress too much about labels, buddy. You don’t have to force yourself to conform to anything in order to belong.”

“Wow,” I muse. I value his opinions, but he’s not usually so gentle about it. “Thank you. That’s actually exactly what I needed to hear.”

“Well, that’s why I make the big bucks. Keep your eye on your email—I’ll send you an invoice for today’s session later tonight.”

“Fuck off.” I snort, getting to my feet and walking to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. I check the time on the stove, wanting to give myself ample time to shower before Grayson calls. “I’d better go, though. Gray and I are video-chatting later and I’ve got to shower and set up my mood lighting.”

“Good lord. Better do some pushups right before he calls, too. Make sure all your muscles are popped out. Smear some oil on your chest.”

“Okay, bye, Alex. You’ve been a delight, as always.”

As I usually do after talking to my best friend, I feel a mixture of relief and annoyance. I know I’ve still got quite a bit to think about in regard to Grayson and I, but I also feel like maybe I’m getting closer to figuring myself out. Excitement bubbles in my stomach as I think about the possibility of a more stable future with Grayson. Maybe it’s not something I should be afraid of. Maybe, just maybe, things that seem too good to be true are actually as good as they are meant to be.

I can hearPetterson laughing as we dress. He’s across the locker room from me, joking around with his linemates. I can’t hear what he said that they all find so funny, but I have a sinking feeling in my stomach that I know what it was about. It’s our first regular season game against South Carolina—against Troy Nichols, whom they all seem to hold in especially low regard.

For the millionth time, I think:fuck these assholes.

South Carolina isn’t the most physical of teams, choosing to rely more heavily on skill and raw talent. They’ve got dangerous forward lines and they know how to put pressure on the opposition. During the first ten minutes of play, they put nine shots on net while we’ve only managed one. As expected, instead of rising to their level, my teammates sink to their own.

The game becomes dirtier, and although the officiants catch most of it, they can’t see it all. Troy Nichols is afforded a penalty shot when he’s slashed so violently across the wrist, his stick snaps in half. He scores on the penalty shot, and I have to physically bite my tongue to keep from cursing my teammates. The fucking idiots need to work on playing better and not injuring the opposing team. That’s not the way we should want to win.

The blatant penalties continue, and while South Carolina does their best to play the game their way, by the third period, it’s getting to them. The score is tied at 3–3, and the thought of going into OT has both of us fighting like rabid dogs to put another point on the board.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I complain, popping my mouthguard out and looking up at the Jumbotron to watch the replay of South Carolina’s baby goaltender stopping my shot. It was going to be a perfect backdoor goal—there’s no way that kid stopped it.

Except, he did.

I look over at him and can’t help but laugh at the way he tosses the puck out of his glove with a jaunty little flick of the wrist, eyes on mine behind the cage of his mask.Cocky little fucker.

When the clock has ticked down to only four minutes ofplay left, we face off in South Carolina’s defensive zone, to the left of Carter Morgan in net. Sanhover wins the draw but Petterson picks the pocket of Monroe and sends Zolkov the puck. He shoots and Morgan saves it, gloving it down. The referees can’t see through the mass of bodies, though, so no whistle is blown and play continues. Petterson, either not seeing or not caring that the goaltender has the puck out of play, charges the net. South Carolina’s defense shoves back, defending their netminder.

Both teams converge in a scrum, heedless of the whistles now being trumpeted. Not having an interest in getting into a fight, I skate over to try and separate some of the guys. Corwin Sanhover appears to be doing the same, trying his level best to get Petterson off of his defensemen. With an arm around my line mate, I watch as Stevenson skates up behind Sanhover and puts an arm across his throat, yanking his head backward violently.

The scrum is getting out of hand now, with gloves and helmets littering the ice and two guys down and wrestling. Out of the corner of my eye I see the South Carolina goaltender skating up, sans helmet. The officiants are all too busy to pay him any mind, and probably weren’t expecting the tenders to get involved anyway. Distracted, I loosen my grip on the pair I’m trying to separate, and watch as Morgan skates up to Stevenson, drops his gloves onto the ice, and throws a punch.

Immediately, Stevenson goes after him, red-faced and pissed. He spits something at Morgan I don’t hear, but it doesn’t matter. A referee puts himself between them and, apparently deciding that Carter Morgan is the more dangerous of the two, pushes him backward and away.

Both teams are awarded penalties for fighting, as wellas a pair of 10-minute misconducts. We play three-on-three for half of the final four minutes in the period. I do my best to put a puck in the back of South Carolina’s net, but am stopped at every turn by that damn rookie. I’m almost certain I see him wink at me at one point.

It takes until the last twenty seconds of the game for someone to score—Corwin Sanhover slides the puck between Gordon’s pads and the post in the smoothest wraparound I’ve ever seen. I’d hate him if I wasn’t so impressed. On his way to the bench, Petterson angrily slams his stick against the boards, shattering it.

Zolkov stands silently by my side in the locker room, as he usually does. We’re some of the few people in here who aren’t throwing a fit about the loss. It always sucks to lose, but it was a good game and South Carolina played better. They deserved to win. I nudge Zolkov with my elbow.

“That fucking rookie,” I say, and he shakes his head.

“Lawson will not shut up about him.” Zolkov sighs, picking up his cell phone and scowling down at his text messages. He shows me the screen, which has three notifications from Anthony Lawson. “I am hearing all about him, and will be worse since we lost.”

“Yeah.” I grin. “Good luck with that.”

Z and I stick together until we get to the lobby of our hotel. He stops in front of the elevator bank while I peel off toward the stairwell, like usual. He stops me with a hand on the door, and takes a step away from the elevator.

“You are taking stairs?” he asks, brow furrowed.

“I always take the stairs,” I point out.

“We are on floor twelve,” he replies in the tone of one pointing out the obvious to an idiot.

“Right, but I can’t take the elevator. I’m a little claustrophobicand I just can’t do”—I gesture toward the metal doors—“that.”

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