Page 41 of Unlovable Player

“I’m not going to jump you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

His gaze shoots around the restaurant.

“Don’t worry, no one can hear me, and I’m not going to out you. I’d never do that. I know what it feels like to be outed.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “You mean the video thing?”

“That, and at school, when Frederick the Swede told everyone I tried to kiss him.”

“Did you?”

“Hekissedme, before he got all weird about it and blabbed.”

“I-”

“Don’t worry, I’m not saying that’s what you did.”

He slumps back in his chair. “We should go, we’ve got a business class in an hour.”

That weekof practise goes faster than I thought it would. It’s like classes, assignments and hockey practise all ramp up for everyone at the same time and no one has the energy to hold grudges. I’m under no illusion the grudges are gone, just… on hold for the time being.

By the time the puck drops on Friday, I’m just focused on the game, and man that feels nice. To have a clear head like that, just for a little while.

We keepit up for the UMass game. The first line are communicating well, and we win the first face-off. Austin finds my stick and I breakaway through the neutral zone and take a shot on goal, but it’s saved by UMass’ goaltender and we’re denied a chance to get ahead early.

It’s the home team who get on the board first, and when Coach switches out the lines, Hayes actually taps my stick before going on the ice with a look of pure determination.

No doubt he’s improved since Austin’s little speech. My chest catches at the thought of being moved down again and I realize, not for the first time, I actually want this.

Hockey coaches always gave me more praise than my dad ever did. But this isn’t my future. I know that, and I need to get it out of my head.

Our second line are tight and communicating well. Hayes finds a freshman stick and Smith scores. We jump up and Austin presses his weight against me in a bear hug before pulling away, red-faced.

We go back out pumped, before UMass put another one in the back of the net and that’s the end of the first period.

The second period is scrappy from the start and when UMass score a third goal, it’s hard not to drag our asses on the floor, but we rally. UMass’ defense get sloppy and Austin lights the lamp on a penalty kill.

Heart thumping, I’m desperate to close the gap. Austin finds me after Jordan forces a turnover in the UMass defensive zone and I send a slap shot soaring into the back of the net.

We celebrate as if we just scored the deciding goal in game seven for the Stanley Cup.

It doesn’t even matter that the third period is goalless and we walk away with a draw. The main thing is that we pulled it back from a beatdown and left Lowell with our heads high.

On the bus back to campus, Jordan comes and sits beside me, his arm around my neck, squeezing with his big D-man biceps.

“Yale saved us from a getting our asses handed to us tonight,” he says.

“Yeah, maybe he deserves a new nickname,” Austin tries.

My gut churns at the reason he’s trying to stop everyone calling me Yale.

“Maybe, come watch Donno’s team with us tomorrow and we’ll think about it.” Jordan rubs his knuckles against my head until I flinch. Satisfied, he jumps up and goes back to his seat at back of the bus.

I rub my head and Austin laughs.

“So everyone’s going to the bar then?”

“Yeah, you should come.”

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