Page 78 of Zero Pucks

I didn’t understand most of what he was saying, but it was easy to nod along.

“I think in spite of knowing that Bodie would never actually play NHL hockey, his dad still obsessed over it. His granddad didn’t help. They still talk about what would have been and could have been, and it gets in his head sometimes. Badly.”

My heart hurt for him.

“He has this legacy he physically cannot live up to, and his dad will tell him it doesn’t matter, then he’ll get shitfaced and call him and talk about what their lives might have been like if he’d been born normal.”

“Oh, what the fuck.”

Tucker squeezed me again. “I know. That’s what happened the night we got kicked out in Beijing. His dad called. I didn’t hear what he said but it fucked him up. He was angry, we got drunk, shit spiraled. He never blamed me, but he probably should have. I could have talked him down. Instead, I was looking for a way to sabotage my chances at winning a medal because I was still angry it wasn’t the standard Olympics. If I could go back, I would have understood what I was doing was just as good—just as important. But there are parts of me that are still a little screwed up.”

Twisting in his arms, I took his face between my palms, the way he was always holding me. “I like you this way.”

He huffed, then leaned in and tried to kiss me, but I held him back, and he pouted.

“I mean it. Please understand that I mean it.”

After a long beat, his eyelids lowered, and he nodded. “I do.”

I let him have his kiss after that.

* * *

“Thank you for this,” I said quietly in the tense silence over the dinner table.

Boden was on one side, staring down Ford, who was at the head of the table. Tucker was beside me, his face pointed toward his plate, probably so he could deny knowing that Boden was trying to set them all on fire with his eyes.

We were having roast chicken with vegetables. It was simple and a little underseasoned, but it was still a home-cooked meal, which I’d been sorely lacking for a long, long time. Just like the night with poutine, I felt satisfied and full.

Boden sniffed, then looked at me, and his face softened. “Thank you. I appreciatesomeoneat this table has manners.”

“Eat my dick,” Tucker said primly. “It probably has more salt.”

“In front of him?” Boden asked, pointing his fork at me. “He doesn’t seem like he’s the type who wants to watch that.”

My chest burned. I wasn’t. At all. But I knew Boden was just trying to antagonize Tucker. His hand found mine under the table, and I squeezed his fingers as he took a deep breath.

“The dinner did need more salt.” Tucker finally raised his head and shot Boden a shit-eating grin. “Even you can’t deny that, Bode.”

“Excuse me, I—” Boden started.

“Nope,” Ford said, clapping his hands once like a kindergarten teacher. “We’re not going to do this tonight. We have a guest.”

Boden’s mouth opened, then snapped shut, and he sat back, folding his arms over his chest. Ford winked at me, then shot Tucker a raised brow, and Tucker bowed his head again.

“The chicken was moist but underseasoned. And it’s better than anything Tucker could make,” Ford said. It was obvious he was the diplomat. “I don’t think Amedeo will care particularly either way if we start arguing in front of him, but it’s not a nice thing to do. So we won’t.”

Boden sighed, rubbing his hands down his face, then looked at me. “I’m sorry. It’s been a difficult day, made harder by the lack of support from myfriends?—”

“Dude. Fuck you,” Tucker said, smacking his hand on the table. “It’s our job to tell you when you’re being a goddamn dipshit.”

Boden’s jaw tensed, and his face went red. “So it’s your job to tell me that now, but not when my ass was on the line at the fucking Olympics?”

Tucker said nothing.

Ford waited a beat, then said, “He’s apologized for that, Bode. A lot. You don’t get to throw that in his face now. We understand why you’re angry about Hugo, but he obviously knows more about our game than you led us to believe. And that wasn’t fair.”

Boden swallowed heavily, then stood up from the table, leaning heavily on it with one hand as he reached to the side for his crutches. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

---