Page 2 of These Wicked Games
“Don’t worry about me; worry about yourself. Those Viper scouts will be coming soon to take you away from me.”
“If they sign me.”
“They will sign you.” Andre gives me a soft look. “They will, Ol.”
There are plenty of teams, I know that, but the Vipers have always beenmyteam. The Vipers are also scoutingnow, and I don’t want to tell Andre how desperate I am for money, how desperate I am to ease my mother’s burden. I want to get her the best carewhile she battles cervical cancer. I want her not to have to lift a finger for the rest of her life.
As short as it now may be.
It’s only been nine months since her diagnosis, and it’s fucking evil what it’s done to her so far. It’s fine. It will be fine. They are going to sign me. There’s nothing standing in my way. “I know. I’m just fucking nervous.” I can’t fuck this up. Too much is riding on my dream.
Andre chews his lip, then stands, and I can already feel his arms before they’re around me. “You got this.” Normally, if we were around people, I’d push him away. But it’s just us here right now, and I hate to admit how good his arms feel. How much they comfort me. “You’re the best fucking player on our team.”
What I want to say is that I want him to get signed with me. I don’t think Andre even cares, though, and for the millionth time I want to ask him why. Andre loves the game, and he’s good, but he doesn’t have the same desperate drive I do. Maybe you don’t have to when your father can kick open any doors for you. “You’re coming with me.” It’s the only downside, I guess. I’ll have to move, and I already know how much I’ll miss him.
Andre shakes his head. “Doubtful. I’ve been a bad boy.” He looks at me sheepishly.
“No, come on! Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I just smoked a bit with that guy I hooked up with. I’m not worried about it, though.”
He should be, and it concerns me that he isn’t. I don’t give a shit about smoking weed in general, but for me the thought of risking my career is absolutely unfathomable. Andre’s become real good at hiding it, though, and lately he’s gotten worse and worse.
Risking more and more.
As if fate is listening, Tripp comes in with our team doctor. “Hey, boys.” He looks at me and I feel myself standing straighter while Andre rolls his eyes. Tripp Ostrander is a big man, nearly as tall as my six four, and he’s gained a little weight since his days on the ice. He’s White, with brown hair that’s buzzed now, and his green eyes seem to look right through me. He looks like an army general instead of a former hockey player—more than a little intimidating. I don’t see any of Andre in him, though. I’ve seen photos of his mother. She was Mexican, with beautiful, curly black hair just like Andre’s, and these warm brown eyes . . .
Andre has her eyes. They’re hazel, but just as warm.
Okay that’s not . . . I don’t . . .
There I go. I don’t know what’s wrong with my brain. More and more these thoughts have plagued me and I don’t understand them. Objectively, he is very attractive. Nothing weird about that, right? It’s an observation is all. I’m not attracted to men, but I can admit that Andre’s beautiful, in the way that beautiful people are attractive. He has tawny brown skin, and freckles sprinkled across his nose spilling onto his cheeks. His loose curls are pulled into a ponytail right now, a little frizzy from the sweat and static of his helmet. His lips are full and always make me laugh at the most ridiculous shit that spills from them. When he’s laughing, dimples pool at the corners of his mouth. “Ow!” Andre elbows my side. “Sorry, what?”
“Spacing out there, Oli?” Tripp cocks a strong brow at me.
“Ah, no sir, sorry um, just tired.”
“You really worked your ass off last night. Take it easy tonight. We have a game tomorrow.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“You both need to take a test before you leave,” he says, and I see the doctor has two cups in his hand. “Everyone else did theirs while you two were on the ice. Great practice by the way.” The doctor hands us the cups and waits. “I think we can give these two some privacy . . . unless you want to hold it for them?” Tripp jokes, but the doctor doesn’t laugh.
I take the cup and a sharpie to write my name with, leaving them both on the bench for when I go to a stall. “I can bring them to you,” Andre insists. “It’s fine. We’re going out after this anyway.”
The doctor looks uncomfortable but eventually nods, turning to head out of the locker room.
“Just bring them down to the office when you’re done. And boys . . . do not get into trouble tonight.” Coach says this more to Andre than to me.
“Aye aye, captain.” Andre salutes him, and I think I see anger flash over his face before he shakes his head slightly and leaves. Andre holds nothing but contempt for his father, and I don’t get it, but maybe I’d feel differently living under his roof. He’s not Tripp Ostrander at home, he’s just Dad.
Finally he leaves us both to it, and I don’t know how Andre isn’t shitting bricks right now. It’s like he doesn’t even care, and maybe I just don’t get it because hockey is the only thing I live for aside from my mother. Andre pulls his long hair out of its ponytail, shaking it out. Strands still cling to the sweat on his face. Looking at my friend, I guess I live a little for him too.
I got signed straight out of high school last year, and then met Andre when I joined the team. My plan was to go to college but I didn’t have the money, and this was the fastest track I could thinkof to get to my goal. When I found out Tripp would be coaching this team, it felt like everything was falling into place. Then my mother got sick. Now it’s like I’m stuck inside an hourglass, slowly drowning under the sand.
Andre is quiet for a moment, and I turn to watch him staring at the cup. “This is it. I’m about to be in a shitstorm of trouble,” he says.
“I thought you didn’t care.”
