Page 34 of The Long Game
Shane ducked out from under Hayden’s sweaty arm. “I have my meals pre-planned for the week.”
Hayden shot him a withering look. “Can I get takeout and eat at your house? I just want to hang out, you fucking doofus.”
“Oh.” Shit. Was Shane a terrible friend? Probably. “Sure. Of course.”
“Yeah?” Hayden asked. “You sure you’re not busy with...you know.”
“Nope,” Shane said quickly. “We won’t see each other for a while.”
Hayden didn’t look too sad about that. “Do you think Ottawa won tonight?” He stood and grabbed his phone off the shelf. “Let’s see.”
God, Shane hoped so.
Ottawa lost, of course. But Luca Haas scored his first ever NHL goal in his first ever NHL game, so there was reason to celebrate.
“Not the result we were hoping for,” Coach Wiebe said. His tone was almost apologetic, as if it was his fault they’d lost. As if this team hadn’t been losing all the time for basically its entire existence. “But I saw a lot that I liked out there tonight. Wyatt, amazing game. Ilya, can I just say, it’s a pleasure to watch you up close. Incredible. And where’s Luca?”
Across the room from Ilya, Luca shyly raised his hand.
“The fucking future right here,” Bood announced loudly, ruffling Luca’s short, sweaty hair. He handed Luca the goal puck and everyone cheered.
Not for the first time, Ilya wondered why the hell Bood wasn’t the team captain. He was basically the team’s social director, head cheerleader, and he’d been a Centaur since his first NHL game six seasons ago.
Ilya was a shit captain these days. He barely went out with his teammates, and hadn’t gotten to know any of the younger players. He felt like ripping the C right off his own jersey and handing it to Bood right now.
Ilya watched his teammates laughing and chirping each other as he began to remove his gear, feeling a million miles away. He used to be the center of this sort of thing, dancing in the middle of the room to make his teammates laugh. Now he only felt a bone-deep exhaustion that couldn’t entirely be blamed on the game he’d just played.
The press entered the room, and Ilya managed a few basic statements for them. Yes, the loss was disappointing, but he believed in this team and was confident they would turn itaround this season.
Mostly the reporters wanted to talk to Luca, which was a relief. Once they’d left Ilya, he happily pulled his sweat-soaked shirt off and tossed it into one of the laundry hampers.
“Howdy,” said a cheerful voice.
“Harris,” Ilya said, acknowledging the team’s social media manager. “You need a shirtless picture of me for Instagram?”
Harris laughed. “I mean, it would get a few likes, I’m not gonna lie.”
Ilya did a couple of silly muscleman flex poses, showing off his biceps. Harris jokingly fanned himself. “Jesus, I need to sit down,” Harris said, plunking himself in the stall next to Ilya’s. “I’m about to swoon.”
Ilya grinned at him. If anyone could improve his mood in a hurry, it was Harris. Everyone on the team loved Harris, which Ilya appreciated because Harris was openly gay. He wasn’t sure Harris would have been as warmly accepted in Boston. He wouldn’t have been invited to team outings, that was for sure.
“Everyone’s going to Monk’s after,” Harris said. “You coming?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”
Harris smiled in a way that let Ilya know that he knew he wouldn’t be there. He stood and patted Ilya’s shoulder, which was a bit of a reach for him. He was even shorter than Shane. “I’d better get out of here before you take your shorts off and I actually combust.”
Ilya’s lips quirked up. “Do you even work for this team, or do you just hang out in the locker room?”
Harris winked at him. “Don’t tell anyone.”
He crossed the room to talk to Wyatt, and Ilya removed the rest of his gear and headed for the showers.
Ten minutes later he returned to the locker room, which was quieter than it had been when he’d left. He spotted Haas sittingin his stall, still wearing most of his gear, smiling at his puck. Ilya secured the towel around his waist and walked over to him.
“We can get that, um...” Ilya couldn’t remember the right word. “Made like a trophy.”
Luca quickly set the puck on the bench beside him, as if he were embarrassed about it. “It is just one goal,” he said.
