Page 23 of Slots & Sticks
Camden
“Stop slacking, boys!” Viktor tucks his hockey stick into his armpit and claps both hands. “As the team captain, I’m instituting a no offseason flab policy! Dad bods are out! Tight cheeks are in!”
“And make sure you wash them good in the shower,” Knight adds. “With soap. According to Sofia, men’s ass crack hygiene is a problem.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Bowen mutters, though he keeps his voice low enough that Viktor can’t hear him. Tristan takes the opposite approach. He spins and comes to a stop, framing the cheeks in question with both hands and giving Viktor a Blue Steel expression over his shoulder.
Laughter ricochets off the boards. Sticks slap. The ice smells like sweat and ozone. Pucks scatter as someone misses a pass, and the sound echoes through the empty arena.
Viktor scowls as he skates over to me. “You call that skating, Cam?”
I resist the urge to whack him with my stick. “It’s not even a real practice, Viktor.”
“Doesn’t mean you half-ass it. I’m the captain here. Where’s your head?”
“I have other stuff on my mind, dude.” I scrape the ice with the toe of my skate, the sound sharp in the cold air. Dot seemed like she needed space after last night. I hope she isn’t mad.
I had a serious boner in the middle of the night when she was all sleepy and snuggled up to me. She must’ve been dreaming—those little noises were cute and, yeah, unfortunatelyhot. It’s not like I did anything. Grief be damned. I can’t help how my body reacts when my longtime crush is basically draped over me.
Either way, she’s got enough to deal with. She doesn’t need to manage my feelings on top of hers.
Viktor cocks his head. “What’s the problem? Did I cockblock you or something?”
“What? No!” I glare at him. “I was helping Dot at her parents’ place.”
“Oh, shit.” Knight’s been eavesdropping. He skates over and rests a hand on my shoulder. “How is Dot?”
Viktor senses it, veering off track. “She’s fine. Let’s focus.” He claps his hands, trying to reel everyone back in. But the circle’s already tightening around us.
“She’s not fine,” I mutter. “I’m a little worried. I bought her a whole pallet of books, and she barely touched them.” My chest constricts as I say it. Despite the ice strong under my skates, I feel like I’m standing under a weight.
“I… I don’t know how to reach her,” I add, almost to myself.
“You bought her what?” Tristan tilts his head like a confused puppy.
“A pallet of books.” My stick taps the ice. “I’ve never seen her like this. I… don’t know how to help. So I bought her a present.”
He waits. When I don’t explain, he says, “Why?”
“She likes books. I thought they’d make her feel better.”
“Yeah, but… a pallet? How many is that?” He looks at Bowen, who’s already scrolling.
“Well over a thousand,” Bowen says. “Damn. That’s a lot of books.”
“Bet they needed a forklift to deliver that,” Owen calls from the crease.
“I know.” I rub my forehead, the edge of my glove squeaking against my helmet. “I was trying to distract her from losing hermom. I went overboard. Thought more books would make her feel… better.”
Owen, our goalie, nods. “That tracks. If books make her feel better, more books should make her feel… more… better.” He scratches his jaw. “You know what I mean.”
A few of the guys bob their heads in agreement. The sound of skates scraping winds around us, a low, steady hush.
Lenyx hunches his shoulders. “Has she told you how Coach Shaw’s doing? Every time I try to ask my dad, he clams up.”
“Oh, yeah. We saw him yesterday.”
I close my eyes for a second, like that’ll erase the picture burned behind them: a man I’ve known my whole life lying in a bed, unable to move. Coach was always lean and lanky, with that quiet confidence. In the hospital, he looked shrunken. Reduced.
