Page 42 of Between the Pipes

In the center of the locker room is Carter Morgan doing his level best to beat the shit out of one of his teammates. I can’t tell who it is, because Morgan’s body is blocking their face as he pummels them. Striding forward, I trip over something and almost lose my balance. Gritting my teeth and conscious of the room full of watching eyes, I hook an arm through Morgan’s raised one and yank him backward. He hits the floor hard, unsuspecting of an attack from behind, but recovers quickly.

He bounds to his feet and wipes the back of his hand under his nose, which is bleeding profusely. His eyes are flat with rage and his lips are pulled back in what can only be described as a snarl. As I watch, he spits blood onto the floor, managing to get some on his opponent’s legs. Brock Hill gets to his feet a lot slower than Morgan did; his face is a mess of red and his lip is already swelling. He’s twice as wide as Morgan and probably the one most would have picked to win this fight. They would have been wrong.

“What,” I say, slowly and steadily, anger slicking my words and giving them sharp edges, “is going on here?”

Hill opens his mouth to tell me, teeth bloody and eyes shiny with the shame of losing a fight in front of his teammates. I hold a hand up to him and he snaps his mouth closed.

“Not you,” I say, and then look around. The rest of the boys are spread out through the room, some half-dressed in their practice gear, and others just half-naked. Several regard me with wide-eyed looks of fear, while others look ashamed. I find who I’m looking for near the back, by his stall. “Vasel.”

“Yes, Coach?” His voice is soft, the German accent more pronounced than I’ve ever heard it.

“Tell me what’s going on in here.”

The room is silent but for the heavy breathing of Morgan and Hill. Morgan, standing to my left, still has his bloody hand clenched in a fist. I can see it shaking, slightly.

“There was a fight,” Vasel tells me, starting with the safest and most obvious piece of truth. “About the Troy Nichols article.”

“No,” Carter Morgan’s voice is quiet, but strong enough to be heard by everyone in the room. He’s not looking at Vasel, or Hill, or anybody but me. “It was about what Hillsaidabout the article.”

This pronouncement is met with shuffling feet, and gazes suddenly directed at the floor. Morgan maintains my eye contact, and I notice hurt in those blue eyes, hidden poorly with anger. Morgan—my tattooed, insolent, and snarky goalie—looks, for the first time since I’ve met him, exactly like an eighteen-year-old kid.

“I didn’t say shit!” Hill objects, and then, after a look from me, adds: “Coach.”

More shuffles. I wait, knowing shame and silence will bring the truth out faster than harsh words and shouting. I don’t have to wait long.

“You said you wondered if Nichols liked getting dicked out and if he ever—,” Bronson, a senior defenseman, speaks up from behind me.

“Shut the fuck up!” Hill yells at him, and I take a step toward him. He backs up, automatically.

“Be quiet until I tell you otherwise,” I warn, waiting for his nod before I turn to find Bronson. He doesn’t wait for me to prompt him, but crosses his arms and speaks in a loud voice, as though he wants to make sure everyone in the room can hear him.

“He was saying homophobic shit about Nichols, Coach. I can tell you exactly what he said, if you want, but I’d rather not repeat it if I don’t have to.” He looks unconcerned about being the snitch in a room filled with his teammates. He raises his chinjust a bit, looking down on them. “My brother is gay. If Morgan hadn’t gotten there first, I would have done the same thing.”

Hill got off lucky, then, as Bronson is 6’4” and a good fifty pounds heavier than Morgan. Hill, perhaps coming to the same conclusion, flushes underneath his steadily bruising face.

“Finish dressing,” I say, to the room, spinning in a slow circle and meeting everyone’s eyes. “Congratulations, Hill, you get to go home. You can come back tomorrow to clean out your stall; you’re off the team. The rest of you have five minutes to meet me on the ice. Except you,” I point at Morgan, still clenching his bloodied knuckles, “you have two. Leave the leg pads off.”

Back in my office, I give Brock Hill a few seconds to make his case before I cut him off and send him on his way. It’s a variation of the same speech I gave to Avery and it has the same effect. When I get to the rink, Morgan is already waiting for me. He’s seated on the bench, elbows on his knees and head hanging low between his shoulders. His hands are dangling loose between his legs, and the raw skin looks unbearably painful.

He looks up at me as he hears me approach, face wary and a little bit defensive. Like a junkyard dog expecting to be kicked. I don’t have it in me to give him a dressing down, not when he already knows he’s done wrong. Mostly, I’d just like to give him a hug. I think we both might need it.

“Carter,” he flinches, slightly, at my use of his given name as I take a seat next to him, “you need to tell me what that was all about.”

“Vas and Bron already told you.” He tries to say this with his usual gravitas, but it’s a poor comparison.

“Did they?”

He looks away from me, then. “Is Tony coming today, do you think?”

“I hope so,” I tell him, honestly, and let him get away with the subject change.

“Nichols came to practice to help, and all those guys loved him. He signed a bunch of stuff for us, remember? Tony brought it.”

“I remember.” I want to grab his chin and pull his eyes back to mine, but I don’t. I think I know where this is headed, and it breaks my fucking heart.

“And now, because everyone knows he’s gay, all of a sudden none of that matters anymore? That shit he signed is worthless, and they forget how much fun they had when he came to practice? What the fuck, Coach?”

He does look at me, then, with eyes filled with anguish and rage in equal measure.

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