by Avon Gale
“Gay. And it never occurred to me that you would,” Shane admitted. “You’re an asshole, but other than that, you’re a pretty stand-up guy.” Shane glance pointedly down at Troy’s crotch and then back up again.
To his surprise, Troy laughed. “You’re a piece of fucking work, North.”
“Yeah, well. I’d say you have no idea, but I think you have some idea.” Shane wasn’t sure why it was so easy to fall into this stupid banter with Troy. “You sure you don’t want to go somewhere and find out?”
“You know I do,” Troy said, those intense eyes pinning Shane’s. “And you know I’m not going to.” He tapped the bar with the same two fingers he’d put over Shane’s mouth—the same two Shane had wanted so badly to suck and tease. “See you at practice, North. Don’t be late.”
Shane watched him go, tossed a few dollars on the bar, and gave River—now sitting in the tattooed, bearded, kilt-guy’s lap—a wave on his way out the door. He could see Troy’s lone figure heading down the block, presumably to his car. Shane thought about catching up with him, dragging him into an alley, and kissing away Troy’s resistance.
Instead he got back in his car, put the top down and the air conditioner on, and drove home.
Chapter Six
TROY STOOD behind the bench, hands on the boards as he watched his team warm up. They were in Spartanburg, South Carolina, and the animosity directed toward the Ravens was palpable even with hardly any spectators. It mostly came from the home team, and Troy couldn’t blame them. He expected it, and he’d told his team to expect it too.
The Ravens weren’t doing as well as they had in previous years, but they weren’t playing like thugs either, so Troy was glad about that. This game was going to be a test of what kind of team they wanted to be. Rivalry games often brought out the best and worst in players, and even though the Ravens had earned the Spitfires’ ire, it didn’t mean they had to keep earning it in the same way. They needed to play a good, strong game and make the Spitfires hate them because the Ravens creamed them, not because they were homophobic dickheads on the ice.
It was a game that should be played with respect. With that thought in mind, Troy made his way to the home team’s bench. The head coach for the Spitfires, Misha Samarin, was younger than Troy, but had the sort of severity that made him seem of a similar age. Samarin was a former player, like Troy, though he’d had a much longer career. He struck an imposing figure in his dark suit and tie.
Troy met Samarin’s unfriendly stare and held his hand out. “Troy Callahan. I’m not a fucking homophobic asshole, but I don’t blame you if you don’t want to shake my hand. I know my team did some dumbass shit last season.”
“And the one before,” Samarin said, his low voice faintly accented and suspicious. He shook Troy’s hand firmly but quickly. He had eyes so dark they didn’t appear to have any pupils, which was an odd contrast to his fair hair. He’d go gray and no one would ever notice, Troy thought.
“Yeah, I can’t say that isn’t true, so I’m not gonna try. Also, hey. You used to be a Devil, yeah? Fuck the Devils,” Troy said, because hockey was hockey and, honestly, fuck the fucking Devils. “I played for the Rangers.”
“No, no,” the assistant coach, Max Ashford, said. “You have to say fuck the Bruins.”
“You were a Hab.” Troy held his hand out to Max. “No one likes your team. Even your fans.” Ashford was as smiley and friendly as Samarin was cool and collected. He looked disgustingly fresh-faced, and Troy would have sworn on the Stanley Cup that Ashford’s green eyes sparkled as he shook Troy’s hand.
“I’m glad to see you behind the bench. Hell of a thing that happened,” Troy said to acknowledge the injury that had ended Max’s career a few years earlier. Samarin and Ashford were playing on opposing teams and Samarin’s check caused Max to fall and bang his head on the edge of Samarin’s stick. It must have been awkward for them to meet up and work together years later.
But it couldn’t have been that awkward, since they lived together and were a couple. They were a case of opposites attract if ever there was one.
“Not nearly as glad as I am to see you behind yours,” Max said cheerfully. “It’s a new season, yeah? And it’s nice to see a Ravens coach who might rely on talent, since I’m sure your team is better at skating than insults.”
Troy stared at him and then shifted his gaze back to Samarin. “Is he always this fucking optimistic?”
“Yes,” said Samarin. His expression didn’t change, but there was a hint of warmth in his low voice. “Always. It can be very….”
“Fucking annoying?”
This new voice belonged to a player who’d skated up to the boards. He had blue hair and a lip ring and was dressed in bulky goalie pads with his mask tucked under his arm.
“I was going to say reassuring,” said Samarin.
“Only ’cause this guy’s here,” the blue-haired kid said as he turned a pair of suspicious eyes to Troy. “So you’re the new guy for the Ravens, huh?”
He had to be Isaac Drake, the goalie St. Savoy had paid Tyler Simon to injure. Troy was glad to see he was playing, even if Drake was glaring so hotly at Troy he was surprised his coat didn’t catch fire. “I’m the new guy. Troy Callahan.”
“So, you any good at coaching, or did they just hire you ’cause you’re gay?” Drake asked, chin tilted in challenge, as though he weren’t several inches shorter than Troy, even in skates, or as though that were an appropriate way to speak to a coach.
Troy liked him immediately. He made a note to have Gabe check and see when Drake’s contract with the Spitfires was up.
“Drake,” Samarin warned. He had both hands splayed on the edge of the board, and Troy noticed that Samarin’s Stanley Cup championship ring sparkled under the lights. Samarin seemed to catch Troy’s stare and dropped one hand, as though he were embarrassed to be wearing it. Interesting.
“He’s gotta know we’re not gonna like him,” Drake protested, but the demon glare from Samarin made him mumble “Sorry,” like a chastised teenager. He clearly didn’t mean it in the slightest.
Troy wondered if he could trade Quinn for Isaac Drake and how he could find an assistant like Max Ashford—and not just because Ashford looked good in a suit. He wasn’t Troy’s type, but he talked to his players in a way that Quinn had yet to do—like he was their coach.
“They hired me ’cause I’m a goddamn good coach,” Troy said in response to Drake. “I win games playing hockey, not playing mind games and hiring hitmen. I got better shit to spend my money on anyway.”
That got a flash of something like a grin from the fierce young goalie, who Troy would bet wasn’t five-eight out of those skates. “You’re not gonna tell me something lame like you told your players not to call me names on the ice, are you?”
“I told my players I don’t tolerate homophobia or bullies. But they can call you a punk if they want, ’cause I’m betting it’s fucking true.”
Isaac grinned and showed teeth. “I hate your team, but at least you don’t suck.”
“Not at work,” said Troy, and the goalie laughed and skated off before Samarin could yell at him, which Troy could tell he was about to do.
“I just wanted to introduce myself and let you know that I hold my team accountable for their behavior,” Troy said to Samarin and Ashford. “I’m not apologizing for Ol’ Buzzard Face, and my players won’t give me any reason to apologize, but I’m not one to shirk responsibility, and I won’t pretend this organization didn’t fuck up massively last year. Glad to see your goalie back in net. I love having a rival, but I’m sorry how that came about.”
Samarin and Ashford exchanged looks, and predictably, it was Ashford who spoke. “We’re all glad to have reasons to hate each other that are just about hockey.”
“Fuck the Devils, fuck the Habs, and fuck the Spitfires.” In a spirit of good-natured chirping, Troy flipped them off with both hands. It was as inappropriate as Drake’s mouthing off, but Troy didn’t think they’d mind
.
Ashford laughed, and while Samarin didn’t, his glare seemed less death ray and more set-to-stun, so there was that. They made an interesting couple, but there was no doubt they were great coaches. Their Kelly Cup banner was proudly displayed in the rafters of the Bon Secours arena, and they’d earned it just two seasons after they took over the team—which had been the worst in the league, record-wise.
As Troy turned to make his way back to the visitor’s bench, he noticed a dark-haired man sitting directly behind the glass with his head bowed as he read a book. As though he could feel someone looking at him, the guy raised his head.
Troy knew who he was the second he got a look at him, but it wasn’t because of any resemblance to the elder St. Savoy. Troy recognized him from game tapes, both the year the Ravens lost to the Sea Storm and last year, when he’d been in goal for the Spitfires against the Ravens. Laurent St. Savoy didn’t look that much like Denis, though Troy supposed there was some resemblance in his coloring, height, and build.
It struck Troy that Laurent was probably the same age as Troy had been when Denis blackmailed him into retirement. Laurent was in street clothes, and according to something he’d overheard in the locker room, he’d hung up his skates for good after the Spitfires won the Kelly Cup last season. Laurent’s expression was unfriendly but not malicious, and Troy wondered just how awful it must have been to grow up in St. Savoy’s house. His breath caught as he thought about Gabe’s son, Jason, who’d also gone on to play goalie like his father. He knew how supportive Gabe and Monica both were about Jason’s career. They never pressured him into feeling like he had to play a certain way because they wanted him to have fun, not uphold some kind of legacy.
If Laurent St. Savoy had been born to a better man, who encouraged his son instead of terrorizing him, Laurent would probably be playing in the NHL and breaking records instead of sitting in an arena in Spartanburg and watching an ECHL pre-skate. But maybe Troy was wrong about that. Maybe if Laurent had been born to a better man, he wouldn’t have had to put on skates in the first place.
To his surprise, Laurent gave him a nod, and Troy returned it. There was a moment between them that felt like two combat veterans meeting years after a war, when their wounds were long healed but not forgotten. That a twentysomething-year-old kid would have that much weariness, that look in his eyes? It made Troy want to find Denis St. Savoy and punch him in the nuts.
Ah, well. They’d both survived. Troy was better off, and he hoped Laurent could say the same. He wondered how many more of them were out there—people whose hockey careers were ruined because of one man’s fondness for tearing things apart. Hopefully the league ban meant there wouldn’t be any more, but it made Troy even more determined to turn his team around for the better. He couldn’t do anything for Laurent, but he sure as fuck could make a difference with the Ravens.
Troy saw Xavier and Isaac Drake exchange a few words and a handshake before the buzzer sounded and the teams headed to their respective locker rooms. That was good to see. Xavier was turning into a good captain, responsible if still a little grim. He was also the leading scorer so far for the Ravens, and Troy was vindictive enough to feel smug about the fact Xavier had already scored more goals in the current season than he had at the same point last year. And all without blackmail. Amazing.
“I went and said a few words to the Spitfires’ coaches,” Troy said to Quinn as they followed the team to the locker room. “They did quite a job turning their club around. Might be worth asking for some tricks.”
“St. Savoy hated them both,” said Quinn, as though Troy didn’t know that already.
“Yeah, I got that memo. But we don’t,” he said firmly. He would like Quinn to have a backbone, and while he tried to understand why he didn’t have one, it was still annoying. The guys were making tremendous headway past everything that happened last season, but Quinn? He still seemed as ineffectual and bland as ever. No matter how much Troy told himself to give Quinn a break, he couldn’t seem to do it. He thought about asking if Quinn wanted to do the pregame speech, but it would probably amount to nothing more than a, “Good luck out there, boys,” or something equally inane.
Besides, this game was important. Troy had a few things he wanted to say, and that he wanted his team to not only hear—but to understand.
“All right. We don’t need to rehash why everyone out there hates us,” Troy said as they waited for puck drop. The Ravens were unable to sit still. Legs jostled, shoulders rolled, sticks tapped syncopated rhythms on the floor. “And I’m not exaggerating the ‘everyone’ either. There’s maybe two goddamn Ravens fans out there, and the rest want your blood. They’ve been waiting for this game since the schedule went up—everyone from the coaches to the team to the fans. That kid in goal? Isaac Drake? His team loves him, his town loves him, and they should. He plays hard and he plays fair, and we haven’t brought the same into this arena. But tonight we’re going to. I know this is going to be hard. I know you’re going to fight the urge to revert to old habits, and I know you’re going to remember a time when your response was to do something that you know goddamn good and well I will lose my shit at you if you do.” Troy paused. “And I know you’re not going to do it. Yes, they’re going to boo you no matter who has the puck. You might even feel like you deserve it. But don’t you dare play to that level. Let them boo. Just move the puck, remember to communicate, don’t let up on the forecheck, and play the game the way I want you to play it. Any questions?”
A few of them mumbled “No, Coach Callahan,” and Troy saw a sea of shaking heads.
“Captain Matthews, you got anything to say?”
Xavier looked pale—maybe a little too much so—but his voice was steady as he addressed his team. “If any of you feel the urge to call Drake a fag or some other kind of slur, remember you’re not just saying it to him. You’re saying it to me too. I heard it every time someone on our team said it last year, and the year before that. I’ve heard those words my whole life on the ice, and I’m tired of it. You think you’re using them because you’re angry and so those words don’t matter, but they do. They matter a lot.” Xavier’s voice did waver a bit there, and it took him a moment of blinking up at the ceiling before he could continue.
“I’ve wanted to stand up in my own locker room and say this for a long time, and I—now I can.” He looked briefly at Troy, which made Troy’s throat tighten with emotion. “You have no idea what that means. No idea. You go out there and use those words like we did last year? You’re taking this moment away from me. That’s not the team I want to be on. That’s not the team I want to be the captain of.”
The room was silent for a long moment, and then Cory Martin banged his stick enthusiastically on the floor. “Then it’s a good thing that’s not your team, Matty.” He paused, and the emotion in the room dialed up another ten degrees. “Because those guys would be a bag of dicks. And not the kind you’d like.”
Xavier made a noise. For half a second, Troy was horrified that it was a sob. But then Xavier made another one, and he realized Xavier was laughing.
“Oh my God. What is wrong with you?” Xavier cuffed Cory on the back of the head, and Cory’s face went red as the rest of his team tapped their sticks against the floor in support.
“We’re not a bag of dicks,” Evan Snyder assured Xavier, and on the way out, every single Raven gave their captain a helmet tap and said, “Caw!”
They sounded like a team of idiots, but in a good way. Like maybe they remembered the game was supposed to be fun.
Troy put a hand on Xavier’s shoulder and squeezed. “Good speech, Captain.”
“Thanks, Coach Callahan,” said Xavier, and Troy was smart enough to know he was saying thank you for more than just the compliment.
He nodded gruffly in acknowledgment. “Go score some goals and keep your turnovers to a minimum so I don’t lose my fucking mind, Matthews. And I know you all call me Coach Cally when you think I can’t hear, so just go ahead and call me
that from now on. All right?”
Xavier exhaled and said, “Sure, Coach Cally.” He ambled off toward the tunnel.
Troy took a moment to compose himself, more touched by Xavier’s comments than he wanted to let on. He needed to get his shit together because coaching this game was going to be tough. The emotion and the rivalry were a lot for the Ravens to handle, himself included. The Spitfires weren’t the only ones who’d had the game circled on the calendar since the schedule came out. But unlike the Spitfires, Troy knew his team dreaded it. This game would show him if he’d made a difference or not. Speeches in the locker room and all the good intentions in the world weren’t worth a damn if it didn’t translate to their play on the ice.
“He respects you a lot.”
Troy hadn’t realized Shane was still in the locker room. He tried not to think about how close he’d come to a colossal mistake the other night at Contacts and how badly he’d wanted to drag Shane into the men’s room and put him on his knees. Walking out had taken every last ounce of willpower he had, and he cursed himself the whole way home—for admitting the things he’d admitted to Shane, for letting it get that far, for even being in that situation in the first place.
“He’s a good kid. Strong player, good captain. We’re lucky he didn’t ask for a trade the second the season was over last year.”
“We are,” Shane agreed. He paused. “I’m sorry I was late. The first day. I should have known better.”
Troy scowled at him. “You’ve done shit to annoy me since then. Apologize for that. I’m over you showing up late.” He couldn’t help the slight smile. “Since no one’s in here but us old-timers, I got scratched two games one season for sleeping through my alarm ’cause I was hungover.”
Shane’s laugh was bright and loud. “Goddammit.”
Shane’s smile was as attractive—well, almost—as his challenging smirk had been. “For God’s sake, North, keep them in line out there. That’s what you’re here for, and you’re not doing a half-bad job.”
