by Avon Gale
“Look. We’re all tired of having a negative attitude in the locker room,” said Isaac.
“Drake, you sound like a motivational poster,” Hux muttered. He looked askance at Laurent, as if he were waiting for him to fuck up.
Laurent remembered the thing he’d grabbed and put in his gear bag that morning, and wondered if he should even bother. Hux hated him, and he should, because Laurent was—
Stop.
“Good. Get motivated to get over it. We have. Haven’t we, Saint?”
Saint again. Laurent nodded. “Yes.”
“This is so touching,” said Griffin Miller. “It’s like a Nicholas Sparks movie.” Everyone stared at him, and he shrugged. “I got a little sister. Fuck off.”
“I do too,” said Crowder. “She likes horror movies, though. Which is what I think we’re in right now.”
“This isn’t helping,” Isaac said darkly.
“You’re starting to sound way too serious, Drake,” someone else pointed out from behind Laurent. “Is this what happens when you live with the coach?”
Every pair of eyes went back to Laurent, like his teammates were just waiting for him to say something insulting and hateful. Laurent didn’t like knowing that, but it was true, and that’s what made him want to say it in the first place. At least he could live up to everyone’s expectations if they were only that he’d be an asshole.
“Saint,” Isaac said, as if he knew. “Saint here is sorry for being an ass. And you guys are going to give him another chance.”
“Why?”
The rest of the team voiced that sentiment. Hux and Murph were quiet and slouched against the lockers.
He should say something. Laurent knew that. Something not awful. Something like he was trying or he’d try hard. But he couldn’t say it. There were too many people staring, with too many expectations, and he’d just fuck it up anyway.
“Because I’m the captain, and I said so,” Isaac finished. “Happy?”
“I think we should revote on the captain thing,” someone muttered and the team chimed in.
“Yeah. Goalies are never captains.”
“Especially dumb ones who forget when people are dicks.”
“I call for a revote.”
“No!” Laurent shouted, not understanding until it was too late that he was interrupting the kind of banter that he was never included in, because his presence usually made everyone too uncomfortable to engage in it around him. “Isaac’s a good captain.”
“This is the weirdest day of my life,” Griffin said. He peered at Laurent, shrugged, and went to tie his skates.
The banter went back to other people, and Laurent’s awkward outburst was forgotten. But the mood in the locker room was the easiest it had been since Laurent showed up, and that was something.
While everyone got ready, Laurent found the thing he’d put in his bag and took it out with trembling hands. He walked over to Isaac and sat next to him. “I, um… brought this for Huxley. I saw him reading this comic, and I get them every week.”
“Yeah?” Isaac looked over Laurent’s shoulder. His breath was warm against Laurent’s neck, which made him jump. Isaac casually moved away a bit, as if he knew his proximity was bothering Laurent.
Laurent was torn between being grateful and wanting him to come back. “Yeah.”
“Right now everyone is dying of curiosity. Like seriously, they’re staring at us like we have three heads.” Isaac laughed. “This is mean of me, but it’s kind of funny.” He cleared his throat. “Not that you should get any ideas.”
Laurent looked down. He was so tense he thought his entire body was going to crack into pieces. “I know.”
“No. Hey, Saint, look. Go give that to Hux,” Isaac said. “He’ll be surprised, but he probably won’t punch you.”
Laurent stood up, gave Isaac a doubtful look, and then quietly made his way over to where Hux was talking to Murphy.
“No. I mean, I’m just saying, if we rented like, a van and shit, we could get more people. And that’d be more gas money.”
“I know, Murph, but the van takes more gas than Drake’s Jeep.”
Murph scowled. “I hate this. It’s like those math problems about trains and apples and shit…. What do you want?”
Laurent felt them both staring at him, and he held out the comics with a hand that was visibly shaking. “Huxley—you read this comic. I, uh… saw you. These are new issues. You can borrow them. If you want.”
Hux took the comics, clearly out of surprise more than anything. “What the fuck?”
“Say thank you,” Isaac’s voice said threateningly, from over Laurent’s shoulder.
“Thank you,” Hux said flatly, without looking at Laurent. He did glance down at the stack of comics, Demon Detective, and there was a glimmer of pleasure in his expression.
Laurent nodded wildly and then looked at Isaac. He didn’t move, because he couldn’t. Not until he knew it was okay.
“Hey, Saint. Get your shit, and let’s go.”
Laurent practically tripped over his own feet on his way back to his locker. Everyone was staring at him, but luckily Coach Ashford came in with his whistle and his ingratiatingly pleasant smile, and that was that.
Usually the guys said shit to him on the ice during practice, but that wasn’t necessarily because they hated him. Suddenly they were a little less vicious during drills, though a lot of them just didn’t say anything at all.
Cold shoulders were better than insults, weren’t they?
After practice Isaac was going to give him a ride home. Laurent had not had a say in that, as Isaac had simply stated it as a fact. Laurent usually didn’t mind walking, and sometimes he took the bus and listened to his headphones and zoned out, but he didn’t argue with Isaac.
After practice, though, Coach Samarin called him into his office. If that happened a few days earlier, he might have been hoping to be traded or kicked off the team. But he realized he didn’t necessarily want that anymore. And that wasn’t a good feeling. When Laurent wanted something, it was usually taken away to teach him a lesson—like the puppy he had as a child.
Coach Samarin was as formidable as ever, but Laurent thought there was a hint of warmth in his dark eyes as he indicated Laurent should take a seat in front of his desk.
He didn’t mince his words and got right to the point. No chit-chat with Coach Samarin, not like Coach Ashford. “We play the Ravens on Saturday in Asheville,” Coach Samarin said, and even though he knew that, Laurent wished he could forget.
“Yes, sir,” Laurent said, and there was a flash of surprise on Coach Samarin’s face. Laurent flushed as he realized he’d called him sir.
“You need to start a few more games,” Coach said, but he gave no hint of what he thought about that or if he thought it should happen in front of Laurent’s old team. “Is it going to be a problem if I start you in goal on Saturday?”
“Does it matter?” Laurent closed his eyes. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t mean to have an attitude problem with Samarin, but his default reaction to male authority figures was jackass. He slowly breathed out and rubbed his palms down his thighs. “I’ll play if you want me to, Coach.”
“Yes,” Coach Samarin said. “You will. But that is not what I’m asking you.”
Laurent felt like he had earlier when he gave those comics to Huxley—like he was a glass figurine trapped beneath a shower of stones. “Do you care?”
Coach Samarin had a remarkable ability to not blink when he stared at you. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
Laurent finally lowered his gaze. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Coach. I’m a problem. So it will be, probably. Yeah.”
Laurent heard a soft noise that might have been a laugh, and he scowled at the idea of Coach laughing at him. “You don’t have—”
“St. Savoy, whatever it is you’re going to say, don’t,” Coach Samarin interrupted. “Do you want to be in goal for this game or not?”
It took
Laurent a moment to realize he was being asked, not told. He was utterly thrown by the question. “What?”
“The game against the Ravens,” Samarin said, his voice perfectly even. “I am asking you if you want to start in goal.”
“Why?” Laurent knew how that sounded, like a challenge he didn’t necessarily mean, but he couldn’t help it.
It seemed as if Coach Samarin understood Laurent’s instinctive reaction, because some of his cold formality seemed to melt a little. “You are making an effort. I am doing the same. All right?”
Laurent stared warily at him. He hated everything about being subjected to Coach Samarin’s unexpected kindness.
“If you don’t want to play, you’ll start the next game in Orlando,” Coach Samarin continued. “Whether or not you are in Asheville, this is your choice. So make it. Now.” Despite the harshness of that, Coach Samarin didn’t sound mean. Only resolute.
It made Laurent relax in much the same way Isaac’s calling him Saint and telling him not to talk did. “I don’t—I don’t know,” he said, hating that he was showing any vulnerability at all. He looked at Samarin and breathed a little faster. “I don’t know.” Laurent’s shoulders slumped, and he looked down at his hands. They were clenched into fists.
“Would you like my advice?”
The urge to tell the coach to fuck himself was overwhelming. But Laurent thought about Isaac, waiting for him outside the office, and the promise he made. He pulled his fingers apart and smoothed them over his thighs again. “Yes.”
“I think you should play,” Samarin said. “I think you should do your best in front of your net—our net—and treat it like any other game.” He paused. “He’s not your coach anymore. I am.”
Laurent’s head snapped up, and he couldn’t breathe. Had Isaac told him anything? Laurent knew he shouldn’t have trusted him. He knew it. “Whatever Isaac told you—”
“He didn’t tell me anything,” Samarin interrupted. “He doesn’t need to. I hated my father too.”
Shame made Laurent’s eyes fill up with hot, angry tears. He couldn’t do that. He was going to lose it right there in the coach’s office, and the only thing he could think to do was say something awful enough for Samarin to kick him out. Or off the team. Or beat him up until Laurent didn’t feel anything at all.
Be quiet, Saint. He heard Isaac’s voice and his words, even though Isaac wasn’t there. And it helped him to breathe.
“So it’s up to you,” Samarin continued. “This time, and only this time. So. What is your decision?”
Laurent raised his head and thought about it. He wanted to be worth whatever was making Coach Samarin give him a concession—or whatever made Isaac Drake turn around and come back when he heard Laurent sobbing in the showers. He hated playing hockey, but he didn’t hate Isaac.
He raised his head and met Samarin’s dark stare with his own. “I’ll play,” he said, his voice as even as he could make it. “And I’ll get a shutout.”
Coach Samarin’s mouth quirked into the smallest of smiles. “I’ll hold you to that.” Laurent thought he looked pleased. Then his expression smoothed, and he waved Laurent out of his office.
Chapter Eight
LAURENT WAS going to be a mess. Isaac just knew it.
The game in Asheville was one of the nastier games of hockey Isaac could remember, even more so because he was watching instead of playing. And that was hard, because he wanted to be playing. Seeing those assholes in their black, blue, and orange uniforms made him angry, but being on the bench and watching Denis St. Savoy was like torture.
He wanted to leap over the boards, skate across the ice, and put his fist in St. Savoy, Sr.’s mouth. Like that bench brawl in Toledo last season, only he wanted his whole team to dog-pile that sorry excuse for a man and beat him to a pulp, like he did to Laurent.
That was violent and inappropriate, but Isaac couldn’t help it.
He wondered how Laurent felt, playing his old team with a new one in front of him that didn’t like him all that much. The outward hostility had cooled somewhat since Laurent was making an effort, but he still wasn’t the easiest guy to get to know.
And the guys knew that Laurent playing his old team was a Thing, even if they didn’t know the extent of it. Isaac had yelled at them on the bus, during warm-ups, and in the locker room during intermission to go out there and demolish the Ravens, and of course they wanted revenge for the playoffs the year before, so they didn’t necessarily need Isaac egging them on.
When a team was knocked out of the playoffs, they typically beat that team the next time they met, and that game was no exception. The Spitfires scored three goals before the end of the second, and no matter how many fancy plays the Ravens ran or how many insults they hurled at the Spitfires or their new goalie, they couldn’t find the back of the net with a floodlight.
And for the first time, Isaac saw just how good a goaltender Laurent was.
He was amazing.
Isaac was a good goalie, and he had a lot of natural grace and flexibility to thank for that. His stature wasn’t as broad, and he wasn’t as tall as most goalies, so he’d improved his speed and flexibility to compensate.
But as he watched Laurent, he was amazed the guy wasn’t in the NHL. In practice and during drills he’d been fine, but it was hard to measure a goalie’s talent when you had an entire hockey team skating and shooting pucks at him. Even the year before, when Laurent was in net for the Ravens, Isaac didn’t remember seeing that sort of performance from him.
I threw those games in Asheville.
Laurent was way better than the performance he turned in during the playoffs.
And he was as quiet and reserved in the locker room as always, but with more intensity and focus than his usual standoffish or prickish persona. He was also hot as fuck, with his thick dark hair all sweat tousled and his fair skin stained red from exertion.
In the second period intermission, no one said a word to him, but it wasn’t because they didn’t like him. It was because of superstition. Laurent was well on his way to a shutout, and referencing it in any way was bad luck.
The Spitfires won the game, 4-0, and for the first time, the whole team skated down the ice to give Laurent his helmet taps. Isaac was wearing his Spitfires cap, but he went out on the ice too.
Even Coach Samarin couldn’t quite keep his expression neutral when he gave Laurent a restrained pat on the back as he came in from the ice—unlike Coach Ashford, who enthusiastically knocked Laurent between the shoulder blades with a wide grin.
“Man, Saint,” Hux said to Laurent when they were getting ready to head to the hotel. “Those fuckers do not like you.”
“They don’t like anything,” Laurent said. “My fa—their coach makes sure they don’t.” He paused. “I don’t like them very much either.”
Isaac was proud of him for saying that, and the guys’ attitude thawed by a few more degrees.
But Isaac knew Laurent was going to be a mess after what was arguably a successful game, because he saw the man waiting to speak with Laurent when they were leaving the locker room.
Laurent, who’d fallen into step beside Isaac, looked not so much happy as grimly satisfied, which was better than his usual pissed-off expression. Isaac took a chance and bumped him with his shoulder. “Dude, that was awesome, Saint. You were great.”
And Laurent turned to him with an actual smile and said, “Thanks.”
Goddamn. He was so hot.
A cold voice interrupted Isaac’s admiration of his sort-of friend and fellow teammate.
“Laurent. I expect a word with you.”
Isaac’s entire body went rigid as he saw St. Savoy step out of the shadows toward his son and reach out for Laurent’s arm. And he reacted before he could think about it and stepped neatly in front of Laurent, even though St. Savoy, Sr. had just as many inches on Isaac as his son.
Fuck that shit. Isaac would show St. Savoy, Sr. what it meant to be scrappy. “We’ve got to catch th
e bus,” Isaac said, which wasn’t the most brilliant thing he could have come up with, but he was too keyed up by St. Savoy’s sudden appearance.
“I will speak to my son,” St. Savoy said, snidely and looked down his bulbous, stupid nose at Isaac.
“It’s fine,” Laurent muttered next to him.
“Seriously. We’ll be late. Don’t want to make Coach mad.” Because Isaac had never learned when to keep his mouth shut, he added, “We respect our coach enough to do what he says and follow the rules.”
Lamest jab ever, but it was something.
Laurent had inherited nothing from his unattractive father but his height and build, and St. Savoy, Sr. had eyes that were nowhere as rich a brown as his son. They were also cold and beady. And mean. Isaac hated him, because bullies pissed him off.
St. Savoy said something in French, and Laurent actually reached out and pushed Isaac aside—and not nicely. Isaac didn’t speak French, so he didn’t know what it was, or what Laurent said back to him. But he did know what it meant when Laurent said, “Leave it alone, Drake.” Return of the Prick, apparently.
There was only so much he could do. St. Savoy was Laurent’s father, and Laurent used that sneering, dickhead voice, but his eyes gave a different, far more desperate message. Please leave it alone.
“Okay. But you better be on the bus. You don’t want to have to walk.” Isaac hated leaving him there, but he didn’t want to give St. Savoy, Sr. any more reason to be mad at his son.
“Laurent is staying at home tonight,” his father said. He gave Isaac a disgusted stare. “My son doesn’t need to—”
“Ah, Drake. St. Savoy. There you are.” He heard Coach Samarin’s voice, even and smooth, as he moved toward them. “Please get on the bus so we can go to the hotel.”
“Samarin, you can’t stop me from speaking with my own son,” St. Savoy, Sr. snapped.
Coach Samarin looked at Denis St. Savoy as if he were nothing but a bug on the bottom of his shoe. “The bus. Both of you. Now.”
Isaac took a step, but Laurent’s father reached out and grabbed his son’s arm hard enough to make Laurent wince.
