Roughing

by Michaela Grey

  Saint glanced over and his eyes narrowed. Felix waved cheerfully and Saint glared at him, then pivoted on his heel and went to speak to Roderick.

  “He’ll think we’re colluding,” Carmine said, amused.

  “Good,” Felix replied. He gave him a conspiratorial grin. “Keep him on his toes.”

  David laughed at something and Felix’s expression soured.

  “That one,” he muttered.

  “Anything in particular, or you just don’t like him?” Carmine inquired.

  “I’ve heard… some things,” Felix said. “I don’t like to tell tales out of school, or believe rumors without basis, but he… bothers me.” He rolled his shoulders and refocused on Carmine. “How long do you think you will be with Saint?”

  “I don’t know, honestly,” Carmine admitted. “They’re pushing the rivals-to-friends narrative, according to Coach, so he was saying two to three months, maybe, if Saint can stand me that long.”

  Felix’s expression lightened. “I think he can. But I ask because that puts you with him for the holiday parties. You’ve already noticed he has… problems with people in his space, yes?”

  “Yeah, that didn’t escape me,” Carmine said dryly. “Why’d you ask about the parties?”

  “Ah. So Saint usually takes the Christmas party. We have it catered, all he has to do is open the door and let people in, but I just wanted to warn you that for the week or so before, he will be… a mess. So perhaps a little more patience even than usual would be good.”

  Carmine sighed. Why did people seem to think he was going to snap and unload all his frustrations on Saint? “Am I really that bad-tempered?”

  Felix’s lips twitched. “You do have a certain… reputation, non?”

  “Yeah well, I’ve never been one to judge another for how they deal with their shit, okay? Saint needs extra patience, he’ll get it. He’ll get whatever he needs. Because—” Carmine faltered.

  “Because it’s Saint,” Felix said softly, eyes still sharp on Carmine’s face.

  “Yeah,” Carmine said. “He’s going to be incredible. He already is, but God, when he hits his prime—” He shook his head. “I hope I’m around to see it.”

  Felix slapped him on the shoulder. “Come to lunch with us.”

  Carmine and Felix were plotting, Saint could feel it. He did his best to ignore them, talking to Roderick about assigning rookies and trying not to look anywhere but Roderick’s craggy, honest face.

  The team was in good spirits, even the rookies getting more comfortable. It would be a week or more before they knew who was staying and who would be sent back down, but in the meantime, Roderick and Saint both had a good hunch which was which.

  “How about Jason for Kasha?” Saint suggested. “I think they’d be a good fit.”

  Roderick nodded thoughtfully. “Kasha might even be interested in Jason’s My Little Pony collection.”

  “Hey!” Jason yelped. “I heard that!”

  “Good, you were meant to,” Roderick shot back. “What grown man keeps a collection of toy ponies?”

  David snickered. “I can think of a few kinds.”

  Saint threw him a warning look over Carmine’s shoulder as he approached and David shut his mouth. Jason was sputtering.

  “They’re not toys, they’re collectibles. They’re worth actual money, Murph, and they’re my retirement fund.”

  “You play professional hockey,” Carmine said. “What kind of retirement are you planning?”

  Jason glared at them.

  “You have My Little Ponies?” Kasha asked, popping up beside Jason. “My little sister, she’s play with those all the time when little. Sometimes I play too. Can I see?”

  Jason shot Saint and Roderick a vindictive look and turned back to Kasha. “Of course you can,” he told him with a slap on the back. “And these assholes aren’t invited.”

  “Yeah, they’re perfect for each other,” Roderick told Saint. “Who else we got?”

  Practice was mostly skating drills, designed to see who had the endurance and speed necessary and who wasn’t going to make it. Saint participated in every single one, watching the rookies and callups. Beside him, Carmine kept pace seemingly without effort, dripping sweat but barely out of breath, as Felix loudly complained between gasps for air that goalies shouldn’t have to do skating drills. David’s speed was good but his endurance needed work. He was also careless, bumping into his drill partner several times. Saint frowned and kept skating.

  After, Coach pulled them in and gave them the line-up for the first game, in two days. Roddy was on Saint’s line, as expected, as were Carmine and Jason, but he frowned at the news of Kasha as his other winger. He hid the reaction quickly and gave Kasha a smile as the others slapped him on the back, but Roddy caught his eye, showing the same unease Saint was feeling. Kasha was good, but he was young and green. He needed time, seasoning, and experience before he’d really be ready for the first line. Saint made a mental note to talk to Coach privately and put the matter away.

  It took awhile for Saint to notice it, but all through the workout, ice time, and cool-down after, Carmine was acting slightly strange. Saint couldn’t quite put a finger on what it was until they were in the strategy room after practice and he had to lean around Carmine’s bulk to tell David to be quiet while Flanahan was speaking that he realized.

  All day, Carmine had been putting himself between David and Saint. Seemingly casually, making it look like a coincidence, but somehow he always ended up settling between the two of them when everyone stopped moving. Saint sat very still as disbelief and anger swirled in the pit of his stomach, thinking hard.

  “Saint, we’re going out for lunch,” Felix told him after the strategy session. “Coming?”

  “I’ve got errands to run,” Saint said, forcing a smile. “Thanks, though. Next time. Carmine, can I talk to you a minute?”

  Carmine followed him into the hall, eyebrows lifted. “What’s up?”

  Saint headed for a conference room without answering. Inside, Carmine stepped to the side and Saint closed the door very quietly.

  “Whoa, hey, you okay?” Carmine said. “You don’t look—”

  “Don’t,” Saint cut him off. “Ever. Do that again.”

  Carmine’s eyebrows rose. “Sorry, what are we talking about?”

  “Protecting me from my own teammate,” Saint spat. He balled his fists, mostly to hide how his hands were shaking. “I am the goddamn captain of this team, and I don’t need you shielding me like I’m some helpless infant, do you hear me?”

  Carmine’s eyebrows were in his hairline. “Is that—you thought that’s what I was doing? Jesus Christ, Saint, I wasn’t—”

  “You were,” Saint interrupted. “Whether you realized it or not, that’s exactly what you were doing. You ended up being between us every single time we weren’t moving. I’m the captain, Carmine. I have to be able to handle myself, make them respect me, not some… hired thug!” He snapped his mouth shut, horror flashing through him. Fuck. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes you did,” Carmine said. His jaw was clenched, eyes tight. “Good to know that’s what you think of me, Captain. Are we done?”

  Saint couldn’t think of anything to say. He nodded silently. Carmine wrenched the door open and was gone immediately.

  Great going, Saint. You fucked up again.

  He sank into one of the chairs and put his head in his hands. Fuck.

  Most of the team was gone by the time Saint emerged from the conference room, a few players getting the last of their gear packed up. He made short work of changing and escaped out the side door, thinking hard.

  He had to fix this. Carmine was living with him now, like it or not, although Saint wouldn’t blame him if he came home to Carmine packing his belongings.

  The house was silent when he opened the door, though. Carmine was still out, then. Saint wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed by that.

  He stood in the kitchen, remembering
Carmine’s sure movements as he cooked and talked to Saint and bandaged his thumb, the way his voice had gone gentle as he’d poured the antiseptic on, how his eyes had crinkled at the corners when he’d made Saint laugh.

  “I’m such an asshole,” he said aloud. He breathed through his nose, counting to ten as he touched thumbs to fingers, but it wasn’t helping. He had no one to talk to, to tell him what he should do. Roddy would sigh and be fatherly and disappointed. Felix would probably yell at him—he and Carmine were getting pretty cozy. No one else was in Saint’s confidence except for Flynn, all the way down in Arizona, who didn’t even know Carmine. He wished, miserably and for the umpteenth time, that he could call his mother.

  An idea struck him and he pulled his phone out and dialed before he could think better of it. It rang three times and he was just about to chicken out when it clicked in his ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, uh, Lavender?” Saint said.

  “Saint!” Lavender said. She sounded absolutely delighted to hear from him. “Sweetheart, how are you?”

  “Oh, um, I’m fine?” Saint managed. He took a breath. “Do you have a minute? It’s okay if you don’t, it’s not important, I just—”

  “Of course I do,” Lavender said firmly. “Let me get out of the sun. My knees were complaining at me anyway.”

  Saint smiled in spite of everything. “Are you gardening?”

  “Every chance I get,” Lavender said. “We’re bringing you veggies and Carmine will probably make you some of his incredible stew, among other things.”

  Carmine’s name recalled Saint to his unpleasant duty and he hesitated. This was a bad idea. This was the worst idea he’d possibly ever had. What the hell had he been thinking, calling Carmine’s mother for advice? Now she was going to hate him too.

  He took a shaky breath and reached for the counter as anxiety climbed in mounting waves through his chest, up his throat to strangle him.

  “I’m—I shouldn’t have—I should go.”

  “What? Saint, wait,” Lavender said, and Saint hesitated, struggling to breathe. The room was spinning. “Are you okay, honey?”

  “No,” Saint whispered, and was faintly proud of his honesty. Of more pressing concern was the fact that his knees were about to let go, though, and he opted for the simplest expedient of sliding down the kitchen cupboard to land on the floor.

  “Breathe,” Lavender said sharply. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Listen to the sound of my voice. Are you sitting down?”

  “Yes ma’am,” Saint husked.

  “So polite,” Lavender said, sounding amused and affectionate. “You sit there and breathe and listen to me for a minute. Whatever’s going on in your head is not reality. You are safe. You are loved. You are wanted, okay?”

  Tears stung Saint’s eyes and he swallowed desperately around the rock in his throat. “I’m not—”

  “You are.” Lavender’s voice held no room for debate. “You are good and kind. I’ve only talked to you three times and I can already tell that about you. None of the rest of it matters. None of it. Keep breathing for me. I’m going to tell you what I’m looking at right now. My garden is on the hill in front of our house, where it gets as much sun as possible. In Seattle, you have to fight for every scrap of sunlight you can. We terraced the beds going up the hill, so we could use every inch of ground available.” Clothing rustled and Saint closed his eyes, listening to her voice.

  “I’m sitting on the bench Diana bought for me two years ago.” A smile dusted Lavender’s voice and she sounded far away suddenly, lost in thought. “It was our thirtieth wedding anniversary and she wanted me to have a place I could rest in between weeding the turnips and tying the tomatoes. Steel is in the dirt at my feet, sound asleep. He’s spent all morning swimming in the pond and catching Frisbees with Charlie, the little neighbor girl who comes over to help out and do odd chores. So of course now he’s muddy and we’ll have to give him a bath before we come down. For the life of me, I will never understand why dogs love swimming but hate baths.”

  The panic was receding, bit by bit, and Saint’s next breath was steadier.

  “I did something bad,” he whispered.

  “What did you do, Saint?” Lavender sounded nothing more than gently curious.

  “I… hurt Carmine.” Shame squirmed through Saint’s stomach and he tipped his head back as nausea swirled. “I was—he… there’s someone on the team. Carmine doesn’t like him very much. I don’t like him very much. But… he’s team. And Carmine kept getting between us today, like he was keeping him from me, like I couldn’t—” He closed his mouth abruptly and shook his head. “I told him I didn’t need his protection. That—” This was the hardest part. “I… called him a… a hired thug.”

  “Ah. I imagine he didn’t like that very much.” There was no hostility in Lavender’s voice, no anger or judgment, but guilt still made Saint squeeze his eyes shut.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have called.”

  “I’m glad you did, Saint,” Lavender said. She sounded exactly the same as before, just as gentle and affectionate and kind. “What do you need from me?”

  “I—I don’t… I don’t know? How do I fix this? What do I do? I keep doing this, I keep putting my foot in my mouth and I don’t mean to, I don’t mean to hurt him, b-but I have to make it right. How do I make it right?”

  “Okay, sweetheart, here’s what you’re going to do.”

  7

  Carmine stayed out a long time—after lunch with Felix and Roderick, during which he’d pushed down the anger and hurt and pretended everything was fine, he’d gone for a long walk, exploring downtown Portland. He liked this city, he was realizing, even with its high hipster ratio—everyone was friendly, welcoming, and he even got the occasional autograph request, but no one invaded his space. He bought a burrito from a street vendor and wandered, thinking.

  He still missed Boston’s cramped, narrow, twisty streets, the grimy buildings, the fans, the exuberance, even the smell of melting snow and exhaust. He wanted to be back in his tiny apartment, just him and Steel, secure on his team and in his role with them. There, he knew what people had wanted of him, and he’d been able to deliver.

  He’d been off-balance from day one in Portland. Bumped and jostled and swung this way and that until he didn’t know up from down. Saint hated him. Resented him. Maybe didn’t hate him. Maybe even liked him? Carmine couldn’t keep up, couldn’t follow the twists and turns of Saint’s brain, but he was pretty certain Felix had been wrong.

  Saint didn’t like him. He’d made his opinion very clear in that conference room when they first met, and there was no reason for it to hurt like this. Carmine stifled a sigh, took the last bite of his burrito, and disposed of the wrapper before calling for a car.

  Maybe Saint would kick him out as soon as he got there. Carmine leaned back against the seat as the driver negotiated the streets and thought. Had Saint been right? Had Carmine been shielding him from David? He didn’t think he had, certainly hadn’t meant to, but…. He went back over the events of the day, worked through every interaction they’d had, reexamined where he’d been standing in relation to Saint and David in every single instance.

  “Oh shit,” he groaned, letting his head fall to the rest with a thump. “Come on.” On top of everything else, now he had to apologize?

  The house was quiet when Carmine let himself in. He prowled through it, poking his head into the main living room and kitchen, but there was no sign of Saint anywhere. Carmine didn’t knock on the door to his wing.

  He was pretty upset, he told himself as he headed for his bedroom. Probably better to give him some more time to cool off.

  He was being a coward, he knew, but he didn’t think he could face Saint yet, see the disappointed twist of his mouth, as if he’d tasted something bitter, as he stared at Carmine.

  Safely in the quiet of his bedroom, he got comfortable with a book about the Steelers that he’d b
een meaning to read for awhile. He’d bite the bullet in the morning, make Saint see that he understood how he’d misstepped and it wouldn’t happen again. Maybe Saint would let him make breakfast.

  He woke up early and padded down the hall and into the kitchen, scratching his head, jaw cracking with the force of his yawn. Still half-asleep, he didn’t register the smell of burning until he stepped inside.

  Saint was swearing under his breath as he poked at something in the pan. He sounded more despairing than angry, pushing the charred circle around and lifting it to peer under.

  “Uh,” Carmine said, and Saint whipped around to face him, cheeks going pink. “Is there coffee?”

  “I—yes,” Saint said. He gestured unnecessarily toward the pot and Carmine nodded vaguely and headed for the cupboard with the mugs. Behind him, Saint shifted his feet.

  “Not yet,” Carmine said, pouring coffee. “Let me get both eyes open first, please?”

  “Sure. Okay. Yeah, sorry.”

  Carmine dumped in sugar, stirred. Groped for the refrigerator to his left and found the creamer. He took his time, focusing on the task at hand, as Saint turned off the stove and moved the frying pan away from the burner.

  Finally, he deemed the coffee drinkable and took it to the table, where he sat down. Saint was still standing at the stove, hands behind his back like he didn’t know what to do with them. Carmine sighed.

  “Come on, sit down.”

  Saint jolted into motion as if spurred, dropping into the chair opposite him with a thump. Even once there, though, he didn’t seem able to speak, mobile eyebrows pinched together as he chewed on his lower lip.

  Carmine averted his eyes from that unnecessarily distracting image. It was too early for this. He took a sip of coffee and when Saint still didn’t say anything, he sighed again.