“I haven’t done that in years,” Carmine protested. He let go of her and slid a steak onto the plate beside the grill. “Ready to eat?”
11
Morning skate went smoothly, despite Flanahan’s dire threats of line shuffling. Carmine was still on Saint’s line, Kasha still on Saint’s wing. David had been reassigned to Saint’s other side, which Carmine wasn’t thrilled about. Still, he was fast, and his passes usually connected. They ran drills for an hour until Flanahan called a halt and sent them to the showers. David was in a good mood, laughing and jostling the others under the spray. Carmine met Saint’s eyes but kept his mouth shut.
They left the building, squinting in the sun, and Carmine glanced at Saint. “Talk about it over lunch at home?”
“Yeah,” Saint agreed.
“Hey bitch!” someone shouted, and Saint’s eyes went wide but Carmine was already spinning, looking for the speaker. He found her immediately, leaning against the wall of the barn, a huge smile splitting her face.
“Biiitch!” Carmine yelled, and Henry threw her arms open so he could scoop her up into them. She laughed as he swung her around, squeezing her tight, her heavy dreads smelling like lavender as they fell in his face. “What the fuck?” Carmine demanded when he set her down. “You stalking me now?”
Henry gave him a dazzling smile. She was as stunning as ever, dressed in camouflage cargo pants and a tight crop top that bared her perfect abs, sleek and rippling under ebony skin. Her dreads were pulled up into a mohawk, the sides of her head shaved, and she’d added a tiny gold ring to her left nostril since the last time he’d seen her.
“I told you I was coming, remember?”
“Yeah, but you didn’t finalize details with me, I figured you got busy,” Carmine protested. He was still holding her hand, he realized as he turned to Saint. “Saint, this is my best friend Henry. Henry, Saint Levesque.”
“Aw, I’m your best friend?” Henry said. She fluttered her eyelashes obnoxiously at Carmine and held out her free hand to Saint, who was a fraction slow to take it. “Don’t believe anything he’s said about me,” she said.
“He actually hasn’t mentioned you at all,” Saint said, and Carmine burst out laughing at the look on Henry’s face.
“My world doesn’t revolve around you,” he told her, and Henry scowled at him.
“Well, it should.”
“How long are you here?” Carmine asked.
“Today and tomorrow,” Henry said. She elbowed him in the ribs. “Got a ticket for me?”
“For you? Nah. You can pay full price just like everyone else.” Carmine dodged the swipe of her fist, laughing. Saint looked politely puzzled. “Henry lives in San Francisco, Saint,” Carmine said. “She’s a bigshot financial advisor.”
“I tell people how to spend their money and they give me money for the privilege,” Henry said cheerfully.
“Sweet gig if you can get it,” Carmine agreed. “Hey, my moms are coming over for lunch, you wanna come see them?” He pulled himself up short, turning to Saint. “Shit. Sorry, um. Is it okay if Henry comes over?”
Henry snorted. “You sound like you’re asking permission for a playdate.”
Carmine ignored her, focusing on Saint, who didn’t look happy. He didn’t look angry either, though—more just… blank.
“That’s fine,” he said, but the smile he gave Carmine had no real warmth behind it. “I’ve got game tape to watch before my nap, so I’ll be busy anyway.”
“See?” Henry said, poking Carmine. “Dad says it’s okay if I come over.”
Carmine pushed her hand away, searching Saint’s face. He couldn’t ask what he really wanted, not with Henry standing right there. He couldn’t find out why Saint looked unhappy, even though he was hiding it well—a stranger would think he was fine, but Carmine had lived with him for weeks now, spent almost every waking moment in his company, and he could read Saint’s tells now. It was there in the tenseness of his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes even as he smiled. But Carmine couldn’t push. If he did, Saint would just pull away.
“In fact,” Saint continued, “I have some errands to run. I’ll see you back at the house.”
“Errands on game day?” Carmine said before he could stop himself.
Saint just nodded. “Henry, nice to meet you.” He pivoted on his heel and walked briskly away without looking back.
Henry whistled. “Okay, he’s hot but he’s kind of a dick.”
“He’s not,” Carmine said sharply. “He’s got a lot on his mind.”
Henry’s eyebrows went up. “Oho, I see.”
“Shut up, you see nothing.”
“Oh yeah, no, Mama Henry sees all. You like the boy.”
“Well sure,” Carmine said, rolling his shoulders. He glared at her. “As a friend. He’s actually really nice, he’s just… stressed.”
“Uh huh,” Henry said, grin stretching until she looked positively diabolical. “And you like him. You like, like like him.”
“Can you please stop murdering the English language?” Carmine complained. “I’m hungry. Come have lunch with me and shut the fuck up about my nonexistent crush on someone who’s very definitely not interested anyway.”
Henry slung an arm over his shoulders. “I know you have to nap, so I’ll interrogate you more after the game.”
“So kind,” Carmine muttered. He wrapped his arm around her waist and squeezed. “It’s really fucking good to see you.”
“I know,” Henry said happily.
Lavender and Diana weren’t there yet when Saint got home. Despite what he’d said to Carmine, he didn’t have errands to run or game tape to watch. He went straight to his suite, shut the door, and stared at the wall unseeingly.
Carmine’s best friend was the most beautiful woman Saint had ever seen. Saint had never seen Carmine light up the way he had when he’d seen Henry. I want to make him smile like that, a tiny traitorous part of him whispered. Saint took his shoes off, set them by the door, and got undressed for bed. He needed rest for the game.
When he woke up, he could hear voices in the kitchen. Saint lay still for a minute. He didn’t want to go out there, put a smile on and pretend he was happy having people in his house. He wanted it to be just him and Carmine, like the day of their first game together. But he couldn’t have that, not right now.
He got up and went through his routine, breathing through his nose and thinking about nothing but the game ahead as he showered, shaved, and dressed. He called a car as he stepped into his shoes. Carmine would probably ride with his moms, or Henry, and that was fine, he told himself firmly as he left the bedroom.
But the house was quiet, and Carmine was walking down the hall toward him in his best suit, smiling his crooked little half-smile.
“I kicked them out,” he said by way of greeting. “Have a good nap?”
Saint stared at him for a minute. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Carmine just shrugged. “I can drive us to the rink, anyway.”
“Oh, I called a car!” Saint grabbed his phone and canceled the ride, sending a mental apology to the driver. He followed Carmine to the car and slid in as Carmine started the engine.
They rode in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Saint wanted to ask about Henry—how Carmine knew her, how long they’d been friends, if they were more than friends—but that was a rabbit-hole he didn’t have time to go down. So he kept his mouth shut and his hands on his thighs, staring out the windshield and focusing on the game ahead.
When they got to the rink, Carmine fussed with the seatbelt, the windshield wipers, putting the visors up, as Saint got out. Finally Saint bent, peering through the window.
“You coming or not?”
“Oh, I—thought you’d want to walk alone.” Carmine got out, straightening his jacket. The black fabric made his shoulders look even broader, and he’d gone with a tie in deep, burnished brown. It caught the highlights in his eyes and made them flicker gold.
; “Don’t make me tell you again how much I like your company,” Saint warned. “You know how humiliating that is for me.”
Carmine’s grin flashed. “Only because you haven’t admitted your true feelings yet.”
“Oh, shut up,” Saint said, fighting a laugh.
They walked past the photographers together, Saint smiling impartially at everyone gathered. Inside the stadium, Saint relaxed a fraction.
“I’m gonna find Kasha,” he said.
He discovered him in the hot tub, folded forward with his elbows on his knees and head in his hands. His smile when he saw Saint was genuine, though, and Saint sat on the rim of the tub, studying his face.
“How are you feeling, kid?”
Kasha mock-scowled at him. “You’re only two years older of me. Why I’m kid?”
Saint ruffled his hair before he could stop himself, and Kasha yelped in outrage, making him laugh. “We’re going to have a good game,” he said.
“Because you say so?” Kasha asked, and Saint pushed him, water slopping.
“Because I say so,” he agreed, and stood. “Come play two-touch with us.”
The Riptide was a fairly young team. What they lacked in speed, they made up for in brute strength. They weren’t Saint’s favorite team to go up against, but they mostly played clean, even if they were too free with the cross-checks.
Saint kept an eye on Kasha as much as possible. He seemed in good spirits, sharply focused on the play, quick on his skates and avoiding several big hits with speed and agility. He sent the puck to Jason, who took a quick wrist shot off the bar.
A Riptide player in white and dark blue intercepted off the face-off and dumped the puck into their end. Carmine fought through the ensuing scrum to send the puck out between his feet to Saint, waiting behind him at the top of the circle. Saint took the shot and it was gloved down by the Riptide goalie, a young, rangy kid in his first season but showing no sign of nerves.
On the bench, he watched as the second and then third lines went through their shifts, fighting fiercely and refusing to give up ground. But they couldn’t gain any, either. The Riptide’s defense had clearly been strengthened, and Saint made a mental note to watch more game tape of them. Felix was relaxed and loose in his crease, deep in the zone and stopping everything sent at him.
A Riptide player got tripped by Kasha and Saint dodged around him on the way back to the bench. He looked furious as he pushed himself upright and went for Kasha, who was scrambling onto the bench himself. The player peeled off and Saint leaned over.
“Watch yourself.”
Kasha was breathing hard, but his confidence seemed back. “He’s in my way.”
“Doesn’t mean he won’t kick your ass if he can manage it,” Saint warned, but Kasha just shrugged and took a swig of water.
Saint glanced at Carmine, but they didn’t speak.
They battled through the second period in much the same manner. Toward the end, Kasha had the puck, forging toward the net, head down and focused.
“Look up!” Saint shouted, but Kasha didn’t hear him. The player he’d tripped earlier appeared as if from nowhere, slamming into Kasha’s midsection with jarring force. Kasha went sprawling and Carmine threw his gloves off, grabbing the player’s jersey.
The fight was over quickly. Carmine landed several heavy hits, teeth bared in a feral snarl, blocking the other player’s swings with his forearms and then tripping him to the ice. The refs were on them immediately, dragging them apart, and Carmine shook their hands away and skated for the box. Saint watched, jaw tight.
Kasha was already back on his feet, face pink, only a little slow to skate back to the bench. He shook his head when the trainer tried to pull him aside to look at him, sliding onto the bench instead with a mutinous set to his jaw.
Back on the ice, Saint won the face-off and Roddy got the puck, racing for the net. They were playing well, playing sharp and controlled and not taking any penalties since Carmine had gone to the box. Roddy took the puck around the net, made a sharp angle shot on the goalie, and bounced the puck off his shoulder. No one expected Kasha to swing his stick like a baseball bat and knock it in right out of the air.
The stadium erupted as the goal horn went off. Saint collided with Kasha, who had both arms in the air, an incandescent smile on his face, as the rest of the team piled on, yelling congratulations in Kasha’s ear.
The locker room was as loud as Saint imagined a roomful of Stanley Cup winners would sound. Someone was howling like a wolf, several others re-enacting Kasha’s goal as he sat at his locker, cherry red and grinning from ear to ear. It was just a game, an early season game, nothing that really mattered yet, but it was still two points, and Kasha deserved his moment in the sun.
Saint waited until the happy shouting and cheering died down a fraction before standing. “I think we all know who this is going to,” he said, and pulled out the cape.
He’d been at home one summer after his first season with the NHL, working on his parents’ farm, when his father had sent him into town for cattle feed. Waiting next to the truck for the worker to toss the bags in the bed of the truck, Saint’s eye had snagged on a fabric display of the little textile shop next door. It was the exact color of the Seabirds’ jerseys, dark teal, gray, and gold swirled across white satin like slung there by a paintbrush. Saint had walked inside, pointed at the bolt, and asked for the whole thing.
Back at the farmhouse, he’d spread it across his bed, wondering why he’d bought it so impulsively and just what he was supposed to do with it now he had it.
His mother had put her head in the room with a quick rap of knuckles to the door. “About to start dinner, did you—oh, what’s this?”
“I don’t know,” Saint had told her honestly. “But the colors….”
“They’re perfect,” she agreed, touching the satin.
“We need something for the team,” Saint said. “An emblem, something the first star of the game can put on after we win. Some use hats, there are a few helmets, and at least one team uses a collar. We don’t really have anything yet. Any ideas?”
His mother considered. “What about—no, that’s silly.”
“No, what?”
“Well, a cape?” She smiled up at him. “They could throw it over their shoulders, wear it around the locker room, and it’s washable, so getting a little sweat on it won’t hurt the fabric. Plus there’s enough here to make five or six if you want.”
“Mom, you’re a genius,” Saint said. “That’s perfect. I just need to find someone who’ll make it for me. Maybe Roddy’s wife—”
“Or I could do it,” his mother interrupted. She shrugged when Saint looked at her. “I haven’t sewn in a few years but it’s not like you forget how. I’ll make it for you.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Saint said quietly, and kissed her on the cheek, making her smile.
Saint shook out the cape, making the fabric snap, and the players cheered. He pointed at Kasha, whose eyes went big, and they shouted louder. “Come on,” Saint said, beckoning. “Get over here.”
Kasha jumped to his feet and crossed the room to him. Saint smiled up at him and swung the fabric with a dramatic swirl, letting it drape in shining folds over Kasha’s bony shoulders to brush the floor.
“Congratulations, Kasha,” he said over the noise of the locker room. “You earned it.”
Everyone shouted and cheered and clapped some more as Kasha swept a deep bow to the room and straightened, grinning impossibly wider.
“Good game,” he said. “Played hard, Felix, you were great—” Felix bowed from the waist, sitting in his stall. “—Saint, that saucer pass in second, incredible. First win of the season, boys!” They roared for him and Kasha gave them all his huge beaming smile as the rookies converged on him and Saint went back to his locker to finish taking off his gear.
“We’re going out, right?” Carmine asked.
“Of course,” Saint said. Team bonding, cohesion, spirits-lifting…. He knew all t
he reasons they went out and even though he hated being watched so closely, part of him wanted to do it, cram himself into a booth next to Carmine, sit too close so he could hear him yell over the music, and get loudly, ridiculously drunk.
Carmine matched his smile. “Great. Is it okay if I invite Henry?”
Saint blinked. “Oh—yeah, no, that’s fine.”
“You sure? If you want it to just be team, that’s totally cool, she’ll understand.”
Saint mustered what he hoped was a convincing smile. “She’s your friend.” Your best friend. “You don’t get to see her very often, of course you should invite her.”
Carmine studied his face for a minute, but whatever he saw seemed to convince him. He nodded. “I’ll text her. Thanks, Cap.”
Saint rolled his eyes. “Don’t call me that,” he said. “This isn’t a Marvel movie.”
Carmine grinned at him. “Thanks, Saint,” he drawled, and Saint suppressed a shiver at the sound of his name in Carmine’s mouth. He liked it a little too much.
He coughed and turned away. “I’m gonna shower,” he said, and escaped.
12
Henry met the team at the bar, and David wasn’t the only one to sit up straight in appreciation as she wound her way through the tables, although he was the only one to wolf whistle. Carmine whipped around but Saint was there first, glaring David down until he threw up his hands in submission and slumped in his seat.
Henry reached them and Carmine was on his feet to greet her, turning to the group crammed into the extra-large booth. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the music when he said, “Guys, this is Henry. Henry, the boys.”
“Great game!” Henry said, and the players erupted into happy cheering.
Roughing Page 11
