by Amy Aislin
“So not good, then.” Shifting from foot to foot, Roman cleared his throat and nudged the soup container along the bench in Ritz’s direction.
Ritz popped the last of his breakfast in his mouth and eyed the container like it might explode. “What’s this?”
“It’s, um, chicken noodle soup. Homemade.”
Ritz popped the lid off and peered inside. “There’s actual chicken in here!”
“Well, yeah. It’s chicken noodle soup.”
“Whenever I buy the soup mix packets from the store, it’s just noodles and, like, chicken flavoring?”
Roman’s nose scrunched. Why would anyone buy chicken noodle soup packets? It wasn’t hard to make from scratch. “It’s for Honeybun.”
Eyebrows bunching, Ritz frowned up at him. “Why?”
“’Cause he’s sick? And soup is good for people who are sick? You guys are close, right? I figure you can give it to him.”
“We live together,” Ritz said, fitting the lid back on.
“Oh. I should’ve brought more so you can have some,” Roman muttered.
“Don’t worry about it.” Rising, Ritz clapped Roman on the back again before removing his winter coat. “Thanks for this. Really. I hate cooking, and the only thing Will makes that’s edible is a bowl of cereal.”
Roman pointed at the coat Ritz was hanging in a locker. “If you don’t mind me asking . . . where’d you buy that?”
“Uh . . .” Ritz slipped out of his boots, tucking them under the bench. “A department store maybe? I forget. I’ve had it for a few years.” He jerked his chin at Roman’s windbreaker draped over his gym bag. “You’re the one who’s going to get pneumonia if you don’t get something thicker than that.”
“Yeah. I was gonna go shopping tomorrow.” Maybe with Cody.
Wait, when had he decided to take Cody up on his offer? Roman was a big boy, he could go shopping by himself. That being said, as a senior in college, Cody had lived here for at least three and a half years, maybe more if he was from the area. He’d know what’d make a good enough coat to withstand Vermont’s winters.
So obviously Cody needed to come.
When the team got onto the ice a few minutes later, Coach Donovan put them through some puck control drills. With half the team in a circle in the middle of the ice, the goal was to maintain control of your puck while fending off teammates trying to steal it or knock it away. The last player standing with control of their puck won the honor of skipping out on their choice of drill.
Roman was familiar with the drill. Most hockey players were. He’d been doing it since peewee hockey at least. But in peewee hockey he’d been short—hell, he’d been short up until his growth spurt when he was sixteen. Now he could hold his own, and while he wasn’t often the last man standing, he was always one of the last.
Not so for Cotton, who’d been first man out every time.
Roman skated up to him as his group moved away from center ice, allowing the second group to perform the drill, and tapped him on the shoulder.
Cotton lifted downcast eyes.
“Try gripping your stick lower.”
“Huh?”
Roman tapped on Cotton’s stick with a gloved hand. “Try holding it lower. It’ll allow for better stick handling. Here.” He reached out with his own stick for one of the stray pucks littering the ice. “Watch.” He demonstrated quickly, showing Cotton how much more maneuverability he had when he gripped his stick lower. “You try it.”
Ritz came up to him while Roman watched Cotton control the puck. “Your stick’s too long.”
“Mine?”
“No, Cotton’s. Hey, Cotton. Come here.”
When Cotton reached them, Ritz measured Cotton’s stick against his own. Same size. Then he took Roman’s out of his hand and compared it against Cotton’s. Roman’s was slightly shorter.
“Try with this one,” Ritz said, handing Cotton Roman’s stick.
“That’s mine,” Roman muttered, feeling bereft standing on the ice with no hockey stick. It was like walking out of the house without a watch.
“Don’t worry, buddy.” Ritz bumped their shoulders with a playful smile. “You’ll get it back.”
They continued to watch Cotton for a minute. When it became clear that the shorter stick was easier for him to work with, Ritz and Roman—Roman with Cotton’s too-long stick—attempted to wrest the puck away from him, which they eventually did, but Cotton managed to hold on to it for longer than he normally did.
Standing wide-eyed, breathing hard, Cotton said, “How come nobody gave me these tips before?”
“Because people are self-absorbed assholes only out for themselves.”
Cotton and Ritz stared at him, slack-jawed. If anything, Cotton’s doe eyes went even bigger.
“What?” Roman shrugged. “You know I’m right.”
“Are you?” Ritz said. “Then how come you brought homemade soup for Will, huh?” He poked Roman in the chest with the end of his hockey stick. “Huh?”
“Homemade soup?” Cotton’s head went back and forth between them. “How can I get homemade soup? Do I have to get pneumonia too or can I just ask nicely?”
Roman couldn’t help the burble of laughter if he tried.
Later that day, Roman sat in his SUV in the parking lot of the Glen Hill College student athletic facility. According to his Google search, the athletic facility was actually two separate buildings: the hockey arena that also housed a gym and race track accessible only by the men’s and women’s hockey teams, and a larger building for the rest of the student population—as well as the general public for a nominal fee—that had a swimming pool, race track, and gym, as well as basketball, squash, badminton, and tennis courts.
In the darkness of early evening, the hockey arena was a smudge against the night sky. Lights lit up the front of the building; the rest was in shadow. More and more cars parked and people walked from their cars to the arena, where they disappeared inside or milled in front of the doors in groups.
One of those people was Cody.
He stood under one of the outdoor lights, leaning back against the wall, hands stuffed in his pockets. The last text Roman had received from him was from earlier this afternoon: I’ll wait for you out front at 6:45. Shivering from the cold in his darkened SUV, Roman pulled his phone from the center console and checked the time. 6:42. He had three minutes to decide if he was staying or going.
He could go. He’d never actually confirmed whether or not he was coming. Cody had just assumed, and Roman came because he didn’t want to let him down. That’s what he told himself anyway, his gaze snagging on the plastic container of chocolate sandwich cookies with cream cheese filling he’d baked this afternoon.
He had no excuse for the cookies.
Chest feeling tight, he ran a hand over his head. 6:43.
Removing his wallet from his back pocket, he pulled out a six-by-four photograph that had been folded and refolded so many times there was a crease lengthwise and widthwise that ran right in the middle of his own face. Around him were four of his former friends from his major junior team. Roman didn’t need to turn on the little overhead light to picture their faces—the faces of the four guys he’d once considered his family.
He had no idea what had become of Denny, Jeff, and Shawn, but he knew that the fourth, Kasper Kowalski, now played for Vancouver’s NHL team.
Kas. His former best friend. The one who had—quite literally—shut the door in his face when Roman had shown up on his doorstep, all of his possessions in his ancient Kia.
Roman hid the picture away again and leaned his head back against the headrest. Remembering what Kas had done always made him feel like his insides were twisted together. Like he was being rejected all over again.
6:45. Was he ready for another potential rejection? Not that Cody seemed like the rejection type—after all, Cody was the one who’d invited him tonight—but neither had Kas. Nobody was only what they appeared to be on the surface. Kas had hi
d a homophobic prick under that happy-go-lucky charm. Cody could be concealing a machete-wielding assassin-for-hire under that good ol’ boy, support-your-local-library exterior.
Opening his text messaging app, he sent a message to Cody: Do you own a machete?
As Roman watched him, Cody, still leaning against the building, jolted. Most likely his phone vibrating in his pocket, an assumption that was confirmed a second later when Cody pulled a phone from somewhere and removed a glove, presumably to answer Roman’s text.
Second assumption confirmed—Roman’s phone buzzed.
A machete? Um, no? Where would I buy one? Is that something you can get at the hardware store?
He didn’t know Cody that well yet, but he had a feeling that was a pretty typical Cody response. His phone buzzed again.
Do you need one? said Cody’s next message. I can ask around and see if someone I know has one you can borrow.
Well, that was . . . awfully sweet.
Yet another text made his phone vibrate.
What do you need it for? Is it to chop someone’s head off like they do in the movies? If so, I can think of less messy ways to commit murder.
What the hell kind of movies was Cody watching?
Surprised into laughter, Roman opened the door, stepped out, and headed across the parking lot. Cody looked up then, and the smile that pulled his lips upward made Roman’s steps falter and his chest tingle.
When was the last time someone had been happy to see him?
Cody straightened from his slouch against the wall as Roman approached. “You made it!”
The enthusiasm gave Roman pause. “Uh, yeah. Sorry I’m late.”
“Only by a couple of minutes,” Cody said, waving a hand. “I was just asking around to see if anyone has a machete you can borrow.” He held up his phone.
Oh, Jesus. “Don’t worry about it.” Roman tried not to cringe. “I don’t need one anymore.”
“Well, that’s good, because so far I haven’t had any luck.”
Cody led the way inside. It being a hockey arena, the temperature was only slightly higher than the one outside, and Roman hunched his shoulders against the cold. They joined the back of a small queue in the lobby.
Cody held out a hand in Roman’s direction. “Here’s your ticket.”
“You need a ticket for these things?”
“Well, yeah. It’s a sporting event, not a free-for-all.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“Don’t worry about it. My treat. You can get the next one.”
Roman was still contemplating that next one comment, thrown out so casually, when their tickets were scanned and they were gestured into the arena.
For a small college, the arena looked like it could hold at least a thousand people. Rather than folded seats, bleachers lined the stadium, and at ten minutes to puck drop, they were packed almost to capacity. The arena’s roof was domed, and along one length, above the bleachers, were four boxed seats with three to four people in each. Scouts, maybe? College officials? Team sponsors?
“This way,” Cody said.
Roman followed him down a center aisle, pulling a baseball cap out of his pocket at the same time and dropping it on his head. He had his eyebrow and nose rings in, which usually kept him from being recognized, but the hat didn’t hurt. At the bottom of the aisle, Cody went left, pausing for Roman to catch up before continuing.
“We’re just over here,” Cody said over his shoulder.
Over here, it turned out, included people Roman knew. Not just Alex Dean, who he’d known would be here, although they hadn’t managed to find a time to get together for coffee, but also Ashton Yager—another former teammate—and his boyfriend, Dan, who Roman had gotten to know when Dan had helped the team renovate a hurricane-damaged youth center in Tampa a couple years ago.
What were they doing here?
“Hey, man.” Dean, a big guy who was more gentle giant than anyone Roman had ever met, rose from where he sat on a bench in the front row with the others and held out a hand, a baseball hat shading his green eyes. “Glad you could make it.”
“Kinsey!” And then there was Yager, who was just as big and broad as Dean with the voice to match. He thumped a huge hand against Roman’s back, and his own baseball hat covered his shock of prematurely white hair.
“Roman.” Finally, there was Dan Greyson, who shook his hand and brought him into a one-armed bro hug. “It’s good to see you.” He pulled back with a smile that lit up his light brown eyes. His blond curls were shorter than when Roman had last seen him, more fashionable, and he looked completely casual in dark jeans and a long-sleeved, V-neck T-shirt, but the outfit was probably designer.
“You too,” Roman said. “What are you doing here?”
“My brother’s on the team.”
“Your . . . ?” Roman searched out Cody for an answer.
“Mitch is his brother,” Cody clarified.
Mitch was Dan’s brother, Dean’s good friend, and Cody’s best friend and roommate. What was it with this guy that so many people knew him? Roman guessed he himself was part of the inner circle now too. It should’ve made him feel included, but all he felt was one step removed. Like none of this was real. Or like it could get snapped away at any second.
He ended up on the bench between Cody and Dan, with Yager on Dan’s other side and Dean next to him. Something in his chest went loose and light when Cody turned to him with a many-toothed smile. The arena’s lights cast a dewy sheen on Cody’s winter-pale skin and turned his hair ash blond. He was a beam of sunshine in a sea of Glen Hill Mountaineers-branded hoodies. Even wearing the same colors as everyone else in the stands, Cody managed to stand out.
It wasn’t until Roman’s gaze dropped to Cody’s lips that he realized Cody was speaking. “Sorry, what?”
Cody’s head tilted. “I said this probably won’t be as exciting for you as an NHL game.”
There was a sweep of pale freckles across Cody’s nose and the tops of his cheeks. “I doubt that.” Cody’s thigh was warm where it pressed up against his, and he smelled like something simple—pharmacy-brand soap or shampoo, perhaps. Like he wasn’t vain enough to douse himself in aftershave or cologne. The scent of him teasing his nostrils, the weight of his shoulder against his—
“So.” On his other side, Dan nudged his shoulder. “How’s it going on the new team? Tell me everything.”
Thank God for timely interruptions saving him from himself. Gathering his brain cells back together from wherever they’d gone without his permission, he said, “It’s . . . going.”
A crease appeared between Dan’s eyebrows.
“It’s fucking cold in this state, though,” Roman added to get Dan off his line of questioning.
It was Cody’s turn to nudge him. “You wouldn’t be so cold if you had a proper coat.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m going tomorrow. Want to come?”
“I can’t.”
“Oh.” See, this was why he didn’t invite people anywhere—the hollow letdown when they declined. Although, it did make him feel better that Cody appeared to be equally as disappointed.
“We’re going to New Hampshire tomorrow,” Cody said.
“What’s in New Hampshire?”
“Mitch has a game tomorrow night against UNH,” Dan piped in. “We’re all going. You should come.”
“No, that’s—”
“You should!” Cody said. “I’ll get you a ticket.”
“You don’t have to—” But Cody was already bringing up the UNH hockey website on his phone.
Resigned and maybe a little excited, Roman removed his wallet from his back pocket, took out his credit card, and handed it to Cody.
One of the players dressed in green and black with Greyson on the back of his jersey tapped on the glass. He winked in their direction, and—to Roman’s total astonishment—Alex Dean winked back.
Huh. “So that’s Dean’s guy.”
On either side of him, Dan and Cody
froze.
“Guys, I’m not an idiot.” It was loud in the arena, but Roman lowered his voice anyway. “Dean comes out to the team a couple of years ago without mentioning the name of the guy he’s seeing, and now he’s eye-flirting with his ‘good friend’?” He made actual air quotes. “Like I said: not an idiot.”
A shuffling of seats happened: Dan rose and Dean took his place.
“I didn’t know you that well,” Dean said. “That’s the only reason I didn’t tell you.”
“Dude, you don’t have to explain. You tell who you want, when you want, no questions asked.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You’re really not offended?”
“Please.” Roman scoffed. “I’ve grown a thick skin over the years. I’m not easily offended.”
“Thanks for understanding.”
Okay, enough with the feelings talk. “How long are you guys here for?”
“Not sure about Ash and Dan, but I’ll be here through Tuesday. Not much happening with my team during the all-star break, but a bunch of us are leaving on a moms’ trip on Wednesday.”
“Where to?”
“Vegas. The moms want to see Celine Dion.”
“Sounds . . . fun?”
Dean just laughed.
After the Glen Hill College Mountaineers won their game with a shutout against the University of New Hampshire, they headed to Cody and Mitch’s townhouse off campus, with a pit stop at a restaurant called Mama Jean’s where they picked up the pizzas Dean had ordered once the game ended. Dean and Mitch were together in the rust bucket of a car Cody and Mitch apparently shared; Yager and Dan drove their rental behind them; and Cody, for reasons Roman didn’t know, chose to ride with him, which made Roman feel sort of . . . unnaturally giddy.
Cody sat in the passenger seat with two plastic containers at his feet. He bent over and picked one up. “What’s this?” His voice was muffled behind the scarf pulled up over his nose to fight the cold.
“Cookies.”
Even in the darkness, Roman saw Cody’s eyes go huge. “Homemade?”
Roman grunted an affirmative. Ahead of him, Dean, Mitch, Yager, and Dan pulled into the driveway of a townhouse. Roman parked on the street. A second later, Cody was stepping out and yelling across the lawn.
