Page 21 of Delay of Game

They were in Boston again.

The Cons didn’t have a real rivalry with the Beacons, not the way they did with Pittsburgh or even the New York Liberty, both of whom had recently won Cups, which always made it worse. Boston fans were annoying, but it was the same way there the way it was in any big hockey city like Montreal. It just made it more fun to win at home and shut them up. And it was way better than a place like Toronto, which had the history and the obsession, but where tickets were so expensive that it meant most of the attendees were corporate assholes who weren’t paying attention to the game anyway. The Toronto crowds were always quiet, no matter who was winning.

Even on the bench, when Nate needed to keep half an ear out for line changes, he was always watching the play. He had been a fifth-round pick for a number of reasons—one of which was his weight and the fact that scouts had concerns about conditioning, which was just another way of saying he was fat—but the other was his hockey sense.

As a kid he’d always been forcing the play, so nervous about fucking up that he actually made it worse for himself. It had taken a few years in the minors, the seasons of experience, to understand how to leave some of that in the locker room. And despite what a lot of the scouts thought, youcouldlearn how to improve your reads. He was a case in point. But it was an active thing, something he was always working on, and he felt like if he started slouching just a bit, he’d lose the ability he’d worked so hard to earn.

Coach Cote still ran the aggressive 2-1-2 forecheck that the Cons had been using since the ’70s, back when they were more concerned about outmuscling the rest of the league than they were about skill. It wasn’t a difficult system and it still worked for them. As Nate watched, Andersson and Gags moved across the blue line, pushing the Beacons’ d-men back. As they moved forward, Netty swung across to cover the exits and behind them, Mike following close to pinch, Tarasov a few paces behind. Andersson managed to intercept a pass as Gags swept back across to prevent an odd man rush and managed to fire it through traffic to him. The pass quickly turned into another, and then a shot that landed, satisfyingly, into the back of the net.

Nate smiled as he watched them celly.

For a second, he allowed himself to think:maybe this year will be a good one.

IV. WINTER

Chapter Six

December

It was the third game they’d lost in a row and Nate was trying not to panic.

Each season since Coach Cote had taken over and Zach and Bee had joined the team, he’d had the secret thought, for brief, almost nonexistent instances:maybe, maybe, we have a chance at the Cup. He hadn’t fully let himself form it even though Coach used to say that if you went into the season expecting anything other than the Cup you’d already lost it. Heknewthat. Nate also knew he would never be able to grow the kind of balls that let you believe it.

Still. Three losses in a row was worrying. He’d had hopes for this season after the crushing disappointment of the second round last year. But at this rate...

He’d already thrown up. His mouth tasted sour, like vomit and sweat and mucus, and his body felt shaky, the adrenaline of the game and the disappointment of the loss. The rest of the team had already gone, but he was still walking around the locker room, like if he paced enough, he’d be able to figure out the magic formula to get them back on track. Sometimes it was comforting to be in here, with the stalls arrayed around the circle of the room, the familiar faces in the same order every time. Even while he paced, he was careful not to step on the Cons’ logo in the middle of the floor; it was bad fucking luck to do that, and Nate was superstitious as anyone.

It didn’t ease his frustration.

He smacked his head against the wall.

“Whoa, buddy, buddy,” Zach said from behind him, hand on his back. “Aren’t you the one who’s always like,no head injuries?”

“We lostagain.”

“So you’re trying to giveyourselfa concussion?”

“It’s my fault, Zach.”

“Uh, dude, we’ve been through this like a million times over the last few years...our losses are everyone’s fault, not just yours.”

“That’s not very encouraging,” Nate said, with a noise that wasn’t quite a laugh but wasn’t quite a sob either. It sounded like the dying wheeze of a small animal run over by a car on the highway, which also accurately described what he felt like right now.

Zach was looking at him with his head cocked a little to the side. “We’re just in a little rut. Andyou... Hey, when was the last time you got laid?”

“I—what?”

“You know, havingrelations, doing the hanky-panky, jamming the clam, torpedoing the eel, shucking the oyster—”

“Oh mygod, fucking stop it—uh, why do most of those euphemisms have to do with fish?”

“Don’t worry about it, man. But I mean, jokes aside, whenwasthe last time?”

Nate could feel the tips of his ears getting hot. He could remember exactly the last time, and it was last year. Zach had brought his girlfriend at the time—Alison—to practice. Nate had looked up into the bleachers, saw her sitting there cheering him on during the 5x5 drills, and felt shittier than he’d felt since Rachel had left him. That night he’d gone out to a bar and picked up the first cute, brown-eyed girl with a crooked smile who’d looked back at him twice, and gone back to her place.

It had been sex, all right.

“Uh...”