Roughing

by Michaela Grey

  Saint didn’t answer. His thoughts were slow to form, hard to grasp.

  Carmine steered him toward the sink and turned on the water. He held Saint’s wrist, keeping his hand under the stream, a worried wrinkle on his brow.

  “Saint, can you talk to me?”

  Saint didn’t say anything, mesmerized by the drips of blood.

  Carmine shook him gently. “Saint!”

  Saint took a deep breath. “I… got blood on the turnips,” he whispered.

  “Least of my worries right now,” Carmine said gently. “You’re kind of freaking me out a bit. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Saint managed. His thumb was beginning to sting, nerve endings waking up and protesting. “Just clumsy.”

  Carmine’s expression said he didn’t believe him, but he didn’t push. He just turned the water off and raised Saint’s hand above his heart.

  “Keep it there. Where’s your first aid kit?”

  “Oh… my bathroom,” Saint said.

  Carmine swore. “Do you want to go get it or do you trust me to?”

  Saint wasn’t entirely sure his legs would obey him. Carmine’s eyes were dark and kind, no judgment in them.

  “You can,” he said. “Under the sink.”

  Carmine patted his arm. “Be right back. Don’t move.”

  Saint waited, hand still obediently above his heart and over the sink. The blood flow had slowed to a trickle, still bleeding sluggishly and dripping in fat, crimson splats into the stainless steel sink. He wondered, distantly, what Carmine thought of his living space. Did he like the art he had on the walls? Did he appreciate the trophy display case filled with Saint’s greatest achievements or had he even stopped to look at them?

  From the speed with which Carmine returned, Saint suspected the latter. He was clutching the box, which he set on the counter and flipped open.

  “How’s it feeling?” he asked as he pulled out disinfectant and bandages.

  “Starting to hurt,” Saint admitted.

  “This’ll hurt more,” Carmine said, and poured antiseptic over the wound. He caught Saint’s wrist in an iron grip when he instinctively recoiled, hissing through his teeth at the blistering burn in his hand.

  “Hurts,” Saint panted, flexing his fingers uselessly.

  “I know,” Carmine said gently. His thumb was stroking Saint’s pulse point in absent, soft sweeps, and Saint breathed through his nose in desperate gulps and focused on Carmine’s touch, the nearness of his big body.

  It took a few minutes, but slowly the worst of the burn began to fade and Saint’s breathing steadied.

  “Okay?” Carmine murmured.

  Saint nodded.

  “Alright, I’m going to bandage you up. The cut’s not deep—you should be able to play just fine. Just keep the bandage clean and swap it out as soon as it gets sweaty and gross.”

  His hands were steady and confident as he wrapped the thumb in layers of gauze and taped them in place.

  “Think that’ll fit under your glove?” he said after a minute.

  Saint inspected it and nodded. “Should be fine.”

  “Good. Since you so cleverly managed to get out of chopping vegetables, you can just do my scut work instead.” Carmine slanted him a grin as he packed away the first aid kit contents and washed his hands.

  “I’m sorry,” Saint said.

  “It was an accident,” Carmine said. “I’ll leave the kit here so you can put it away yourself, okay?”

  Saint swallowed hard. How did this man know him so well already, in just the space of twenty-four hours? “Okay,” he whispered.

  “So, line a baking sheet with foil for me, then melt some butter in the microwave and get the salt and pepper. Then grab the asparagus from the fridge.”

  Saint obeyed, following Carmine’s instructions on how to arrange the spears on the baking sheet, brushing them with butter and sprinkling the pan with salt and pepper. Carmine was a blur of motion, rinsing the turnips and adding them to the pot, going from the stove to the counter and back again, muttering to himself as he tested the ingredients of various pans with a scowl. Saint was fascinated.

  “You’re really good at this,” he remarked as Carmine set the first salmon steak in the pan.

  Carmine lifted a shoulder. “Been doing it all my life, since I was old enough to hold a spatula. Hey, do you have a grill?”

  “Uh… I might?”

  Carmine tipped his head back and laughed, deep and full-bodied. Saint watched, bewildered, until Carmine had sobered into hiccuping giggles, wiping his eyes.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You don’t even know if you have a grill,” Carmine said, still grinning. “How much more of this house is undiscovered?”

  Saint glowered. “I don’t cook, let alone grill. Why would I care?”

  “Eh, fair. But I’m here now, and grilling is a far superior method to prepare meat, so I really hope you have one.” He set the spatula down and winked. “I’ll go check right now. When the oven beeps, put the asparagus in and set the timer for eight minutes.” With that, he was gone, leaving Saint standing in his kitchen and feeling faintly like he’d been run over by a steamroller.

  He followed Carmine’s instructions and then wandered in the direction of the back patio, curious to see if he really did have a grill.

  Carmine was bent over a blackened metal contraption, crowing happily to himself, when Saint stepped outside.

  “This baby is gorgeous,” he told Saint, patting the hood. “We’re gonna make so many steaks and burgers, it’s gonna be great.”

  “The asparagus is in,” Saint told him.

  “Good!” Carmine gave the grill one last proprietary pat and straightened. “How’s your hand?”

  “It’s fine,” Saint said. He’d almost forgotten about it, he realized as he followed Carmine back inside. “Anything else you need me to do?”

  “You can mash the turnips and potatoes,” Carmine decided.

  “I… don’t know how.”

  “Do you have a masher?”

  “How would I even know?” Saint asked, bewildered, and surprised Carmine into another laugh.

  “God, how did you survive?”

  “Takeout,” Saint said.

  Carmine found a weird contraption in one of Saint’s utensil drawers and brandished it triumphantly. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”

  Saint eyed it. “It looks like a torture device.”

  Carmine waved it in Saint’s direction. “We have ways of making you talk, Mr. Levesque. Tell me the secret to that sick backhand of yours.”

  Saint couldn’t help his giggle, and Carmine’s grin widened. He handed the masher over, then cast around the cupboards until he came up with a colander. He poured the boiled turnips and potatoes in, waited for them to drain, and then dumped them back in the pot.

  “You’re up, kid,” he said. “Squash the fuck out of ‘em. No chunk left alive, got it?”

  “Got it,” Saint agreed, and went to work.

  Beside him, Carmine was busy seasoning the salmon steaks, flipping them again and feeling the surface with one judicious finger.

  “Why are you touching them?” Saint asked as he mashed.

  “You can tell by feel whether something’s cooked all the way through.”

  “Really?” Saint peered at the pan, fascinated. “How?”

  Carmine shrugged. “It’s… hard to explain? But like, it feels firmer and… different, somehow, when it’s done.”

  “Huh. Who taught you to cook? Lavender?”

  “Oh god no. Lavender couldn’t cook her way out of a wet paper bag. No, that was all Diana. She passed on her appreciation of good food to me. Some of my favorite memories are when I was eight and nine years old, standing on a stool at the stove because I was too short to reach, stirring whatever she was making. I burned a lot of crap, but she never lost patience with me, and eventually I got better.” He glanced at Saint. “You know—” He broke off and shook hi
s head. “Forget it.”

  Saint squinted at him, but Carmine ignored it as he added butter and salt to the potatoes and turnips. He tasted it, hummed thoughtfully, and scooped up another small spoonful, offering it to Saint.

  “Tell me what you think.”

  Saint accepted the spoon and tasted it warily. The potatoes and turnips were creamy and rich on his tongue, and he blinked. “Oh. That’s… nice.”

  Carmine made a dissatisfied noise. “Needs more garlic. Well, too late now. I’ll add more next time.” He turned back to the salmon. “You can set the table, I’m ready to plate.”

  They ate together at Saint’s too-big table. The salmon was cooked to perfection, although Carmine grumbled that it would have been better on the grill, and paired perfectly with the asparagus and potatoes.

  “It’s delicious,” Saint said after a few minutes.

  Carmine smiled at him across the table. “I’m really not a bad guy, you know.”

  Saint froze and set down his fork. “I know.”

  “Do you?” Carmine tilted his head. “Because I know you don’t want me here. And I don’t really blame you, but for some reason, I don’t want you to hate me.”

  “I—” Saint swallowed. “I don’t.” He turned the fork in his fingers, staring at the tines.

  “That game in Boston,” Carmine said, and stopped.

  Saint went stiff. “No,” he said through numb lips. Leave it, he thought desperately.

  Carmine seemed to get it. “So I know they hired me to be your muscle.” His mouth quirked wryly. “Seems to me you can handle yourself, for the most part. Which means they’re probably looking at someone or some team in particular. Am I close?”

  Saint picked up his fork again. “Yeah,” he said. He dragged the tines through the mashed potatoes, watching the little peaks form.

  “A person or a team?”

  “The team’s not… great,” Saint said, still looking at his plate. “But it’s more a person. Last time we played each other, he took me out for a month with three broken ribs.”

  Carmine winced.

  “Well, it’s not all on him.” Saint took a bite of salmon. “I might have tripped him… once or twice. And I goaded him into taking a penalty, but that was because he boarded my rookie.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Simon Fall.”

  “Of the Richmond Ravens?” Carmine demanded. “Shit, I know him. Guy’s a fucking goon. Gets called for more dirty hits than me, and that’s saying something.”

  Saint shrugged. “Well anyway, the team hates him, and all of the Ravens. So we end up drawing stupid penalties and getting in fights and it’s ugly. And of course management plays it up, makes a big deal of the rivalry so the fans will get hyped. It’s… tiring.”

  “Good to know. So.” Carmine set his glass down. “Game-day rituals.”

  Saint blinked. “Yours or mine?”

  “Yours,” Carmine said. “I don’t have many. But I want to know what to expect from you.”

  “You sure you want to get that close up with my neuroses?” Saint asked, fidgeting.

  “Just tell me,” Carmine said, and Saint sighed, giving up. Carmine was going to think he needed to be committed, but something about the set of his mouth said he wasn’t going to let the question go.

  “Left foot on the floor first when I wake up. Piss, shower—left foot out of the shower, shave. Breakfast is oatmeal with pecans and brown sugar. Lunch is pasta, but I’m willing to be flexible on sauces. Grilled cheese sandwich before the game. No one touches my equipment. No one.”

  “Not even the equipment manager?”

  “Pat. He’s allowed any other time but not on game-day, not unless I ask him for something. He’s a good guy. Very patient.”

  Carmine nodded. “Anything else?”

  “EDM on the way to the rink. Helps get me hyped up. First game of the season I ride with Butterfly, but after that I take a car to the actual rink, since it’s farther than the practice barn.” He hesitated. “You can ride with me if… you want.”

  Carmine’s eyes crinkled with his smile. “Yeah man, that’d be nice. Keep going.”

  “What makes you think that’s not all of it?”

  Carmine snorted. “Because there’s no way that’s the extent of your superstitions.” He made a beckoning motion. “Keep ‘em coming.”

  Saint fought the desire to hide. “Fine, fine. Left foot into my underwear and pants, left sock on first, same with left shoe. My tape goes on counter-clockwise and I have to have fifteen wraps or I’ll take it back off and start over. That’s enough, right?”

  Carmine shrugged, his expression hard to read. “Depends. Is there more?”

  “Left skate first on the ice, and after the anthem plays, I push off the line with my left foot for three steps.” Saint’s face was burning. “Are you satisfied with my level of crazy? Because I’m sure I could think up some more rituals if they’ll help.”

  “Easy,” Carmine said, lifting his hands. “Hey, Saint, I didn’t ask for all that to make you feel like I was judging you or some shit, okay?”

  “Then why did you?”

  “So I know what I need to do to help you get your head on straight,” Carmine said. “And now I know. Can I make the breakfast for you, or does it have to be you?”

  “Has to be me,” Saint said immediately. He paused. “I could… make enough for you too, though. It’s not bad. Filling.”

  Carmine smiled at him. “That sounds great. I don’t think you’re crazy. I’ve seen way worse, believe me.”

  “Sure,” Saint scoffed.

  “Oh no, really,” Carmine said, leaning forward. His expression was earnest. “This one guy I knew refused to take a shit at the rink before a game, because once he did and they lost. So he’d go before he got there, but if he had to go again, he’d literally have to run down the street to the damn McDonalds so he could shit in safety.”

  Saint’s laugh startled him. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Swear to God,” Carmine said, grinning at him. “And he had a terrible backhand. If he’d spent less time worrying about his shitting ritual and more time practicing that backhand, maybe he’d have made it out of the AHL.”

  “We really are all some variety of insane, aren’t we?” Saint said.

  Carmine’s smile widened. “Normal is boring.”

  6

  They showed up to practice the next morning to the usual chaos. Carmine caught the sock tape Felix threw without even looking this time and lobbed it right back at him before heading for his stall.

  Kasha greeted him with a smile. “I went out last night. Took my girl to dinner. This is such nice city! The people—so nice.”

  “Was the food good?”

  Kasha nodded enthusiastically. “My girl… she not like it so much. Not really like Portland.” His smile dimmed.

  “What’s your girl’s name?”

  “Nadia,” Kasha said. “She’s wanting to be pop star, yes? Like Ariana Grande or Selena Gomez.”

  “Can she sing?”

  Kasha nodded again, smile widening a little more. “She’s got good voice! And so pretty. But she not like Portland much. She wanted me to go for Kings, so she could go for Hollywood, you know? But I had chance to play with Saint—can’t pass up.”

  “Fair enough,” Carmine said, bumping shoulders with him gently. He stripped down and got into his compression gear, then followed the others to the workout room.

  He spent his time on the bike watching the team interact. Kasha was talking to another rookie in the corner as they waited for turns on the squat rack. Felix was off doing some goalie zen thing in the corner with Ivan, the rookie goalie from the Embers. Jesper was talking to Roderick, who was in the fitness bands as the trainer worked with him, and 47—David, Carmine had finally remembered his name—was over by the weights, talking loudly about how much he could press.

  Saint… Carmine couldn’t help the way his eyes followed Saint as he went around the roo
m. He seemed to take a random path from one piece of equipment or set of trainers to the next, but he somehow always ended up involved in the conversation of the players around him, and when he drifted on to the next one, he left smiles and relaxed shoulders behind him.

  Christ, he’s actually good at this, Carmine thought. The switch from painfully awkward and shy to calm and confident captain was startling to see, and fascinating to watch. Carmine had seen it happen in flashes before, but he still couldn’t take his eyes away. Saint seemed to know instinctively how to talk to everyone—Carmine was pretty sure he heard him speaking Swedish to Jesper and Oscar, and even David seemed more settled after Saint moved on.

  Felix cleared his throat and Carmine nearly fell off the bike.

  “Where the fuck did you come from?” he demanded.

  Felix’s eyes glinted. “You were a little preoccupied watching our capitan. How are things going?”

  Carmine shrugged, slowing his cycling speed. “I’m not sure if he likes me or not, but we went and got a new key and groceries, and I made him dinner last night. He helped me cook, a little bit.”

  Felix’s eyebrows climbed his brow. “He did what now?”

  “Well, he chopped some vegetables. Nearly cut his thumb off.”

  “I noticed the bandage,” Felix said. “I thought perhaps you could tell me what happened.” There was tension in his slim body now, the way he stood lightly on the balls of his feet as if poised for action.

  “If I hurt your boy, they’ll never find my body,” Carmine said, and stepped off the bike. “Relax, man, he’s fine. It was an accident. I bandaged it up for him and it’s all good.”

  Felix hummed thoughtfully, glancing in Saint’s direction. “He likes you,” he said out of nowhere, and Carmine nearly tripped over his own feet.

  “What?”

  “He likes you,” Felix repeated. “He ate dinner with you. Went shopping with you. He even let you clean and wrap his wound. Trust me, Karma, he would not have done those things if he did not like you.”

  “Huh.” Carmine considered Saint, on the far side of the room talking to Ivan. Warmth curled in his gut at the thought that Saint might actually like him, not just endure his company.