Roughing

by Michaela Grey

“Okay, I’ll go first.”

  “You’re not a thug!”

  Carmine sat back in his chair, raising his eyebrows. It was definitely too early for this, but Saint looked miserably determined now, shoulders hunched and mouth tight.

  “I shouldn’t have said that. Called you that.” Saint dropped his eyes to the table, then back up again to Carmine. “I was angry. You were—” He shook his head. “This is my fault. You were just trying to help, and I took it wrong and overreacted. It’s just….” His dark eyes were pleading for Carmine to understand, and Carmine looked away, taking another sip of coffee. “It’s my team. Like it or not, I’m the captain. They have to respect me, that’s the bottom line. I can’t rely on anyone else for that, it has to come from me. But I should never have gone there. Now I’ve lost your respect, and you’re just as much team as David is.” He rubbed his face. “More team than David.”

  Carmine looked back sharply. “Say again?”

  Saint gulped. “I—oh shit, I shouldn’t have said that.” He slumped in his chair. “Don’t tell him?”

  “I wouldn’t,” Carmine said, leaning forward. “But what did you mean by it?”

  “I meant—” Saint was looking anywhere but at Carmine, fidgeting in place. Carmine waited as Saint worked through his internal battle and finally blurted, “I like you, okay?”

  Silence fell between them, puddling in soft, velvety folds around their feet.

  Carmine leaned back again, draping an arm over the chair. He could feel the smile tugging at his mouth. Saint was bright red to the tips of his ears, still determinedly not looking at him. He was tense in his seat, clearly on the edge of bolting.

  “You… like me,” Carmine said, testing the words.

  “Just more than David,” Saint said immediately.

  Carmine waved that off. “Yeah, but you like me.”

  “More than David,” Saint repeated. “It’s important that that distinction is clear. I like you more than David.”

  Carmine grinned at him. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist me forever.” He leaned forward, pasting mock-solemnity on his face. “Saint, I just want you to know it’s okay if you fall in love with me. Everyone does, eventually.”

  Saint opened and closed his mouth, blinking. “I—oh my god, you’re fucking with me.”

  Carmine laughed out loud. “You’re kind of an easy target, can you blame me?”

  “I’m sorry,” Saint said, and Carmine sobered. Saint’s blush was receding, his eyes steady now as he met Carmine’s. “I really am.”

  “So am I,” Carmine admitted. “I was going to tell you today. I didn’t… realize I was doing it. That’s not an excuse, and I’m sorry I tried to defend you when you didn’t need it.”

  They stared at each other. Finally, Saint’s lips quirked.

  “Okay,” he said softly. “That’s—okay, that’s good. Thanks.”

  “I was going to make you breakfast,” Carmine said. He pointedly sniffed the air. “You know humans aren’t supposed to eat charcoal, right?”

  Saint scowled at him. “I was trying to cook for you,” he muttered. “My mom brought a box of pancake mix last time she visited and I thought—how hard could it be? Just add water, right?”

  Just like that, they were back on solid ground. Carmine didn’t hide his smile.

  “How about you leave the cooking to me, and you can handle the coffee? Because let me tell you, this shit is amazing. I’m considering proposing.”

  “To me?” Saint sounded startled, and Carmine snickered.

  “No, to the coffee. Grab the eggs from the fridge for me, let’s get this party started.”

  They ate breakfast in silence that was more comfortable than Carmine had expected. The worst of the shadows in Saint’s eyes had eased, and even though he didn’t say much, his body language was more relaxed, and he smiled at Carmine when their eyes met.

  “Your hand,” Carmine said when he was on his third cup of coffee. “Shit, did you change the bandage yourself?”

  Saint looked rueful. “I tried to, last night. Turns out it’s not that easy one-handed.”

  “If you want to go get the first-aid kit, I’ll change it for you now,” Carmine told him. He began gathering dishes as Saint obeyed, back in just a few minutes with the kit clasped to his chest, and they settled back in at the table.

  Carmine unwrapped the bulky, clumsily applied bandage and inspected the cut. It was healing nicely, he was relieved to see as he cleaned the edges and put a new strip of gauze over it. “Does it hurt?”

  Saint shook his head. “Not really, not anymore.”

  “Good. You’ll be able to play tomorrow.”

  Saint tensed at that.

  “Hey,” Carmine said, looking up. “Are you worried?”

  “Not… not about my hand,” Saint said. “Just… pre-game jitters. Nothing new and different. Happens every season.” He paused and shrugged.

  Carmine gave him a smile, taped down the bandage, and sat back. “Oatmeal for breakfast and stay out of your way. Don’t worry too much, okay? We’ll be fine.”

  Saint nodded again, firming his jaw. “I still wish Coach would let me swap Torry for Kasha. I don’t like having him on the first line for his first game with us.”

  “Not his first game ever, though,” Carmine reminded him as he put away the supplies. “He’ll be fine. Plus he’s good on your line.”

  “He’s young,” Saint said. He tapped a finger on the table. “I just think he needs more experience. But it’s not like I can really argue with Coach.”

  Carmine kept an eye on Kasha during practice that day. The young Russian was in his usual high spirits, joking with Jason and several of the rookies. Now that he was getting comfortable with his teammates, he was revealing a very tactile side, always looking for contact from his favorite people. He didn’t, Carmine was glad to see, so much as jostle Saint, although he got as close as he could without touching him.

  Honestly, Carmine didn’t see what the big deal was. Kasha was fast, talented, and smart. He was one of the few able to anticipate Saint’s moves, although he wasn’t completely there yet and still missed the occasional pass. Even with that, he showed glimmers of the talent he’d grow into, and his plays on the ice were crisp and precise.

  Saint was still in a mood when they walked home that evening, hands in his pockets and eyes on the ground.

  “Hey,” Carmine said, taking a chance and gently jostling his elbow. Saint blinked and glanced up. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “Just trying to nail down plays for tomorrow,” Saint said vaguely.

  “Talk to me about the Racers,” Carmine said.

  Saint scowled. “I don’t like them very much. They rely on strength and hard hits instead of playing a clean game. Keep your head up out there—even with your size, they’ll try and take you out.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Carmine said, but Saint’s concern warmed him. “Anyone in particular I should watch for?”

  “Spencer McWhorter is dirty. Even get close to him and he’ll embellish all over the place. So watch yourself around him, don’t make contact unless you know you can keep it clean and legal.”

  “Got it.”

  “Their captain doesn’t have a grip on his team. They’re not as cohesive as they should be, because he doesn’t mentor the rookies properly. That makes them unpredictable. Sometimes they’re really good, other times they’re all over the place. I don’t know which version we’re facing tomorrow.”

  “We’ll find out,” Carmine said. He took a step ahead and turned to walk backward, watching Saint. His mouth was tucked downward, eyes on the ground again. “This is supposed to be fun,” Carmine said. “It’s a game, right?”

  Saint’s eyes flicked upward and his mouth tightened. “It’s my job,” he said flatly. “It’s not a game, it’s my life. Don’t you dare tell me to lighten—”

  “No, hey,” Carmine interrupted, holding out his hands placatingly. “Reel it in, man, I’m not tryi
ng to tell you how to play. Sorry. I just—” He sighed. “Never mind. Are you hungry?”

  Saint’s shoulders eased a fraction and he nodded. “Sorry for snapping,” he muttered.

  “You haven’t scared me off yet,” Carmine said easily, and won a small smile from him. Little victories, he told himself, and followed Saint through the gate and up the drive.

  Saint declined his offer to cook with him this time, disappearing into his wing. Carmine firmly told himself that was fine and set to work chopping vegetables.

  After about an hour, Saint reappeared though, his iPad in hand. “Do you care if I sit in here?” he asked, looking almost ashamed.

  Carmine blinked at him. “It’s your house, man.”

  Saint ducked his head. “I just… think better around you,” he admitted to the floor.

  Carmine swallowed the shock at his honesty. “Pull up a chair,” he said instead.

  “Do you need help?” Saint said, halfway into the seat.

  “Nope,” Carmine said. “What are you up to?”

  “Watching game tape,” Saint said. “It’s from last season, but they’ve still got their core, at least.” There was faint bitterness in his voice as he pressed play.

  Carmine watched out of the corner of his eye as Saint focused on the screen. When the meat was in the pan and the potatoes in the oven, he sat down beside him.

  “Show me?”

  Saint turned the iPad toward him. “You’ve played them, right?”

  “Sure,” Carmine said. “But they’ll adjust their play against a team like yours, versus the Otters, which has the brawn to match them. We never really had a problem with them, which means I want to hear what you think.”

  Saint pointed. “That’s Dean Jefferson. He’s good, but not good enough to get them to a Cup, if you ask me. Also he’s an absolute asshole. Treats his rookies like shit.”

  Carmine nodded. Having met Jefferson, he was inclined to agree.

  “Didn’t they lose one of their star players in a trade to Colorado a few years back?” he asked. “There was a whole stink about it.”

  “Gunner Ryan,” Saint said. “Yeah, it was ugly. He’s talented, too, but he didn’t fit with the team. He was a loose cannon there, but he seems to have settled in well with the Direwolves.” He paused the reel and pointed again. “There. That’s Henrique, their main enforcer. He’s not vicious, but he’s without remorse. He’ll run over anything in his path.”

  “Yeah, and he throws a mean punch.” Carmine rubbed his jaw.

  Saint hit play again. “This asshole, though,” he muttered, indicating Spencer. “Fucker tripped one of my rookies last year, sent him headfirst into the boards. He missed eight games with a concussion.” His expression was tight, mouth drawn.

  Carmine hopped up to turn the meat, then sat back down. “Any particular tricks I need to know about?”

  “He likes to go after the forwards on the face-off, when they’re focused on the puck.” Saint scrubbed his face. “I feel like throwing up.”

  “You getting sick?” Carmine asked, alarmed.

  “First game nerves. I’ll be fine tomorrow.” Saint dropped his hands and summoned a wan smile. “It smells good.”

  Carmine was learning Saint’s signals, and he followed his lead, chattering away about what he was making while he cooked and Saint watched, leaning back in his chair.

  After dinner, which Saint didn’t eat enough of, Carmine refused to let him help wash dishes, shooing him away gently.

  To his surprise, though, Saint stood his ground, lifting a stubborn chin.

  “You cooked, that means I clean. Even I know that much. So you go sit down and let me do this.”

  Carmine huffed a laugh and wandered into the main den. After a few minutes of idle poking around, he discovered a very nice gaming system below the huge flatscreen, and promptly sat down on the carpet to go through the games.

  Saint found him there when he was done, Fortnite ready and waiting for him as Carmine got comfortable on the couch.

  “Perfect timing,” Carmine greeted him. “You didn’t tell me you gamed!”

  “Because I don’t,” Saint said. “It’s for the rookies. Keeps them out of the way when it’s my turn to host.” But he sat down beside Carmine and accepted the controller, eyeing it warily. “I’ve never played this before.”

  “It’s easy,” Carmine said. “I’ll show you.”

  They spent the rest of the evening shooting things and occasionally each other, and Carmine hid his satisfaction at the way Saint’s shoulders gradually loosened, until he was leaning forward and glaring at the TV, focused on getting it exactly right.

  “No, no!” he shouted as he got blown up again. “Goddammit, I hate this game.”

  “We can try a different one,” Carmine suggested.

  Saint gave him a real smile. “Thanks, but I think I should probably sleep.” He climbed off the couch and Carmine followed suit. Saint shifted his feet, clearly trying to find words. Carmine waited. “This was nice,” Saint finally said. “Usually—the day before a game I’m usually too wired to do anything. So… thanks for helping me turn my brain off, I guess.”

  “Any time,” Carmine said, and Saint smiled at him again.

  “Goodnight.”

  8

  Game day dawned misty and overcast, the sun too weak to burn off the fog as Carmine ambled out of his bedroom, yawning. Saint was at the stove when he wandered in.

  “Coffee’s made,” he said without looking up from what he was stirring, and Carmine made a pathetically grateful noise.

  He flopped down at the table with his mug and Saint set a bowl of oatmeal in front of him. Carmine blinked blearily at it for a minute before his brain finally recalibrated.

  “Oh. Um, thanks.”

  Saint shrugged as he sat down opposite and began to eat in methodical bites.

  The oatmeal was pretty good, although it could be better, in Carmine’s opinion. He cleaned his bowl and went back for seconds, then sat back and watched Saint as he ate. His entire focus was on the food, unwavering, and Carmine wondered briefly what it was like to have that kind of laser intensity and drive.

  Lonely, he thought, and took his bowl to the sink.

  He stayed out of Saint’s way until it was time to head for the rink. When he joined him in the hall, Saint looked sharp in a dark gray suit, cut to fit his lean form and hug his muscled legs. He acknowledged Carmine with a nod and opened the door.

  “First game, Felix is picking us up. It’s tradition,” he said.

  “Keeps drivers from talking to you while you’re trying to get in the zone, right?” Carmine asked, following him down the steps, and was rewarded with the shadow of a smile.

  “That’s a perk,” Saint allowed.

  Felix was waiting in the driveway, and Carmine blinked at the car. “Is that an SUV? Butterfly, man, do you seriously drive a soccer mom’s car?”

  Felix glared at him as Saint strode around to get in the front seat. “It’s a fucking Porsche Cayenne, you goddamn heathen, and it’s not my fault my sisters have kids, okay?”

  Carmine snickered and climbed in the back. He buckled as Felix said something in French to Saint, who replied quietly. Carmine waited until they were done and then leaned forward.

  “Hey Mom, can I have some animal crackers?”

  Felix whipped around, stare hot enough to melt leather, but it worked—Saint laughed. Shock replaced the outrage on Felix’s face, and he glanced at Saint, then back at Carmine, eyes narrow and considering.

  “If you behave, you might even get a juice box,” he finally said, and Carmine fist-pumped, grinning. Felix returned the grin, real warmth behind it, and put the car in drive.

  Saint said nothing on the way to the rink, gazing out the window, but his shoulders were loose.

  “Pap stroll time,” Felix said cheerfully when he parked.

  “One at a time or do you go in groups?” Carmine inquired, straightening his jacket as he stepped out.


  “Saint goes first,” Felix said. “I’ll walk with you.”

  They followed Saint past the photographers who called out greetings to them and snapped pictures but didn’t try to stop them. Carmine kept a pleasant expression on his face but didn’t smile—it wouldn’t do to look too friendly. He had a reputation to maintain, after all.

  Saint went straight to the trainers, who put him on a table for a massage. Carmine and Felix changed into their compression gear and then he tailed Felix into the kitchen, where a few of the guys were clustered. Felix hip-bumped Kasha out of the way to dig in the refrigerator for a bottle of Gatorade. Kasha turned, saw Carmine, and his eyes lit up as he slung an arm around his neck.

  “Karma!”

  “Hey kid,” Carmine said, looking for nerves. Kasha seemed as happy as usual, bright and cheerful. “Ready to kick some ass?”

  Kasha nodded, bouncing on his toes. “Play two-touch with us?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Carmine agreed, and followed the group into the hall. Saint joined them about halfway through the game, stepping into the circle beside Felix. They played until their muscles were loose, hooting and teasing Kasha when a bounce went wrong and the ball got stuck in the rafters.

  “Who’s getting it?” Saint asked, hands on hips. No one would catch his eye, and Saint sighed. “Carmine, I need your height.”

  Carmine went where Saint pointed, vaguely curious, and crouched when Saint told him to. Saint climbed him like a tree, quick and effortless up to his shoulders, where he balanced as Carmine braced himself.

  “Up,” he said, reaching out and brushing the ball with his fingertips. “I’m almost—”

  Carmine straightened his legs, stepped closer, and went up onto his tiptoes. Saint grunted in triumph as he dislodged the ball and it fell, narrowly missing Carmine’s head. He bent his knees and jumped lightly off, landing behind Carmine and smiling at him as he turned.

  “Good teamwork,” he said, and headed for the kitchen.

  Felix was looking at him appraisingly when Carmine turned. “I’m never wrong,” he said, and Carmine snorted out loud.