Roughing

by Michaela Grey

  “Whatever, man.”

  Fans were trickling into the building above them as they changed and got into their gear. Music started playing, a deep, thumping bass designed to crank up the energy of the arena. Carmine ignored it, falling into his usual comfortable routine of putting on his pads, settling his chest protector, jumping up and down a few times to get it all solidly in place.

  At the stall beside him, Kasha seemed to be having difficulty getting his elbow pads on. Carmine stepped in close and took over as Kasha rotated his arm with a grateful noise. This near, Carmine could see lines of stress in Kasha’s face, tightness around his eyes.

  “Hey,” he said quietly, under the noise of the locker room, and Kasha looked up. “You okay, kid?”

  Kasha’s smile was slightly lopsided and he bobbed his head, sharp and jerky, before flicking his eyes up and past Carmine. “I’m not want to disappoint him,” he said in a low tone, and Carmine glanced over his shoulder to where Saint was taping his stick with single-minded focus.

  “You won’t,” Carmine said, just as quietly. “You’re here for a reason, okay? Saint likes you. You’re going to be fine. Hey, is your girlfriend here?”

  Somehow, that was the wrong thing to say. Kasha’s expression clouded but he nodded again. “She’s in box.”

  “Cool, maybe we can meet after the game. We’re gonna have to go out for drinks to celebrate, after all.”

  Kasha’s face eased and he almost smiled. “We gonna do this.”

  “Fuck yeah we are,” Carmine told him. “We’re gonna do this. Let’s go!”

  Carmine lined up for the anthem, barely hearing it as he watched the other team across the ice. There was the captain, looking solemn and focused as he stood at attention. Down the line was the enforcer Saint had mentioned, Henrique. Not mean, but no mercy. Carmine had played him before, and respected the hell out of him. He had no intention of ending up on the wrong side of his fists tonight. And there, that was the D-man—Spencer—Saint disliked so intensely. Carmine didn’t remember anything about him—he was new to the NHL and had been called up in the second half of the season to play for the Racers. There was a mean slant to his mouth Carmine didn’t like the look of.

  When the song’s last notes faded away, the lines broke up and Carmine skated off without looking back. Felix was in his crease, warming up, unrecognizable in all his bulky gear.

  “Watch 23,” Carmine told him as he circled the net and scooped up a puck. He bounced it off the wall and went after it, skated in a wide loop and tried to sink it over Felix’s knee.

  Felix slapped it down easily. “He a problem?”

  Carmine pulled up next to him. “Might be. Don’t know yet.” He took off again, enjoying the firm ice under his blades.

  Saint won the face-off with ease, sending the puck behind him to Carmine, who caught it and raced through the neutral zone toward the offensive zone, three players hassling him the whole way. Almost to the net, Carmine deked sideways and knocked the puck over to Kasha, who wound up and fired. The puck made a loud ding as it bounced off the post and the fans groaned.

  Carmine was too busy going in pursuit to listen to them. The Racers were tough, and they’d clearly been working on speed in the off-season. He could already tell they were going to make the Seabirds work for this.

  First game of the season or not, Carmine was determined not to lose. He cleared knots, took players to the boards, drove hard through opposition, and parked himself in front of the Racers’ goalie time and again, waiting for Saint to get him the puck. In this position, he could watch the way Saint danced around the bigger players, seeming to barely touch the ice.

  Five minutes into the first period, Roddy scored off a backhand from Saint. The goal horn went off, the fans roaring their approval, and Carmine collided with Roddy, who was hugging Saint and Jason as Kasha barreled toward them.

  “Good hustle, boys!” Saint shouted. He was dripping sweat but not even out of breath. “Keep it up, let’s ride this edge!” All the nerves had disappeared, and the captain was clearly in control, confident and strong, the leader everyone looked to. He met Carmine’s eyes over Jason’s shoulder and his smile widened.

  But despite their best efforts, no one else was able to score for the rest of the period, and thirty seconds into the next, a forward for the Racers scored on Felix. Right after that, a winger caught a bouncing puck and slammed it home five-hole and the crowd booed as the Racers celebrated.

  Saint made the rounds after Coach gave them the standard pep talk during the second intermission. He stopped and spoke to Kasha, Jason beside him, for a few minutes, then patted his arm and moved on.

  “Okay?” he said to Carmine in a low tone. His hair was damp and curled with sweat, clinging to his skull, and he looked young but every inch the captain.

  Carmine gave him a wide grin, retaping his stick. “No worries here, Cap. Still got another twenty minutes to turn it around, eh? Focus on the rookies—I’m fine.”

  Saint nodded and went to the next stall.

  Back on the ice, they lined up for puck drop in the neutral zone. Saint lost it this time, the captain of the Racers just barely managing to squirt it between his skates to a waiting defenseman. They charged across the blue line, straight for Felix. Halfway there, Saint took the puck back, sent it to Roddy, and back they went, toward the other goalie. Carmine set up in position, watching eagle-eyed as Saint fought off two forwards, ducking around and past them, to slap the puck across to Kasha.

  Who froze.

  Carmine watched, dismayed, as Kasha looked at the goal, at Saint, down at the puck, and didn’t move. Do something, kid, he mentally screamed, and then it was too late. Spencer hit him from the side, knocking him off his skates and sending him skidding across the ice. Kasha bounced off the boards but he was scrambling back to his feet almost immediately, and then Carmine couldn’t spare time to watch him anymore, because Roddy needed him and Jason. He snapped into action, but whatever had happened to Kasha seemed to have infected the team. Their timing was off, the other lines hesitant and unbalanced.

  Carmine watched Kasha’s profile on the bench as the third line battled it out in front of them. Kasha stared at the ground, mouth downturned in misery, and didn’t look up as the Racers scored again.

  They lost 3-1, and there was silence as they trooped down the tunnel to the dressing room.

  Saint took the brunt of the media, of course, and Carmine kept an eye on him as he got undressed and ready to shower. Saint’s media mask was firmly in place, his eyes steady and calm as he answered questions with carefully chosen soundbites that gave away nothing.

  Carmine heard Kasha’s name and his head snapped up.

  “—Volkov, and his obvious inexperience?” the reporter was saying.

  Saint’s eyes narrowed briefly. “Arkady Volkov is a valued member of this team. We’ve all made our share of mistakes. I’m pleased to play on a line with him.”

  Kasha grabbed his towel and escaped into the bathroom. Carmine swore to himself and followed, where he found Kasha hunched under the spray, every line of his body tight.

  “Hey,” Carmine said gently, under the noise of the spray and other players getting clean.

  Kasha didn’t look at him.

  Carmine sighed. “Come out with me tonight.”

  Kasha shook his head.

  “Come on,” Carmine said. “You need to talk to someone about this.”

  “Nadia,” Kasha said, his voice a rusty creak. “Have to get her home. She not like go alone.”

  “Okay,” Carmine said. “But Kash… we didn’t lose because of you.”

  Kasha spun. His eyes were red. “Yes we did,” he hissed, and stomped away.

  When Carmine went back to the dressing room, the reporters had cleared out and Saint was sitting next to Kasha, talking to him quietly. Carmine moved a few feet away from his stall to give them privacy while he got dressed, watching out of the corner of his eye. Kasha’s elbows were on his knees, head down, a
nd he seemed impossibly young and fragile, ready to shatter.

  After a few minutes, Saint stood and crossed to Carmine. “I’m ordering a car and getting him and his girlfriend back to their place,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll be home late.”

  “I won’t wait up.” Carmine searched Saint’s face. There was disappointment there, but none of the guilt and recrimination he would have expected. “What about you? Are you okay?”

  “I will be,” Saint said. He mustered a small smile. “Truth be told, it’s good to have it out of the way. First game, first loss—it’s done and now we can go from here. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Take care of him,” Carmine said, and Saint nodded.

  Felix took Carmine home. The mood was subdued, and Carmine hated it, hated the misery in Felix’s expression, but they didn’t say much.

  The house was quiet and dark, and Carmine turned on a few lamps so Saint would be able to see when he got home. Then he assembled a sandwich with cold roast beef, ate it over the sink, and finally went to bed.

  9

  He woke to his phone buzzing. Carmine yawned, slapping at it through the usual sleep-fog, but it kept going. Not his alarm, he realized after a minute of fumbling, and managed to answer.

  “H’lo.”

  “What’s your gate code?” Diana asked briskly, and Carmine’s eyes snapped wide open. He sat bolt upright in the bed.

  “Ma? You—are you here?”

  “Well obviously,” Diana said. “Why else would we need your gate code? What is it?”

  “Um, shit. Uh… it’s 1408.” Carmine swung his legs out of bed and stumbled from his bedroom, trying desperately to pull his brain online. “Ma, you’re early. Saint might still be asleep. You’re gonna have to be quiet.”

  “We got an early start,” Diana said. “Don’t worry, we won’t disturb him. Come on out, we brought you presents.”

  Carmine swore to himself and scrambled for the front door. He collided with Saint halfway there, coming out of the kitchen, and swore again, steadying him with a hand on his elbow.

  “Sorry,” he said, “sorry, sorry. I—shit, did they wake you?”

  Saint’s eyes were wide and his breath was coming short and sharp, and Carmine remembered with a nauseating jolt how much he hated strangers in his space.

  “It’s my parents,” Carmine said urgently. His hand was still on Saint’s elbow, but Saint wasn’t pulling away. He seemed frozen in place. “Saint, listen to me, it’s just my moms. Remember they were coming down this weekend?”

  Saint blinked. His mouth worked and he reached out, tangling his fingers in the hem of Carmine’s T-shirt like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. “Just—them?” he managed.

  “Yeah, I mean I assume,” Carmine said. “Look—why don’t you go in your bedroom for a bit? I’ll let them in, show them around the rest of the place, and get the worst of it out of the way. You can come out later and eat breakfast with us, or you can stay in your wing the entire time.”

  “But that’s rude,” Saint objected. He was still holding the hem of Carmine’s shirt, and Carmine didn’t dare move.

  Instead, he blew a gentle raspberry. Saint blinked.

  “They don’t care about rude or polite,” Carmine said. “They’ll understand if you’d rather not meet them at all, okay? In fact, I’ll take them out to breakfast. Get them out of here so you can adjust.”

  “No,” Saint said. He shook his head and let go of Carmine’s shirt. “That’s… not right. I’ll go—in my room for a bit.” He looked up, his eyes soft in the early sun slanting through the window. “Thank you.”

  The doorbell rang and they both jerked.

  “Go,” Carmine told him, and Saint went.

  Saint paced his small living room, listening to the voices. They were too low for him to make out much, and he couldn’t help but wonder what they were saying. Was Carmine telling them what a neurotic mess Saint was, and why he wasn’t there to welcome them?

  He shook his head, immediately dispelling the thought. Carmine wouldn’t do that.

  The voices faded as Carmine took them into the kitchen and Saint felt suddenly, deeply alone. Don’t be stupid, he told himself fiercely. That’s how you like it. But he didn’t want to be alone. He wanted to be with Carmine. All he had to do was deal with strangers in his space.

  But they’re not strangers, not really. You know Lavender, don’t you? And Carmine adores them both. You can do this.

  Saint squared his shoulders, set his jaw, and opened his door.

  The click of nails on wood was his only warning before a gray pitbull rounded the corner and stopped dead at the sight of him.

  “Oh,” Saint breathed. “Oh, you’re beautiful, aren’t you?”

  Steel considered him for a long moment and then came to a decision. He bounded forward and Saint bent, putting out his hands. Steel shoved his cold nose into them, wagging his tail so hard his whole body wriggled, and Saint went to his knees, unable to stop the smile.

  “You’re gonna like it here,” he told him, and Steel flung himself onto his back, begging for belly rubs. Saint laughed quietly and obliged.

  They were still like that when footsteps sounded. Saint looked up at the woman in the doorway and immediately scrambled to his feet.

  “Uh, sorry,” he said, knowing he sounded inane.

  “It’s your house,” she said, and Saint knew that voice. She’d talked him through a panic attack just a few days before.

  “Lavender,” he said, and Lavender tilted her head and smiled brilliantly. She was a small white woman in her early fifties, comfortably curved, with pure white hair tucked up in a neat bun. Bright blue eyes twinkled at him.

  “Can I hug you?” she asked, and Saint blinked hard several times.

  “I—yeah. Please.” He stepped forward as she held out her arms. Steel danced around them, shoving his nose against Saint’s leg in a blatant plea for pets, but Saint ignored him. Lavender smelled warm and sweet, like flowers and freshly turned dirt and just-baked bread, and she held on like hugging Saint was the only thing she ever wanted to do.

  When he finally eased back, Saint’s eyes were stinging. “Um. Hi,” he said, and Lavender reached up and cupped his face, smiling.

  “Hi,” she said. “It’s so good to finally meet you! I see you’ve met Steel, too. Don’t believe him when he tells you he’s terribly neglected.”

  Saint laughed quietly and bent to pet Steel, who wriggled all over with transcendent joy at the attention.

  “Would you like to come meet Diana?” Lavender asked, and somehow Saint found himself following her into the kitchen.

  Carmine was at the stove, his eyebrows going up when Saint came in and a smile tugging at his mouth.

  “Ma,” he said, not looking away from Saint, “this is my captain, Saint Levesque. Saint, my other mother, Diana.”

  Diana rose from the table. She was at least fifteen years older than Lavender, Saint realized as he shook her hand. Smile lines fanned out around eyes so dark they were almost black, crinkling soft brown skin like fine crepe paper. Her hair was a riotous black cloud streaked with gray, and when she smiled, Saint returned it instinctively.

  “I’ve been hearing a lot about you from both my son and my wife,” Diana said. “Thank you for letting us crash your place like this.”

  Saint ducked his head. “It’s Carmine’s place too, at least for now, and you’re welcome anytime.”

  Steel bounced back into the room and Carmine’s eyes lit up.

  “There he is! How do you like the place, huh buddy?”

  Steel wriggled happily and Carmine laughed, bending to pet him.

  “Oh, Saint,” he said when he straightened. “Coffee maker is busted, I think.”

  “Yeah,” Saint agreed. “It spat black goo at me when I tried to start it earlier. That’s what I was doing when—” He waved a hand vaguely.

  “Let me see it,” Lavender said.

  Carmine pointed and she unplugged it and ca
rried it to the table.

  “I know how you need your coffee,” she said, fingers busy dismantling the coffee maker, “so why don’t you take your car and go get some for everyone while I work on this?”

  Carmine lit up. “My car! Saint, you have to see my car, come on, come see.” He nearly dragged Saint down the hall to the door.

  Saint whistled at the gleaming, low slung, jewel blue car parked just outside.

  “Fancy.”

  Carmine feigned outrage. “Fancy? My pride and joy, light of my life—don’t tell Steel—and that’s all you’ve got?”

  “Very fancy?” Saint tried, and laughed out loud at the look on Carmine’s face. “Sorry, man, I don’t know jack about cars.”

  Carmine smoothed a hand over the spotless hood. “1971 Hemi Cuda with the cloth top. This baby’s older than us, and I found her in a barn outside Boston eight years ago. Fixed her up myself in my spare time. Get in, I need caffeine.”

  Saint obeyed, buckling as Carmine inspected the interior.

  The engine started sweetly, settling into a steady purr that vibrated through Saint’s bones.

  Carmine rolled down the driveway and through the gate onto the street. He was a careful, steady driver, hands loose and calm on the wheel. He slanted a look at Saint. “You okay?”

  “I—yeah,” Saint said, faintly surprised to realize it was true. “It caught me off guard but I like your moms. Anyway, I need to get better about stuff like that.”

  “It would make things easier for you,” Carmine agreed, taking a turn smoothly. “But it’s what you’re comfortable with, you know? Anyway, enough about that—how’s Kasha?”

  Saint grimaced. “Not great. He’s blaming himself pretty hardcore for last night.”

  Carmine nodded. “I hope you told him it was a team effort.”