by Amy Aislin
Emo? “It’s—”
“Don’t tell me it’s nothing.”
In that case, Roman had nothing to say, so he kept his mouth shut.
“Do you know why I wanted you on my team?” Coach said when the silence dragged.
Roman thought back to what the GM had told him a few weeks ago and ticked them off on his fingers. “You needed a fast forward, you needed someone young enough to get along with his teammates, and you needed someone with NHL experience.”
“Uh-huh.” Coach wasn’t impressed. “But do you know why I wanted you specifically?”
“No?”
“Let me show you.” Coach typed something into his computer, then turned the screen to face Roman. On it was a photo of Roman at one of the events he’d participated in when he played for Tampa, captured no doubt by one of the dozen journalists who’d been there to document it. He was on the ice, in skates, jeans, and a jersey, and was surrounded by a group of eight- to ten-year-olds dressed in full hockey uniforms, helmets, gloves, and sticks included. Roman had never seen this image and didn’t remember that particular day—his old team did a lot of events with kids—but the photo made him . . . Well, nostalgic for what he’d left behind for one thing. And for another, if that guy in the photo who was laughing with the kids was anyone but himself, he might think that guy was friendly and relatable.
“I remember looking at this picture,” Coach said, “and thinking ‘This guy has the potential to be a great leader.’ And I still think that even though you’ve done your best to convince me otherwise. Your coaches in Tampa thought so too.”
Coach got all that from a photo? Wait— “You spoke with my old coaches?”
“I’m sure you’ve noticed we don’t have a team captain,” Coach said, ignoring Roman entirely. “Why do you think that is?”
“I never really thought about it.”
“It’s because I don’t want my team captain to be the fastest skater or the one with the most NHL experience or the most obnoxious of the bunch or the nicest or the one who always questions my plays or who has the most seniority. I want it to be the guy everyone respects, and not just because he’s a good player.”
“Okay?” Man, he was more confused than ever.
Coach huffed. “Kinsey, you do realize that your teammates like you even though you’re an asshole, don’t you?”
“What does that have to do with—” anything, he meant to ask, except he was finally reading between the lines. He squared his shoulders. “You want me to be team captain?”
“No.”
He slumped in his seat, unexpectedly disappointed. But he didn’t want to be captain, did he?
“At least not yet.”
“Coach, you’re talking in circles.” Roman rubbed his hands over his upper arms; now that the sweat had dried, his skin had goose-pimpled and the cold, in turn, was making his headache worse.
“Look, can I give you a piece of advice?” Coach said. “Why do you think your teammates want to be your friend so bad?”
God, what was it with the twenty questions?
“It’s because they’re not stupid, Kinsey. They can tell that underneath that emo exterior is a guy they want to get to know. You were showing them that guy for a while before you went back to your emo-ness.”
“I don’t think you know what that word means,” Roman mumbled.
“I don’t think you know what it means,” Coach countered with equal amounts of attitude. “Here’s the deal. I want you to be my team captain. But not this guy.” He waved a hand at Roman, the real-life one. “This guy.” He tapped the Roman on the computer screen. “The guy I saw out there helping Cotton with drills. The one who cooks for his teammates without asking anything in return. The guy who knows how to lead if he’ll just let himself. The guy who’s dying to play on the same line as Ritz. Yeah, I know about that, Kinsey,” he added when Roman’s mouth dropped open. “You think I don’t see you perk up when I announce new lines and then deflate when you don’t get what you want? I’m not stupid either.”
“I never thought you were, sir.” This was definitely a sir kind of moment.
“Here’s my advice.” Coach snagged Roman’s eyes, and Roman, despite being stuck on I want you to be my team captain, couldn’t look away. “Pull up your big boy pants, fix whatever’s wrong between you and Kowalski—don’t try to deny it,” he said when Roman opened his mouth to do exactly that, “I have eyes—kiss and make up with the rest of your team, and then show us all who you really are. Because trust me when I tell you that we all want to know that guy.”
Roman sat, a little stunned at his coach’s words and that he’d said them at all. His old coach would’ve told him to get his head out of his ass and go see the team therapist.
“Now go shower.” Coach turned his computer screen back around. “I can smell you from here.”
There was a lot to unpack in what Coach Donovan had said, and Roman didn’t know where to start as he headed to the showers in the empty locker room, swapped his little sweat towel for a larger one, undressed, and let the hot water soothe his tense shoulders and thumping head. I want you to be my team captain was a pretty big statement, but the one he kept circling back to was Pull up your big boy pants. It implied that he’d been acting like a child.
He didn’t want to come off like a child having a temper tantrum. He just wanted to be left alone. Except . . . it had been kind of nice when he’d been getting along with his teammates.
What was it that he’d told Cody that day they’d driven to New Hampshire for Mitch’s game? When Cody had asked what he’d do when faced with the chance to see someone who’d hurt him? I’d ask them why, he’d said, and he’d been talking about Kas, not his parents. Not that he wouldn’t ask the same question of his parents, but it was at the bottom of the list right after How could you? and Did you ever think of me after?
I’d ask them why, he’d told Cody, and then proceeded to do the exact opposite—avoid Kas as if he was the harbinger of death himself because, as he was discovering, he was the kind of person who would rather avoid conflict than have a discussion. He needed to take a page out of Cody’s book and face his demons—such as they were—head-on.
Pull up your big boy pants.
Roman mentally did so and rapped on Kas’s apartment door. No answer. A minute went by. Still no answer.
Great. Roman was finally ready to have it out with Kas and the jerk wasn’t even home.
Clicking his tongue ring against his teeth, he knocked again, harder, in case Kas was taking a dump or listening to something with his earbuds in. The sensation of his knuckles hitting wood traveled up his arm and into his head, making the pain pulse like a living thing trying to kill him from the inside out. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. Placing his palms at his temples, he squeezed his head between his hands to alleviate some of the pressure.
The door swung open. “Roman? Hey, are you okay?”
Roman dropped his arms and stared at a naked Kasper Kowalski. Half-naked. He had a fluffy grayish-blue towel wrapped around his hips. Water dripped from hair the color of rain-soaked mud and clung to the tops of shoulders Roman didn’t remember being that wide. He looked like one of those too-pretty, flawless-skinned soap opera stars who were so beautiful you wanted to mess them up a little, with a bad haircut or maybe a Sharpie.
“Sorry,” Roman said. “I can come back later.”
“Oh no you’re not.”
A hand encircled his wrist and yanked him inside, the door falling shut behind him with a loud kerchunk. Roman winced and regretted not sleeping off his headache before coming over.
“All week I’ve been trying to get your attention,” Kas said. “Don’t think I’m letting you get away now.”
“Huh?”
Kas pulled him deeper into an apartment that was an exact replica of his own, except where his was white cabinets and pale painted walls and brightness, Kas’s was dark wood and wine-colored walls and chrome appliances. In the ki
tchen, Kas let him go to open a cabinet.
“Here.” He placed a bottle of pain killers on the countertop. “You look like you need the entire bottle.”
Roman waved a hand. “I took some a few minutes ago.” Had stopped by his own apartment first to do exactly that.
“Ice pack then.” Into the freezer Kas went as if it was already a done deal.
“I don’t need—”
“Here.” Kas wrapped an ice pack with a towel and moved to place it against Roman’s forehead.
“Stop that.” Roman batted him away. “I didn’t come here so you could take care of my headache.”
“Then why did you come here?” Kas set the towel-wrapped ice pack on the counter, within Roman’s reach.
“I wanna know when you’re going to tell them.”
“Tell who what?”
“The team. About me.”
“What about you?”
“That I’m gay, asshole.”
Kas jerked back, grimacing. “I’d never do that.”
“Really? Because you did it once before.”
“What? I . . .” Understanding chased confusion from his face and his expression cleared, slackened. “Oh, Roman. Is that what you think?”
“It’s what I know. Are you telling me otherwise?”
“Yes,” Kas said on a sigh. “And no.”
Roman crossed his arms. “Explain.”
“Can I get dressed first?”
He shrugged, jaw tight against Kas’s presence, against his headache, against Kas trying to take care of him after he’d failed to do so when Roman had needed him the most. He roamed Kas’s place while Kas went into the bedroom to change; their apartments really were night and day, all the way down to the personal effects.
Where Roman had settled into his new—temporary—place in the few weeks he’d been here, with a full fridge, his own kitchen gadgets, books strewn about, and enough dirty laundry lying around that it would embarrass his mother were she still speaking to him, Kas’s apartment looked like a staging area. The only nod to his presence was a laptop on the coffee table, a binder next to it Roman recognized as the same one he’d received upon joining the team—a player’s handbook, if you will—and a cell phone charging on an end table.
“It’s like you don’t even live here,” he said when Kas re-entered the room in black sweatpants and a white T-shirt.
“I hate this place. Seriously, what is this color?” Kas tapped a knuckle on the wall. “It’s like someone bathed in blood and then rolled around on the walls.”
Roman refused to loose the laugh tickling the back of his throat.
“Don’t you hate your place?” Kas asked.
“Mine doesn’t look like this.”
Kas grunted. “Lucky.” He wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “Want a beer?”
That fast, Roman remembered why he was there. “No. I want an explanation.”
The fridge door fell closed on Kas’s sigh. He came into the living room, where Roman hovered near the window, and sat on a leather couch that matched the walls. “What do you want to know?”
“When you’re going to tell the team.”
“I already told you I’m not.”
Roman scoffed. “Sure.”
“If I was going to say anything, don’t you think I would’ve done so already? And I didn’t tell the team last time either.”
“Please.” Roman paced the width of the room, from the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room, to the far window and back.
“Roman.” Kas’s firm tone had Roman stopping to look at him. “I didn’t tell them. I only told the guys.”
The guys. The other three in their tight-knit group of so-called friends. The ones in the picture in Roman’s wallet.
“One of them must’ve said something to the rest of the team.”
“Why would you tell even them? It wasn’t yours to share.”
Kas rubbed his forehead. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Oh, you weren’t thinking.” Roman threw his arms up. “I was outed to a whole bunch of people I wasn’t ready to be out to because you weren’t thinking.”
“I’m sorry, man. I made a mistake.”
“Congratulations for being able to admit it.”
“Fuck you, Roman.” Kas stood, muscles coiled. “What else do you want me to say?”
“I want to know why.” There. He’d done it.
“Because I wanted you to—” Kas broke off and looked away.
Roman waited, but Kas just hung his head, hands on his hips. “You wanted me to what?”
“Jesus, you’re so blind.”
“To what?”
“Me!”
“Trust me, I see you plenty clearly,” Roman said through gritted teeth.
“No, you don’t. Jesus.” Kas glared up at the ceiling, where he clearly didn’t find any answers because the next time he turned his gaze on Roman, his eyes flashed and his voice came out as a growl. “How do you not know that I had a crush on you since the day we met?”
“You . . . What?”
“Since. The day. We met, Roman. And I wasn’t subtle about it, especially when we were alone together. And then you go off and kiss another guy and I was so hurt, I just . . .” His shoulders sagged; his eyes closed. “I wanted you to hurt like you hurt me. So when you came by that night, I sent you away because I didn’t want to see you. I didn’t out you to the team, I swear. I told guys I thought I could trust because I needed someone to talk to.” He held up a hand. “Which I understand isn’t any better, trust me. Especially since one of them blabbed. I never found out who, though.”
Roman stared at him for a second, incredulous, jaw on the floor, before his chest constricted so tightly he couldn’t draw breath. His fists bunched. “So it was okay to out me but not yourself?”
“I was an asshole, okay?” Kas was halfway to yelling, arms spread wide. “I was a stupid seventeen-year-old who was hurt and angry and I couldn’t see past my stupid hormones! Happy now?”
“Happy?” Roman almost laughed at the absurdity. “My host family kicked me out and then you sent me away. How does any of that make me happy?”
“What are you talking about? You lived with the Giffords until the end of that season.”
“No, I did not.”
“But . . . every time I went over, they said you weren’t there,” Kas said with dawning realization. “I thought you were just avoiding me but . . . You really weren’t there?”
Kas had tried to see him after everything went down?
Kas had had a crush on him? Roman hadn’t even known he was into men until thirty seconds ago.
“Roman, where did you go?”
Squeezing the bridge of his nose, wishing for that ice pack not five feet away, Roman expelled a long breath. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does. Were you with Coach Moore?”
“Coach?” Roman did laugh at that, although he was anything but amused. “Coach was the one who called the Giffords to tell them what happened. There was no way I was going to him about anything after that.”
“But what about the other coaches?” Kas asked. At some point, he’d moved and now stood only two feet away.
Roman stepped back and hit the wall between the windows, the tops of his fingers digging into his temples. “Didn’t trust them after what Coach did.”
“Here.” Kas gripped Roman’s shoulder. “Sit down.”
Roman shrugged him off. “Don’t touch me.”
“Oh, for the love of . . . Will you stop being so stubborn and sit?” Steering Roman by the upper arms, Kas plopped him into the armchair. “Take this.” He held out the ice pack, still wrapped in the towel.
Roman squirmed for a second, then took the bundle and held it to his forehead. “Thank you.”
“Uh-huh.” Kas closed the blinds, blocking out the early afternoon sun, then disappeared into his bedroom. He was back less than a minute later with a bandana that he held out t
o Roman.
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
Wordlessly, Kas placed the front of the bandana against the ice pack on Roman’s forehead, wove it behind his ears, and tied it at the back of his head, freeing Roman’s hands.
“Oh. That’s . . . handy.”
“My mom used to get migraines when I was a kid,” Kas said, moving away to sit on the couch. “Still does. She rigs something like this up when they’re particularly bad.”
“Do I look like something out of a horror movie?”
Head cocked, Kas regarded him. “Maybe an alien movie.”
Roman snorted a laugh.
They sat in silence that was unexpectedly not awkward or strained. It was just . . . calm. Quiet. The ice did its thing, numbing the pain as he thought about everything he’d learned today. And it was a lot. If he didn’t already have a headache, he’d certainly have one now from information overload.
Eventually, Kas nudged his leg with his foot. Where Roman was content to sit and let the headache burn itself out—even in what he’d once considered the enemy’s lair—it seemed that Kas was done with the non-action.
“Come on. Tell me where you went after the Giffords kicked you out.”
I lived out of my car, sneaking into our arena at night to sleep until the end of the season, after which I drove south for warmer weather and the first ECHL tryout I could find. Happy, asshole?
“It doesn’t matter.” Roman narrowed his eyes on his former best friend. “And it’s none of your business anyway.”
Kas didn’t like that answer. He sat back, feet on the coffee table, arms crossed. “I really am sorry, man. I get that in a roundabout way I outed you to the team, but that wasn’t my intention. And I realized after that I should’ve just talked to you about how I felt, but by then you weren’t speaking to me and I couldn’t find you at the Giffords.” He held up a hand when Roman opened his mouth. “Because they kicked you out. I know. I spent the entire rest of that season trying to get your attention. Tried talking to you whenever our teams played each other the last few years too.”