by Amy Aislin
The cherry on top was the crowd—scratch that—the horde of fans waiting outside the doors of Nashville’s practice facility on Saturday morning, decked out in Trailblazers jerseys, sweatshirts, ball caps, T-shirts, and socks.
“Whoa,” whispered Honeybun as the bus pulled into the parking lot. He leaned over the back of Roman’s seat and peered out the window, so close to Roman that he could smell one of Honeybun’s products on him.
Across the aisle, Vause stood and removed his earbuds. “Are they here for us?”
“They’re wearing our colors,” Ritz pointed out.
“Dude,” Vause said reverently, slapping Roman in the arm with the back of his hand like an excitable child. “We have fans.”
Roman shoved his hand away. “We knew that already.”
“We have fans outside of our own city!” Bounding down the aisle, Vause waited for the bus to make its way across the parking lot.
From his vantage point, Roman saw Coach Donovan give Vause the stink eye. “Sit, Vause.”
“But, Coach—”
“Sit.”
Grumbling, Vause did so, right there on the top step next to the driver. Once the bus was parked, he was the first one off the bus.
“Someone’s excited,” Roman muttered to no one in particular and caught Honeybun’s feverish grin as he stood. “Not you too.”
“Come on.” Honeybun turned Roman around and marched him off the bus, out into the pre-sunrise dark and spring-like weather. “Don’t tell me you’re not excited.”
Roman fought a smile. Yeah. It was pretty cool. Signing autographs and taking selfies with Trailblazers fans who lived in Tennessee and ones who, Roman learned, had traveled here from elsewhere—including one couple from Oregon—was so far the highlight of his Vermont hockey career.
Practice itself was about as interesting as practices got. Which was to say that Coach Donovan rode them hard and his teammates talked shit to each other and about each other because they were all gossipy schoolkids deep down inside. Then Coach switched up the lines, putting Roman on the same line as Ritz and Honeybun.
To his eternal frustration, Ritz was still hesitating before he passed right.
In the locker room an hour later, stripped to his base layers, sweat cooling on his skin, he checked his phone and found a text from Cody, timestamped 6:00 a.m. About the time Roman had hit the ice.
Flight’s about to take off. Can you believe it takes almost 11 HOURS and 2 LAYOVERS to get to Texas from Burlington? Wish me luck! I’ll text you when I land.
The message niggled at Roman. It was too . . . bland. A week ago, Cody would’ve described in full detail the person he was sitting next to on the plane, down to whether that person had nose hairs, listed his snacks, made some remark about having to pay for in-flight Wi-Fi, and probably sent Roman a photo of whatever books he’d brought for the flight. Now he got Wish me luck and I’ll text you when I land.
But could he do anything about it right now? With him in Nashville and Cody in the air over wherever?
Nope.
And it was eating him alive.
He didn’t know what to text back to Cody, so he put his phone away with a sigh. But that felt wrong on so many levels, making his insides swirl uncomfortably, Cody’s simple ask for Roman not to ignore him writing itself across his eyelids. Pulling his phone back out, he sent him a series of the little heart emoji, just so Cody would know he was thinking about him.
“Boy troubles?” Ritz murmured next to him.
Roman narrowed his eyes on him and swiftly changed the subject. “Speaking of troubles, I’ve been meaning to ask—why do you hesitate when you shoot right?”
In his own base layers, Ritz paused in the process of pulling a towel out of his bag to stare at him. “Huh? I do?”
“Yeah. It’s slight, sometimes barely a second, but it’s there.”
“That makes sense,” came Honeybun’s voice.
Roman leaned to the side and spotted his leaner frame around Ritz’s huge bulk. “How so?”
“Did you know that Ritz and I have been playing together since we were kids?”
“I . . .” Startled, Roman frowned at him. “No.”
“Yeah.” Stripped down to his briefs, sweat dripping down the small of his back, Honeybun squatted to root through his bag. “Elementary school, high school, even in the major juniors. I played right winger to his center. But then we got separated, drafted into separate NHL teams, and I ended up playing left winger for reasons I won’t bother getting into.” He straightened, power bar in hand.
“And now you’re playing together again,” Roman mused, “but on Ritz’s other side.”
Ritz was looking back and forth between the two of them. “You’re saying I’m used to having him on my right, but now he’s on my left, and my head doesn’t know what it’s doing?”
Roman shrugged. “Maybe. It’s as good a theory as any. You want to shoot right because you expect Honeybun to be there, but he’s on your left, so you shoot there instead, but since you’re a left-handed shooter, it goes against instinct.”
“Okay.” Ritz ran a hand through his sweaty hair, sending it straight up. “What do you recommend?”
“You need to get out of your own head,” Honeybun said around a mouthful of granola.
Roman nodded. “Exactly.” He clapped Ritz on the back. “Don’t go anywhere. You either,” he added to Honeybun. “In fact, suit up.”
He ignored their confused sputters and, on socked feet, headed out of the locker room, making a left, and then another left into the arena, which was where he suspected he’d find his coaches. They sat midway up the bleachers on his right, conversing over something on an iPad. They didn’t notice him until he stepped on a wet patch and swore as his foot came away wet and cold.
“Kinsey,” called Coach Donovan. “Need something?”
Roman jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “How long have we got the rink for?”
Coach consulted his watch. “Another hour. Why?”
“Ritz, Honeybun, and me are gonna get some extra practice in.”
An eyebrow went up. “Okay.”
Back in the locker room, he found Ritz and Honeybun lacing their skates, a recently showered Cotton, towel slung around his waist, hovering behind them. “What are you guys doing?”
“I’m taking them back out,” Roman said, fitting his gross, sweaty, and seriously ripe practice jersey over his head. “Gonna keep at it until Ritz can shoot without thinking about it.”
“But what if my right winger is blocked,” Ritz said, “and I need to shoot left?”
“Then shoot left.”
Ritz was unimpressed.
“You need someone to play defense, then,” Cotton said. “So he knows which way to shoot the puck. I’ll do it!”
They stared at him as he returned to his locker, unashamedly shucked his towel, stepped into briefs, and started pulling on his sweat-soaked base layers.
“Um, no offense, Cotton,” Ritz said gently. “But you? Defense? I could step on you.”
Cotton just grinned. “You’ll see.”
To their surprise, Cotton proved to be adept at playing defense. His tactic seemed to be to get underfoot as much as possible, forcing Ritz to react without thinking, shooting right to Roman or left to Honeybun. An hour of this wouldn’t fix everything. Probably wouldn’t make a difference in tonight’s game. But with enough practice, Ritz would eventually stop thinking so much and trust his instincts on the ice.
Fifteen minutes before their hour was up, Ritz called a halt, making the universal sign for time-out with his gloved hands, hockey stick tucked into the crook of his elbow. “Jesus, Cotton,” he said, breathing hard. Hell, they were all breathing hard. “Where’d you learn to get in the way like that?”
Cotton’s grin was wide as he led the way off the ice and back to the locker room. “I’m the youngest of five boys. It was my job to get underfoot.”
“Here I thought you were an innocent little good
y-two-shoes,” Honeybun said.
“Hey, Coach,” Ritz said when they entered the locker room.
“Gentlemen.” Coach Donovan sat on a bench on the far side of the room, one ankle over the other knee, clipboard in hand. He looked perfectly at ease as he sent a small nod Roman’s way.
Roman could’ve fooled himself into believing that he didn’t need the silent praise, but the acknowledgment that he’d done something right made his chest swell. He hadn’t done it for Coach, or for himself, or because he wanted to be team captain—he’d done it for the team, and Coach clearly knew that.
Operation: Team Spirit was finally a go.
“The guys were ready to go half an hour ago,” Coach said, standing, “so I sent them on the bus back to the hotel. It should be back in a few minutes to pick you up.”
“Thanks, Coach. And hey.” Ritz poked Roman in the shoulder with his hockey stick. “Thanks, man. Really. You too, Cotton.”
“Happy to help!”
Roman gestured at Cotton. “What he said. Plus it physically hurts me to see you hesitate to shoot the puck.”
“Fuck you,” Ritz said with a laugh.
Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed, they trekked out of the building to bright sunshine and found the bus waiting for them. Ritz and Honeybun sat together, Cotton in front of them, and Roman across the aisle from him. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he opened his text messaging app.
There were two texts from Cody. Landed in Charlotte. Got less than an hour layover before my flight to Dallas. Gonna pee, replenish my snack inventory, and then find my gate.
Then: About to take off. See you in Dallas.
Roman checked the time on the second text. Only ten minutes ago. Damn it. He’d missed him. Not wanting Cody to think he was being ignored, Roman sent him a message back and then put his phone away to catch a quick nap on the way to the hotel.
Love you. Fly safe.
Cody was never flying to Texas from Vermont ever again.
Eleven hours. He was done with his day by noon, but at noon he still had almost four hours of his trip to go.
Contrary to what his mom had said last month, they weren’t able to get flights together. His mom went from New York to Houston to Corpus Christi, whereas Cody went from Burlington to Charlotte to Dallas and then to fucking Corpus Christi. He’d popped his ears so many times that his jaw hurt from fake yawning. And good news! Tomorrow he got to do the same thing but in reverse.
Oh, joy.
In his almost twenty-two years of life, his dad had only managed to make it home for Christmas once, when Cody was three. He didn’t remember it. And he’d just flown eleven hours across the country to spend a piddly fourteen hours in another state to attend a retirement ceremony that lasted all of five minutes—okay, maybe longer, he had no idea.
God. He hated himself when he turned into a stereotypical child with daddy issues.
By some miracle, his and his mom’s flights were scheduled to arrive in Corpus Christi within ten minutes of each other. His mom found him in baggage claim, and before he could so much as say hi, her arms were wrapped around him.
She squeezed him tight and rocked him side to side. “Oh, my baby. I missed you.”
“Missed you too, Mom.”
She smelled familiar. Not like anything specific, like flowers or citrus. Like Mom. She smiled like Mom and home and summer days at the beach and evenings reading in the living room and quiet talks on their patio. Like strength and bad jokes and good humor.
Cody closed his eyes and held on just as tight.
With a kiss to his cheek, she stepped back to look at him, big smile dipping when she got a look at his face. Her head tilted. “Were your flights okay?”
“Yeah.” He forced his lips upward. “It’s just been a long day. I’m beat.”
Tag a couple of sleepless nights onto an early morning and three different flights just to get here and he was done.
His mom rubbed his arm. “Let’s find our bags and head to your dad’s. We should have enough time to shower and change before we need to leave for the ceremony.”
It was odd to see people in shorts and T-shirts and sandals. It’d been a frigid morning in Burlington and airports were always cold; Cody hadn’t removed his coat since putting it on eleven hours ago, but he did so when he stepped out into the Texas heat, the warm air so thick he could taste it.
From what he could see on the drive from the airport, Corpus Christi appeared to be a nice city. Any other time he would’ve liked to stay longer and explore, make the eleven-hour and seven-hundred-dollar flight worth it, but as it was, he had classes and a fundraiser to attend on Monday.
And he wasn’t missing that fundraiser for anything.
Before his mom could start in on the catching-up-with-my-son talk, he sent Roman a text to let him know he’d landed as his mom gave instructions to their cab driver, smiling a little at Roman’s last text: Love you.
“So.” His mom beamed and squeezed his arm, huge sunglasses covering half her face. She hadn’t changed since Cody had last seen her at Christmas—skin a natural bronze, dark brown hair streaked with gray curling down to her shoulders, lines bracketing her eyes and mouth. “Tell me what’s going on. How’s it going with your save-the-library campaign?”
They chatted on the way to his dad’s, about the library, about school, about his mom’s work as the manager of a spa resort on Long Island. It wasn’t until he took a second too long to laugh at one of her bad jokes that she took his hand into hers.
“Honey. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Slumping in his seat, he blew out a breath. “I got into grad school.”
“The one in Boston?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Why does that make you sad?”
“I met someone,” he whispered.
His mom’s smile was small, but it was light and wonderful. “And they’re a game changer.”
“God, yes,” Cody said with a choked laugh. “So much yes.”
She kissed the back of his hand. “I’m so happy for you.”
The anvil was back on his chest. “Thanks, but . . .”
“But grad school is in Boston. Your person is in Glen Hill?”
“He’s in Burlington.”
“Hmm.” She scratched her chin. “But it’s only a three- or four-hour drive from Boston to Burlington, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but he’s . . .” Eyeing the cab driver, who may or may not be eavesdropping, Cody lowered his voice. “He’s an NHL player. He plays for Burlington’s new team, but he won’t always be there during the season.”
“He’s a—” She whispered NHL player? Then she laughed, the music of it filling the car. “Oh my god. Why doesn’t that surprise me? That’s so perfect. What is it you’re worrying about then?”
“I don’t want a long-distance relationship.” Ugh. He sounded like a child. I don’t want crust on my sandwich! Fuck.
“Uh-huh,” she said with the keen eye of a mother knowing when her child was bullshitting her. Cody avoided her gaze, picked at the pilling in his ancient T-shirt. “Is it possible this has less to do with a long-distance relationship and more with being left behind?”
Ice spread through his veins. His heart lodged somewhere between his chest and his throat, he picked ferociously at his T-shirt.
His mom’s hand landed on his, stilling his movements. “Sometimes I wonder if your dad and I made the right choice when we decided to give you a steady home life instead of living with him.”
He blinked at her. “What?”
“Truth is,” she went on without seeming to have heard him, “either way, we probably would’ve messed you up. Parents always mess up their kids.”
“I’m not messed up,” he said with a scowl.
“Honey.” She squeezed his hand. “We’re all messed up to some degree. And living apart from your dad, knowing you couldn’t rely on him as much as he and I would’ve liked, not being part of each other’s lives . . . I�
�m sure it sometimes made you feel like he didn’t want you.”
“I . . .” The ice spread outwards, freezing his limbs.
“It’s probably what made you cling so hard to Mitch.”
Cling? Was that what he was doing? Clinging to Mitch? And was he doing the same thing to Roman, latching on to them both for fear they’d leave him?
He wanted to joke that he was the psychology major, but in the face of his mom’s words, they wouldn’t come. He’d thought he could divert her with the long-distance excuse, but she knew him as well as Mitch did. There was no getting around her all-seeing mom intuition.
Move to Boston with Mitch.
Stay in Vermont with Roman.
Either way, he was leaving someone behind.
“At the end of the day,” his mom said while Cody held his breath, the lump in his throat growing bigger and bigger as he tried not to cry, the pain of an unmade future decision already breaking him, “you have to trust that you mean too much to your guys for them to leave you over a little bit of distance. Like your dad and I had to trust each other.” She kissed the back of his hand again, then let it go with a pat as the cab turned into a quiet neighborhood. “Whatever you decide to do about grad school, make sure it’s the best decision for yourself and your guy. Talk to him. Take the time to think about it. And if you do decide to go, and if this guy is as important as you say he is, then I know you can make it work. It won’t be easy, but I promise it’s worth it. And if you don’t decide to go, there are other grad schools.”
Cody blew out a breath and looked out the window at the pretty bungalows with well-tended gardens. They must’ve been close to their destination. His mom picked up her purse from between her feet and removed her wallet.
Cody ignored his jangling nerves and said, “If I don’t go to Boston, Mitch will be there all alone.”
Her snorted laugh turned into the kind of full belly guffaw that included tears and the clutching of one’s stomach. “Oh, honey,” she said through her laughter. “Mitch wouldn’t be alone even if he was on a deserted island.”
“That makes no sense,” he muttered as the cab driver pulled up to the curb in front of a neat little bungalow with off-white siding, a red roof, white front door, and blue trim. Two large trees Cody would’ve loved to climb as a kid dominated the yard, and a small garden along the front of the house was made up of low-maintenance bushes.