Page 66 of Dice & Dekes

Maybe I haven’t lost her yet.

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“Boys,” Lenyx announces from his chair inside the Puck Drop, “we are crushing it this season.”

Tristan socks him in the shoulder. “Boys? Excuse you, I’m older than you are.”

“We’re all older than you,” Knight amends.

“Not me,” Camden says.

“Fine.” Knight rolls his eyes. “Everyone but Camden is older than you, so simmer down.”

Coach Grady, sitting next to my older sister, lifts his beer. “Pretty sure I’m the one who’s supposed to be giving the pep talk, boys.” When a few of the guys grumble, Vivian gives them all the stink-eye. Since she babysat a lot of us growing up, most of the team harbors a lingering fear that, if we get out of line, she’ll tell our parents on us and we’ll all get grounded.

“Speech!” Knight calls.

“Speech!” I agree.

“Speech!”

“Speech!”

“Speech!”

At my elbow, Knova joins in with the rest of the team as we egg Coach on. She’s barely said a word all night, but she came over to sit beside me, and that feels like a small miracle. I don’t push my luck by asking questions—I’m too busy savoring the proximity, like a starving man licking crumbs off a plate.

She’s been careful not to touch me, and I’ve done the same. I’ve made my position clear, even if I haven’t divulged the details. Knowing Knova, if I try too hard to hold on, she’ll just pull away.

Coach gets to his feet, and the team applauds. More than a few of the guys whistle and stomp their feet. We’re all riding the high of another win.

“Lenyx is right. We’re having a greatstartto the season,” Coach announces. One hand settles on Vivian’s shoulder, and my sister beams. Is it wrong that I’m jealous of how easy things seem for them? Under the table, I inch my hand toward Knova’s knee.

Coach lifts his beer glass. “If we keep this up, we have a real shot at making it farther in the playoffs than last season. I’m not holding my breath on winning the Cup this year—”

“Boo!” Lenyx bellows, and the rest of us laugh.

“Pipe down, rookie,” Coach shoots back. “You’re all feeling good about your performances, but I’m watching the other teams. You’re good, but you’re not great yet.”

“This is a crappy pep talk,” Camden stage-whispers.

Coach doesn’t crack a smile. “I disagree. I see how many of you are still trying to prove yourselves as individuals. You’re showing off.” He glances pointedly at Lenyx. “But if we’re ever going to win the Stanley Cup—and I believe we will—we’re going to need to get better at working together. Playing as a team. Be honest, now. I want you to raise your hand if you’ve never looked at another player o looked at another player in this team and thought this team and thought of him as your competition.”

We all look around. Everybody’s hands stay definitively un-raised.

“I figured,” Coach says. “And I want you to work on that. Instead of thinking about how you can outshine another player, I want you to get in the habit of thinking about how you can fill in their gaps. Compensate for their weak points, and vice versa. That’s what will take this team from good to great.” He drops back into his chair, leaving us all in stunned silence.

That was… genuinely good advice. And maybe not just when it comes to hockey. Maybe I’ve spent too long trying to prove I’m good enough for her, when what she really needs is someone who’ll cover her blind spots just like I trust her to cover mine. I look sidelong at Knova, only to discover she’s watching me in turn. Her hand finds mine. No fanfare. Just a quiet, deliberate pinky-link like we’re twelve again, promising each other forever. It knocks the breath clean out of my lungs.

It might be the most romantic thing she’s ever done. I mean, yes, we’ve slept together, but this is different. This is the kind of thing I wanted back in middle school. Sex can be self-interested, little more than a means to an end, but sweetness is such a prized commodity in Knova’s world that this feels more significant. As kids, the four of us—Sofia included—used to make pinky swears. Knight and I still do. If this is a promise, I can’t help but wonder what she’s offering. I’d settle for a truce.

“Hey,” I whisper, squeezing her pinky with mine. “Maybe we should dip out early and have that conversation—”

“Anders was the best player, you ignorant fuck!” someone yells.

Well, that’s ominous. We all turn to look toward the main area of the crowded bar. A group of red-faced fans is circling each other, screaming in each other’s faces.

“Latham all the way!” the other yells.

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