Page 68 of Shift Change

NATE:

NATE: How’s it going?

NATE:

Since he was checking in like a worried spouse, I texted him back.

CHUCK: Little infection, getting prescription filled. Won’t be long.

It wasn’t twenty seconds before my phone buzzed.

NATE: Great, I’ll be here.

Of course, traffic fucked me. The Thruway was up to its usual bullshit, turning the drive into a slow, painful crawl. When I finally got home, I expected to find Nate watching TV or raiding the fridge.

Instead, he met me at the door. His face was red and sweaty, and his hair was sticking up like he’d raked his fingers through it a thousand times. His eyebrows did a weird, angry-worried twitch. “Everything okay?” he asked. His arm jerked like he wanted to grab me but wasn’t sure he should. “I got worried.”

“I’m fine. There was another traffic jam on the Thruway.”

He let out a sharp breath and threw his arms around me. “I’m so glad to see you. Let’s not drive separately anymore?”

Yeah. Nate was feeling it too.

Straight friends didn’t act like this, didn’t catch feelings. Of course, they didn’t have sex either. I spent the next few weeks very confused.

But was I really? There were moments—when I woke at 3:00 a.m. tangled up with Nate, or when I was skating with cold air whipping across my face and caught a glimpse of him watching—that it was so fucking obvious what this was and what I felt. I’d shove it down and bury it under stupid jokes, but the next time Nate looked into my eyes or I caught myself watching him sleep, my feelings were undeniable.

* * *

The Seattle Cohos were on fire. They weren’t playing; they were swarming—filling every lane, cutting off every angle, finishing every check like they were on a life-or-death mission. They moved like a war machine, aggressive and relentless, and from the moment the puck dropped, the Warriors were playing uphill.

Halfway through the second period, Harpy took a high stick that split his chin. He had to leave the ice to be stitched up, and Criswell sent Nate in to sub for him. We’d never been lineys before, but it didn’t matter. Richie and I were in sync, and Nate and I had no problem reading each other. After two minutes, it was like we’d been playing together for years.

The trainers were still working on Harpy when the third period started, so Nate stayed with our line. He won the faceoff clean and snapped the puck to Richie, who bolted up the ice with Brody shadowing him. Nate and I followed, gunning for the offensive zone. We were fast, so we caught up as one of Seattle’s blueliners closed in on Richie.

Richie pivoted and sent the puck my way. As soon as it was on my stick, I cut toward the net, staying in my wing. The goalie was set, so I veered left when I was about twenty feet out, trying to get closer before I made my move. A second later, I saw one of Seattle’s wingers closing in fast, so I fired a shot. I knew it was bad when it left my stick—too much lift, not enough precision. The goalie may as well have shrugged when he shifted left and let it bounce off his pads.

The rebound skidded back to Richie, who took his own shot. The damn thing bounced off the pipes. The puck ricocheted straight to Messer, Seattle’s center, who turned and flew in the other direction.

Bad move. Nels and Brody were right there, and faced with our unified D, Messer had no choice but to dish it to his winger. Brody took off after him, forcing the guy into a wide arc before he sped away toward our goal.

With Brody out of position, Messer slipped free of Nels and flew down the middle. In an obviously well-practiced move, the winger sent the puck back to Messer, but the pass wasn’t clean. He stretched too far to catch it and nearly lost an edge. Since he was teetering, there was a hiccup before he pushed off.

The extra second gave Nate enough time to catch up, and he lunged toward Messer. It was a move straight out of the playbooks. A clean stick lift, quick hands, no hesitation, andboom—turnover.

Nate exploded the instant he had possession, cutting through center ice and hurtling toward Seattle’s net with the kind of raw speed that left defenders scrambling. The Warriors had spread out, trying to be ready for anything, and when Messer—screaming obscenities—took off after Nate, I got a bad feeling.

When he came up behind Nate, Messer veered to his right. The moment he cut back and charged toward Nate, my stomach dropped. Nate zigged, trying to shake him, but Messer zagged straight into him. He didn’t tuck his elbow and never glanced at the puck; right before contact, he raised his shoulder, and since he was taller than Nate, he made contact with the back of his head. The brutal hit was illegal asfuck.

Nate didn’t just go down. He careened across the ice, slamming full force into the boards, and his body crumpled. The ref’s whistle shrieked, but it was too late; Messer was already racing over to Nate. The dirty son of a bitch raised his stick and hit Nate, not once, but twice. Then he kicked him, angling his skate so the blade contacted Nate’s shoulder.

The world snapped into tunnel vision. One second, I was standing at the blue line, and the next I was beside Messer. Nate was trying to get up—no blood, thank God—but I didn’t care. IwantedMesser’s blood.

“You fucking son of a bitch.” I grabbed Messer’s jersey, spun him around, and rocked him with a right hook so hard his head snapped back. “You could have killed him, you goddamn motherfucker.” Another punch, straight to his cheek. “Now I’m gonna killyou.”

I slugged him again. He went down, and I went with him.

His helmet bounced away, but I barely noticed because my only thought was to make him pay. I slammed my fist into him over and over. Even when his nose shattered under my knuckles, I still wasn’t satisfied. No matter how many times I hit him, it wasn’t enough. The image of him kicking Nate with his goddamn razor-sharp skate played on a loop in my brain.

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