Page 102 of Hockey Bois
“Why can’t I sleep?” he asked when Brady finally made it into the driver’s seat. “If I have a concussion, I should rest.”
“Yeah, probably, but I need to get you to a doctor first, and I need you to not throw up in your sleep.” Brady looked forlornly at his car. “I need to learn to punch with my left hand.”
“Why?”
“Why” turned out to be simple: Brady drove stick, and it was much harder to change gears with a busted hand covered in a bloody towel. Nick watched in fascination as Brady managed to maneuver the car out of the parking lot and onto the road. The time passed quickly, both because of the concussion stealing his concentration and because he enjoyed watching Brady expertly, if not easily, drive.
“Can you teach me to drive stick?”
“You’ve already asked me three times, dude,” Brady said. He’d pulled off the road and into a parking lot. “Still no.”
“Why not!?” Nick pouted.
Brady didn’t answer.
“We’re here. C’mon, lemme get you inside.”
There weren’t many people there, all of them quietly waiting their turn. Brady checked them in and did his best to fill out the paperwork for both of them with his left hand.
“You’re not left-handed, are you?” Nick asked as he peered over Brady’s shoulder. “Either that or your handwriting isawful.”
“I’m not left-handed. Thank you for noticing.”
“Then you should use your right hand. Right hand. Write hand.” He chuckled.
“I would, but it’d hurt too much and get blood everywhere.”
“What happened to your hand?” Nick asked. Brady’s hand was freshly wrapped in a red-stained towel (or had it already been?), and the fingers were swollen where they poked out.
“I punched someone,” Brady said evenly, as though he’d said it a hundred times, “because they gave you a concussion.”
“You hit someone‘causethey hit me?”
Brady shrugged. “Yeah, kind of.”
“Did you hit ’em ’cause you think I’m cute?”
Brady’s eyes bulged and he stopped writing. “Wh-what?”
“Did you hit ’em ’cause you think I’m—?”
“No, no, I heard you. I just…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You have a fucking concussion. You don’t know shit.”
“I’m notthatconcussed. Maybe. Hopefully. Just admit I’m cute.”
“Youthink you’re cute?” Brady countered.
Nick gave a huge full-body shrug, leaving his hands comically in the air. “Dunno. That’s just what I’ve heard. I’m all right I guess. You, though? You’re one pretty fucker, you know that? Really fucking pretty.” Brady gaped at him. “So damn pretty. Could stare at you all day. Even when you were mean to me, I thought you were the cutest boy I’d ever seen.”
That seemed to snap Brady out of it. He looked like a kicked puppy and asked, “When was I mean to you?” like he didn’t actually want to know the answer.
Nick frowned. Wasn’t it obvious? “You were mean when we first met. I wasn’t hockey enough, and you were mean. Still liked you, though.”
Brady relaxed a little, but there was still tension in his shoulders that Nick wanted to reach out and rub away.
“This is probably unfair of me to ask but, uh…” Brady hesitated, worrying his bottom lip like the bastard didn’t know what that did to Nick. “Were you mad? After the tournament?”
“Why?” he asked dumbly. “Mad about what?”
