Page 115 of Crease Collision

“That’s a relief.”

I give him another quick kiss and ask, “What about people finding out? Our teams, fans, whoever?”

“We tell them when we’re ready. Some of your teammates already know you’re dating a man. For me, Nico knows for sure. Hell, everybody else probably does too. I haven’t told them, but I want to do it now.”

“When you’re ready.” I pause, then say, “I have an idea about the public. Let’s just be ourselves and live our lives. There are plenty of guys in the league who are out, so we don’t need to make a big announcement.”

“Agreed.”

I hesitate for a moment, but that’s not us anymore. “About your neurodiversity. I’m usually good at reading you, but I won’t always get it right. Please tell me if you need something I miss.”

His eyes soften. “I will.”

We roll onto our backs, and Kai snuggles close, resting his head on my shoulder. The world dims as I sink back into sleep. When I open my eyes again, the light is brighter, but we still don’t move. Instead, we share slow, sleepy kisses, content to let the day wait for us.

Hunger eventually drives us out of bed. As we move around my small kitchen making breakfast, there’s a new ease between us, a gentle silence broken only by soft touches and knowing looks. This is what we’ve worked for, and what we’ll fight to keep.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

KAI

May

The rink is dark and empty, exactly the way I like it. Rest day means the boys are at home icing whatever hurts, so the practice facility is left to the cleaning crew, a few equipment guys, and me.

Holmer called this morning and asked, “Can you come in?”

So here I am, in a building I’m not supposed to be in, on a day I’m supposed to be resting, to spend the afternoon watching tape of my boyfriend.

Across the river, in a room that smells exactly like the one I’ll be in, I’d put money on Oskar doing the same thing. Sitting in the dark, watching tape of me, finding the soft spots in my game so the Fury can put a puck through one of them three days from now.

I drop into a chair in the video room and set my phone face-down on the table. Ozzy sent a link while I was getting off the subway, something from his Instagram feed. The message said, “Look.” I’ll get to it after we’re done here. When I get into tape, I get into tape; the world can wait.

“Morning,” Holmer says, coming in with Patterson, the goalie coach. “Ready to take Olofsson apart?”

“Let’s see what the kid’s got,” Patterson says, claiming the seat beside me.

Holmer slides the tablet across the table. “You’re on playback.”

I tap start, and the wall screen lights up with the Fury’s last game against Boston. After showing a faceoff, the video cuts to Ozzy in the crease. I let it run, then pause and rewind. “Here, watch this sequence. Olofsson overcommits east-west when Boston moves it across the slot.”

Except that isn’t the whole story. His defensemen forgot how to play hockey and left him alone with three guys and a rebound.

“Good eye,” Patterson says, then to Holmer: “We can use that.”

“Mm-hmm.” Holmer makes a note. “I’ll tell the forwards. Thanks, Kai.”

After letting the clip go for a bit, I pause it again. “Notice how he loses the puck because of a late screen. He can’t see for a second.”

Because someone’s stick is in his face. That’s not a weakness. It’s interference.

But I don’t say that, because he was operating blind for an instant, and an instant is the job. I’ve handed worse to scouts about goalies, and so has Ozzy. This isn’t about him and me. It’s just the game.

I cue up a recent match between the Fury and Buffalo, and we watch Ozzy steal one. Sliding all the way across the crease, glove up, puck caught.

Jesus. That’s a ridiculous save.

“Kid got lucky,” Patterson says.