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“Conversation.”

“You’re terrible at it.”

“Still answered me.”

I shove his shoulder as we move up in line. He barely moves.

“Again,” Coach calls. We run it. Then again.

By the time we switch drills, my lungs are working hard, and sweat has soaked the shirt beneath my pads despite the cold.

Deacon should be focused on the next rep. Instead, he hangs back. “Cap?”

I take a drink from my bottle. “What?”

“What’d they do to you?”

I lower the bottle. “Who did what to me?”

“When you were a rookie.”

Behind him, Mercer suddenly becomes very interested in re-taping the knob of his stick.

Fuck.

I look back at Deacon. “What have you heard?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

“A little.”

“From?”

He glances toward Mercer, but he doesn’t look up.

“I will bag skate both of you.”

“You can’t bag skate him,” Deacon says. “He’s older than you.”

“Want to test that theory?”

“No.”

“Then get in line.”

He does. For approximately four seconds. Then, “What’s getting ABBA’d?”

I close my eyes. Christ.

Mercer’s laugh comes from behind me.

“Fuck you.”

“I didn’t tell him.”

“You told somebody.”