“We weren’t,” Dex says.
“Not what she says.”
“Why do you care?” I ask. “You’re with her now, and I couldn’t be happier for you. You deserve her.”
Dex points my way. “What Tripp said. There’re no hard feelings on my end, so if you make her happy, I’m happy for her.”
Hmm, that’s Dex’s lying tone, but he’s so subtle about it, I doubt anyone else would be able to tell.
“And so you’re suddenly gay?” Fensby asks.
“Hey, whoa,” Adler says, stepping up behind us. Team captain to the rescue. “We accept everyone here. And if Dex doesn’t have an issue with you breaking bro code and dating his ex, you shouldn’t worry about how he ident—”
“Sexuality doesn’t work like that.” I’m wasting my breath, but I can’t hold it in.
“I’m … uh …” Dex blinks, and oh no. He’s pulling that face that he does when reporters ask him hard questions.
“There’s something weird about this whole thing,” Fensby says, and now I’m worried for my sake as well as Dex’s.
“Weird how?” Adler asks. “The whole team has joked about these two being secretly in love for years.”
I guess that explains the lack of shock around here.
“Why don’t you worry about your own sex life,” Dex says. “You’re going to need it with some of the freaky shit Jessica’s into.”
I turn to my best friend … uh, husband, and try to assess his face, because I couldn’t tell if that was his lying tone again or not.
Fensby looks as confused as I am.
We’re broken up by Coach’s booming voice. “What are we all doing standing around? Get your asses out on the ice.”
And like that, another season gets underway.
Twenty-One
DEX
Sweat is pooling on my lower back as I fight tooth and nail for us to get on the board. San Jose has pulled ahead by two, so there’s still hope, but as the minutes tick down to the end of the game, that hope is quickly being overridden by frustration.
I intercept a pass from Jarett and head for the blue line, but before I can line up my shot, Oskar flies past, strips the puck, and sends it sailing toward Rosky.
It’s a mess of back and forth over possession, so Coach signals for a line change, and as I hit the team box, Fensby sends me a cocky smirk on his way out.
That guy, I swear.
I’ve always been able to low-key ignore him because while he might have skill, he has a shitty attitude, whereas I can score and still be a team player.
This year? I don’t think I can claim either of those things.
Hockey is hard.
Who knew?
Sure, I have to work for it, but there’s a level of instinct and intuition that comes with playing that I seem to be missing this year.
This is our fifth preseason game, and if we lose this, it’ll be our fourth loss. Thank fuck preseason doesn’t count for standings, or we’d be screwed.
I watch as Oskar takes a shot on goal, but Tripp pulls some kind of contortionist move to shut him out. Tripp’s been feeling the pressure as much as me, but you wouldn’t know it. He’s not having the season of his life, but he’s still playing well enough to avoid the attention that comes with totally choking.
I’ve always been in awe of how fast he moves out there. I could never do what he does.
A loud shout goes up, and my attention snaps from Tripp to Fensby, who’s on a breakaway. My gut surges into my throat as I watch him cross the blue line and shoot. For one heart-stopping second, the worst thought possible jumps into my mind—I hope he misses. But then the lamp lights up, and I remind myself that Fensby or not, we’re a team, and I hate myself for forgetting that.
I force a smile and fist pump along with the guys beside me before we’re sent back out there.
It’s no use though.
The score ends 2-1, and we all trudge down the chute with a black cloud hanging over the team. Maybe I’m more in tune to it this season because it feels like it’s mostly my fault, but while my teammates can shake off a loss easy enough, that’s never been me.
I know it’s part of the game, and I try not to focus on it for long, but there’s always that pit in my gut that takes hold until we get our next win.
Last season, I barely had to worry about it because the team was on fire. This year, we have the same players, but we’re not the same team. And the only difference I can think of is that Tripp and I are married now.
The Mitchell brothers’ magic is missing.
We reach the locker room and strip down to our base layers. Most of the guys head in to cool down, but I drop onto the bench, needing a minute’s separation from the team.