Page 79 of Puck the Coach's Son
He sits back on his heels and coughs once into his hand.
“Sorry.”
“Don't apologize.”
“I—okay.”
I offer him my hand. He takes it. I pull him up and the skates make him stumble and I catch him against my chest and for half a second I hold him there with my hand on the back of his helmet and his face pressed into the front of my jersey and he's shaking. Not upset. Undone. I let him.
I give him exactly three seconds.
Then I step back.
“Go shower.”
He's still holding on to the front of my jersey with one glove.
“Yeah.”
“Fast.”
“Okay.”
I peel his hand off mine.
“We're going to a bar.”
He blinks at me.
“A bar?”
“You and me. Out of here in twenty.”
His mouth opens.
“I have a car in the lot.”
“We're taking mine.”
He glances at the door behind me like Paul might be through it.
“My dad—he'll expect me?—”
“Text him.”
He pulls his phone out of his helmet liner where he stashed it pregame. Thumb hovers over the screen.
“What do I say?”
I shrug.
“Anything that isn't the truth.”
He almost laughs. It's a wet, shaky, coming-off-the-edge sound, and it is exactly what I wanted out of him tonight. He wipes his mouth with the back of his glove and looks at me withhis pupils blown to hell and his hair stuck to his forehead and says, “Okay.”
“Good boy.”
I unlock the door. I check the hallway through the frosted glass. Empty. I open the door a hair. Nothing. I slide out first.
