Page 67 of Two for Charging

Silence greeted Howie’s outburst.

“Um, Howie?” Ben tried. “I think you might need to catch us all up on what exactly he said wrong.”

“Denisov’s a Russian Tatar. Dmitriyev and every other Russian in the league won’t let him forget it.” Howie sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair, getting glitter in his curls. “Also, the hit wasn’t intentional, and he apologized to me.” He pulled himself up on the coffee table, and the instant he was upright, all the blood drained from his face. “I’m gonna go…throw up or something.”

He lurched out the door and toward the bathroom. Shortly after, the unmistakable sound of retching followed.

Tom turned to Jax. “You want Dmitriyev or Howie?”

“Christ.” Jax let his head drop back against the couch. “Neither? I’m the hype-guy; you’re the supportive-captain-pep-talk-guy. And I need to google some shit before I know what I think about all this.”

Phil grunted in agreement. “Since when does Howie care about Russian politics?”

“Since Denisov apologized to him, I guess,” Chris said. It didn’t quite add up, though, because—

“Denisov had it out for him the whole third period, long after the hit. He gave up so many chances to mess with Howie.” Luca shook his head. “And when would they have had time to talk about different Russian ethnicities? We were with him all day.”

They had been—from morning skate up until Howie had begged off the party that night even though he got the final goal. At the time, Chris thought it seemed unlike him, but he’d taken a heavy hit and had some painkillers. Chris should have asked then, but he’d gotten too caught up in his own worries about dating and sex and Luca and the team. He hadn’t checked in with Howie since their talk in the weight room weeks ago.

“I’ll talk to Howie,” Chris blurted out. “I don’t know anything about Russia, but I know Howie.”

“Good man,” Jax said. “This is why you should—”

Luca kicked him before he could mention the A, and Chris could have kissed him in thankfulness.

Or just kissed him in general; his lips were so soft, and they still looked all red and puffy from before, and—

“I guess I’ll try Dmitriyev, then,” Tom said doubtfully.

“Don’t mention Cheryl,” Chris advised.

“Cheryl?” Tom asked.

Chris looked around. Jax and Phil had the same question marks on their faces as Tom. Hayes wasn’t listening, occupied instead by staring at Phil as if Phil were a riddle he could solve. Christ, did no one on this team pay attention?

“Never mind.”

“You got this,” Jax told Tom and blew him a kiss.

“Okay, whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on!” Hayes’s eyes went wide. He pointed to Phil and Ben. “First you and—and now you?” He turned to Tom.

Jax heaved a heavy, world-weary sigh. He patted Tom on the shoulder. “Go fix the goalie. I’ll deal with him.”

Tom nodded and headed up the stairs to find Dmitriyev.

Chris followed suit and rapped on the bathroom door.

There was no response, but Howie might be mid-vomit, so he pushed the door open. Thankfully, Howie seemed to be done. Chris had a bad tendency toward sympathy nausea. Howie sat on the floor, legs splayed out in front of him.

“How are you doing, man?” Chris lowered himself to sit next to Howie.

“Oh, great, fantastic. I blew up at our goalie and then threw up in my idol’s bathroom, and I came to a team party dressed as fuckin’ Peter Pan, like no one will think—will realize—”

“Trust me, they won’t.”

Howie shot him a look. “No offense, bro, but just because you don’t notice shit…”

That hurt more than Chris thought it would. He told himself daily to be less of an idiot, but hearing it from Howie stung. Howie didn’t know half the things Chris did about the team. But he was hurting, so Chris took a breath, swallowed his own hurt, and bumped their shoulders together. “I noticed you didn’t come party in my room in Chicago.”