Page 11 of From Coast to Coast
Shut. The Fuck. Up.
Brody
The Es were clever, right?
Ree
They were something. Mine was swelldayz4lyfe.
Brody
I really want to make fun of you, but I don’t even know what I’m looking at.
Ree
Swell, like, ocean waves. For surfing. I’m a surfer, or, I was, but probably not now that I’m living in Canada haha. Do you play hockey?
There is a ridiculously long pause, and it makes me wonder if he closed the app or if I offended him. It seems like a pretty reasonable question to me, but Canadians could be weird about their hockey. I go to type something else when a response comes through.
Brody
No. Just a fan, like everyone else in this country. Surfing is cool, I’d love to give that a try sometime. What brought you to Canada? Where are you originally from?
Ree
Cali. Here for work.
I bite my lip, waiting for the inevitable next question of what I do for work, but it doesn’t come. Instead, we message back and forth like teenagers until I glance at the time and realize that it’s well past two in the morning. Muttering obscenities, I say goodnight to Brody and tuck myself into bed. Fucking rookie mistake, staying up so late the night before a game. Messaging someone on a dating app, no less. I wonder if I should feel embarrassed that neither of us even broached the idea of doing phone sex—we’ve just been chatting about Canadian vs. American food. Alex is going to laugh himself silly when I tell him.
Coach Lamonte readsoff the lineups in the same tone of voice he does everything else: pissed off and a little condescending. There is none of the clapping or chirping of my previous team, either. No, the locker room is silent as a crypt, as though not a single person is excited to be here. I glance over at Grayson, trying to catch his eye and commiserate, but he’s staring resolutely at the floor. They’ve got us paired up on the third line, me playing center and Grayson back on D.
I lean over to talk to Petterson as soon as Coach is done. Pitching my voice low, I nod toward Grayson. “Has Gray ever been played on a forward line? In the preseason, maybe?”
The look Petterson gives me is answer enough. He accentuates it with a snort of incredulity, and barely stops himself from sneering as he looks over toward Grayson. Surprised by the vehemence of the reaction, I wait for him to speak. “No,” is all I get. Sighing, I shake my head and let it go. I haven’t been here long, but the vibes are definitely not vibing in the Calgary locker room.
When it’s time to take the ice, I maneuver myself so I’m right behind Grayson. He glances back at me when I stand close enough that my chest brushes his back. Immediately, he steps forward to give me more room. I follow him, wanting to talk without the whole team listening in.
“You should talk to Coach about trying a forward line sometime.”
“What?”
Since I can tell he’s not asking because he didn’t hear me, I don’t bother repeating the question. “You’d be fucking killer as an offensive D-man. I stalked you before I came here, remember? 102-mph slap shot.”
Grayson is saved from answering by our entrance into the rink. We skate a few laps in silence before he slows to a stop. I join him, not wanting him to wheedle out of the conversation by focusing on warm-ups.
“So?” I prompt.
“So, that was during Calgary’s team skills competition, not an actual game. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“You were the fifth fastest skater,” I tell him, and he sends me an incredulous look.
“And that sounds good to you?”
“You were out-skated by people half your size! Listen, I really think I’m onto something here. You don’t score in games because you don’t take shots. Your forte is scrappingagainst the boards and taking away the opposing team’s angles—I get that. But they’re not covering your shooting lanes because they expect you to move the puck instead of keep it. I say, take a few shots instead of passing it to us.”
“All right,” he answers skeptically.
Satisfied, I skate off to warm up. I wait—patiently—for Grayson to listen to my advice all of the first period and end up having to remind him during intermission. He fixes a threatening glare on me, but I grin until he softens and promises to try in the second. We get our chance midway through the period when Grayson picks the pocket of an opposing rookie in the neutral zone. He dishes it to me, but shadows me as I break away for the goal. Instead of taking the shot the goalie expects, I widen my stance and blind pass behind me.Please be there, Gray, please be there.