Season's Change, page 22
* * *
Montreal was in the hunt for the last wild card slot in the conference and came out swinging the next night, but Stormy wasn’t having it. Olly felt almost bad for beating them 5-1. Said so, in the bar after the game.
“You feel bad about everything,” Luke told him. He was swiping at Tinder on his phone. “You probably feel guilty about jerking off.”
Olly stared down at his drink. He could feel his cheeks flaming; he didn’t care about getting chirped about jerking off, but Benji was right there and he had some pretty graphic memories from the night before. And at what point did this whole disaster of a situation cross the line of just-buddies plausible deniability, to Olly taking advantage of something? It would be undeniably different, if Benji knew the truth about him; it changed every single part of the calculus.
Meanwhile Benji was chuckling like he didn’t have a goddamned care in the world, ruffling Olly’s hair—speaking of the memories, Jesus—and leaning over him to look at Luke’s flavors of the week. He was fucking unflappable.
Olly settled on “I hate you both,” and elbowed Benji out of the way so he could drink his beer in peace.
Or try to, anyway, because Benji draped an arm over the back of his chair and kept invading his personal space.
So it was business as usual.
But also very not.
Because as soon as they got home after the game, Benji pinned him up against the front door and sucked on his neck again and ripped—literally ripped—his shirt buttons open. He got their pants halfway off and both of them in one big hand.
And then Olly had gotten off with his roommate/teammate/friend—who was straight, or at least definitively not gay, and who didn’t do relationships even if he was maybe on the bi-er end of the spectrum—sober, two nights in a row.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Olly was proceeding with his mullet plan. Benji didn’t know why he cared that much. It was fucking hair; it would grow back.
It was just that fine, okay, the thought had occurred to him that maybe he had a thing about it.
Like a sex thing.
Olly had told him to shut up and be grateful he wasn’t bleaching it, too. Then looked all awkward and embarrassed, because he’d probably picked up on Benji’s thing by this point; and he’d skittered out the door to go to the barbershop before their video session.
Even Olly couldn’t make a mullet look good, though. Well, it looked better than his shit from high school. Kind of dirty-rock-star-ish, if dirty rock stars wore track pants and Eagles hoodies and had impeccable personal hygiene. And having it shorter in the front did, whatever, call attention to his cheekbones.
And Benji officially hated himself. Because apparently he could, in fact, find a mullet hot. And the back was still long enough for him to get ahold of.
That wasn’t a thought he was going to have at the practice facility, though, even if the whole room applauded when Olly rolled in. He looked low-key pleased with the attention, laughing it off and accepting compliments on his fresh new salad.
They had to get through a last, meaningless game before they played Carolina in the first round of the playoffs. Coach O was enough of a professional to be prepping for it, even if everyone was looking toward Carolina. Because they had, like, the worst record against those fuckers.
But only the playoffs counted now. Benji would be damned if those guys were the reason he lost in the first round of his first Cup playoffs.
* * *
It had only been two seasons since Olly suited up for playoff hockey, but in the league that was a lifetime. Colorado had barely missed it his third year (maybe wouldn’t have, if he’d stayed healthy); the Wolves hadn’t been in contention (maybe they would have made it, if he hadn’t been a shit show).
Well, he was at a point where he could see everything—the things that were totally out of his control—that had screwed him over in Minneapolis. He hadn’t worked in Barnard’s system. He hadn’t been a fit in the locker room. Maybe his rehab for his knee hadn’t been all the way there yet.
It wasn’t because he was a failure.
Olly didn’t know what, exactly, had gotten him back to this point, getting ready to head out onto the ice against Carolina.
The Eagles were a better fit for him than the Wolves, or even Colorado: he liked these fuckers, from Poiro’s bitchiness to Yelich’s dumbass earnestness. Coach O had given him a chance to work his shit out, in a way that Olly would never have expected from a head coach. Yeah, the therapy, skyping Dr. Martinez from hotels across North America.
He didn’t know how to think about Benji, with music blasting down the tunnel and red-and-blue lights swirling across their home ice. He was bouncing on his skates, tapping sticks with Soko, and slapping Mils on the ass, giant grin like he was getting everything he’d ever wanted.
They didn’t line up near each other. But tonight, he ducked back, getting a weird look from Yelich and shoving down a ripple of anxiety at disrupting his pregame routine.
He didn’t know how he even had time to be thinking about this shit. He should be focusing. And he was focused. He was ready.
Benji lit up even more when he saw Olly waiting for him. He knocked their helmets together and bumped their fists, and they skated out together.
They obliterated Carolina, Dewey bowling over D-men like they played in a U14 league. They were up 3-0 by the end of the second, and Olly notched his first playoff goal in three years, a one-timer off a rebound.
Carolina won the second game, but the Eagles took the next three.
They were on fire, with Dewey and Luke scoring at will. Skates on the ice, goal horns, the lactic acid burn of getting after shifts in the third period, when he should have been exhausted and instead all he felt was go.
* * *
Some of his family flew down to DC for Game 5. He didn’t see them after the game—Benji had gotten a pretty hard hit, and Olly wouldn’t say he was pacing around the training room worrying about him, but he also was.
Well.
In the training room. Keeping an eye on things. Luke was getting a massage and coughed something that sounded like codependent.
“Shoulder’s fine,” Benji told him on the way to the car. “Quit worrying.”
“Actually fine or playoffs-fine?”
“Playoffs fine.” Benji rattled the pill bottle he was holding in his giant mitt. “It’ll hold up.”
Pause.
“Olly, I’m not going to get a pill problem.”
“Okay.” Olly didn’t honestly believe that he would, but it wasn’t unheard of. He had some heavy-duty shit over there.
“My actual mom wouldn’t give a shit about me getting a pill problem. It would be, like, a family tradition.”
“Buddy.”
Benji made a face. “Shut up. At least Krista texted me for the first time in like, weeks, to say she hoped I was okay. But I don’t want your family, either. There’s too damned many of you.”
Olly winced. Not all of them were even here—his parents, Sami’s family, Levi and his wife and their newest baby.
Benji’s billet parents had decided to make a last-minute trip down, too. Olly had asked where he was taking them for lunch, and Benji looked confused and said, “I thought we were all hanging out?”
And something had yanked in his stomach, because of fucking course it had. So they were all having lunch in a private room at a nice restaurant in Georgetown, and he was trying not to feel like it was all very Meet the Parents. Olly knew perfectly well that his brothers had certain suspicions about him and Benji, the kind of thing that made his palms sweat and his heartbeat tick up to think about, and that this stupid joint lunch wouldn’t do anything to disabuse them of those notions. He doubted that Sami would say anything in front of the whole crew, but it was one more damned thing to worry about.
* * *
It was nice to see Olly in his element, listening to stories from his niblings and holding a fat-cheeked baby like he knew what the fuck he was doing with it. Sami the science brother, his wife, and Olly’s mom all acted happy to see Benji; Levi, the brother he hadn’t met yet, was nice enough.
It was great to see the Deveraux, too, even if his sis Darcy had stayed in PA for school; and he and Krista had texted a few more times that morning, both of them trying to stay polite. Alise greeted him with a hug tight enough to make him wince. His shoulder hurt like shit, and honestly he was counting down the minutes until he could take the good drugs again. But he wasn’t going to be kinda high around the Deveraux or Olly’s fucking dad.
Olly’s mom had told him to call her Paola. No similar offer was forthcoming from Olly’s father.
This restaurant had a homier feeling than the other nice places in DC that Benji had gotten dragged to. There were old pictures and a wooden airplane propeller on the wall above their table, and the biggest steak on the menu was calling his name.
Benji leaned his elbow on the back of Olly’s chair. He had his baby niece standing in his lap, using his hands to balance. She was pretty cute, with wispy ginger hair under a navy Eagles bow. She giggled and grabbed at his beard.
“Don’t pull on your uncle Benji’s beard,” Olly told her mildly, disentangling her little fist from Benji’s face. She transferred it immediately to the party section of his mullet. Olly made a face at her, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue like he had totally lost his natural sense of dignity.
It made his stomach swoop, or something, watching Olly with his mini-me. He was going to be a good dad. The kind of dad Benji had dreamed about when he was a little kid, waiting for someone to drive up one day and take him to a nice, clean house the next town over. Then Krista had told him that they had different dads, and that if Benji’s showed up, they’d never see each other again.
And in the end, Benji had saved his own damn self, even if he’d had to get a lot of help along the way.
He pushed away from the back of Olly’s chair, turning around to talk to Alise. He blinked at the look on her face. “What?”
She shook her head. “Nothing, baby,” but she smiled and rubbed the back of his shoulder.
Olly’s dad was staring at them, too, Benji realized. He stopped as soon as he caught Benji looking back.
Overall, though, lunch was cheerful, everybody happy about the game. Benji considered begging out of the walk along the riverfront afterward, because his shoulder wasn’t feeling any better. But fuck, it was strolling at the pace of the four-year-old Ada. So less of a walk, and more of a distractible sideways trot.
Olly was giving the slightly bigger Matt a piggyback ride, Matt pointing out every boat on the river. “Where’s your boat, Uncle Olly?”
“In Duluth.”
Matt shook his head. “You need a boat here, though. How else can you go fishing?”
He grinned. “Know what? You’re right, Matty. I should get a boat.”
Matt jumped down to go spread Olly’s news.
“I think you’re getting a boat, bud,” Benji offered. Their elbows bumped companionably.
Olly shrugged. “Why not? We share the boat up in Minnesota, so it’s not all mine, anyway.”
“You’ll be the most popular guy on the team.”
“And you’re going to need a bigger truck to pull it.”
That made Benji bark out a laugh and sling his uninjured arm around Olly’s neck. “You think I’m hauling your boat around, buddy? Maybe you need to get your own damned truck.”
Olly managed to look down his nose at him. “I don’t want to park a truck in this city.”
“Weak.”
“I do all the driving, anyway. Contribute one thing.”
“God, you’re the mouthiest car service in the District.”
Olly snorted, and then they were both laughing. Matt ran back up and pulled on Olly’s arm. “What’s so funny, Uncle Olly? What’s so funny?” and somehow that set them off even more.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Olly wasn’t surprised by the incoming call buzz, the day before their first second-round game against Cincinnati. His phone had been lighting up all day with good-luck messages.
He was on the couch, legs propped on the arm with his head in Benji’s lap while they watched a replay of Detroit and Chicago’s Game 7. Benji may or may not have been petting his hair. He was high on painkillers, which was probably the only reason it was happening.
Benji took his hand away when Olly wagged his phone at him, pausing the game with a giant sigh.
It was Sami. Olly accepted the video call and padded into his bedroom, waving at Benji to restart the game without him. He could hear the rumble of the commentary through the door.
“I wanted to wish you good luck.”
Olly snorted and leaned against his headboard. “No, you don’t. Or you would have texted me.” Well, his dad had left him a voicemail. A nice one, actually.
Sami assumed an expression of injured dignity. His hair was sticking up at mad-scientist angles, with a sparkly rubber band around one section at the top. “Fine. I wanted to make sure you were doing okay. You know, with your mental game or whatever.”
“Why the fuck do you still think you can lie to me?”
“Language, bro. Tiny ears are listening.”
“Jesus Christ, Sami! What.” Olly’s pissy baby-of-the-family tone didn’t come out that often, but even he could recognize it this time. Sami did, too, sniggering and ruining his supportive-big-brother con.
“Okay, fine. I wanted to ask if you and your big, sexy roommate had made out yet.” He paused. “Actually, Liz wanted me to ask but it’s not like I don’t want to know, too.”
“Why would you even ask me that?” Well, Olly knew. But still.
Sami shook his head. “You didn’t watch you two assholes acting soft as hell all day.”
“I thought we were watching our language.” Also, what? They were not soft as hell.
“You haven’t denied it.” Sami totally ignored Olly’s call-out.
“Why would I have to deny something that fucking ridiculous?”
“Bro, he wants you bad.”
“We’re in the playoffs. It’s a little intense, that’s all.”
Sami made an air-quote with his free hand. “‘Intense.’”
“I don’t have to take this from you,” Olly told him. “I’m never talking to you again.”
“Oh my god, you’re such a liar.”
“It’s the playoffs.”
“The ‘playoffs.’”
Olly disconnected the call and threw his phone down beside the bed, in his second pissy-baby-brother moment of the conversation. How had he forgotten how goddamned nosy Sami could be, even if he’d managed to avoid making any little comments during lunch? Fucking middle children.
His phone vibrated on the floor. His brother had not sent him an eggplant emoji. That was not a thing that had happened in his life.
Detroit had gone up by two by the time Olly came back to the living room. He slid down on the couch, glancing at Benji out of the corner of his eye.
He looked spacey and relaxed, his face halfway hidden by a playoff beard. It was softer than it looked. Olly knew because he’d felt it on his skin last night.
Things started to twist around in his stomach: talking to Sami, the game tomorrow, Benji’s beard as he’d kissed the place where his shoulder met his neck. The fact that he still didn’t know the truth about Olly; the fact that Olly had let things go on like this as long as he had. The hopelessness of feeling the way Olly felt, about someone who was never going to want the same things he did.
“That wasn’t your dad, was it?” Benji asked, in his halfway-high mumble.
“Sami.”
“Oh.” He blinked, frowned a little. “You have that face on, though.”
“What face?”
“That face like you just talked to your dad and you’re trying not to let it get to you.” Benji winced. “Shit. I don’t think I meant to say that out loud.”
“It’s okay. It’s kinda true, anyway.” Olly blew out a sigh. Decided to come clean, about at least a little bit of it. “I think Sami figured out that something was. You know. Going on.”
“With what?”
“You know.” Olly waved at the space between them. This wasn’t the worst time to acknowledge it. Whatever it was, because he didn’t fucking know; but Benji was high enough that Olly could take him out. If worst came to worst, he could nail him in his shoulder.
Not that there was any chance that would happen. He didn’t even know why he was thinking like that.
Well, he did know. Because he was never going to forget what had happened in Minneapolis.
He took a deep breath. Reminded himself that Benji wasn’t like that; that Benji wasn’t going to punch him in the face. The one time Benji had gotten really pissed off at him, at that damned tree farm, he’d just yelled and stomped off.
Benji looked the opposite of that: a little confused, mostly hazy. “What do I know? Or was it what does Sami know?”
“Jesus Christ, you druggie bastard,” Olly said. “That we’re fucking.”
Benji blinked, a slow slide of dark lashes over green eyes. “Think I’d remember fucking you, bud.”
“Not the point.” His knee was starting to bounce. Neither of them had acknowledged that they could, theoretically, be doing anything other than hand jobs and grinding. But there it was, in the air between them.
Not that Benji looked rattled. Instead, he pawed at Olly’s shoulder with his good hand, dragged him into his chest. His heartbeat was steady as he gave him a one-armed squeeze. “I read on the internet that pressure can help with anxiety. Like, weighted blankets and getting hugged really tight and shit.”
