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Harper blinked and tried very hard to stay awake as their coach explained exactly how they were going to try to get themselves out of the hole they’d dug.
No one looked at Harper as he spoke, but Harper ducked his head anyway. Down by three going into the third period was not exactly anyone’s idea of a good game - and as the goalie, Harper was ultimately responsible for each of those goals, even if they were, respectively, the results of a turnover in their own end, a three-on-one rush, and the world’s luckiest bounce off of a bad patch of ice.
The why didn’t matter in Game Seven. Harper just had to close the barn door - and hope everyone else did their jobs.
As he skated back to the net, Sua started circling around his wingers, shouting instructions. Kanya skated back to the bench to squirt some more water in her mouth. But her D-partner followed Harper, coming to a stop right in front of the net.
“Mark,” Harper said flatly.
Everyone in the league had at least a handful of nicknames, but Mark had always just been Mark to Harper, even when they were on different teams. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Mark, it was more that there was always a tension between them that Harper found difficult to put into words.
And then Mark had been traded to the team right before the deadline, and Harper had found out exactly what that tension was.
Even with Mark’s visor between them, his gaze was still piercing and direct. “Harper,” he said, sounding unusually unsure. “Whatever happens, when this is over - let’s talk.”
What was there to talk about? Harper wondered. The way Mark had left him to wake up alone after their night together had seemed pretty difficult to misinterpret. But Mark held his gaze even as the first line for the Aliens skated right up to the faceoff circle, and Harper found it just as hard to look away, wondering if somehow he’d misunderstood after all.
“After,” he said finally, trying not to read too much into the way Mark’s face softened in relief. “Until then, try to do your job and get some heat off my back, would you?”
“I think I can do that,” Mark said dryly. He held out his gloved fist to Harper, who tapped his blocker against it for luck, before skating off to square up for what would probably be the most important twenty minutes of their lives - other than maybe, Harper found himself thinking with an uncharacteristic flutter of hope, what might happen during their conversation after.