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“Never have I ever—”
James groans internally. Thankfully there are several audible groans to accompany his silent one, possibly even enough to turn the team off the idea. This happens, sometimes, at the start of seasons, a roundabout way for some of the guys to brag about their sex lives without actually bragging about their sex lives, to tease some of the less experienced rookies for abstaining.
It always ends with the most adventurous — or most willing to lie — players plastered, James and the As making sure everyone gets home safely. Mostly James, because his As tend to drink a little more than he does. James not drinking has become such a joke that he doesn’t bother to drink to any of the prompts now, whether or not he’s done them. Let them joke about it.
“No, come on,” Freddie says. “New guys. We gotta get to know ‘em.”
“No more sex shit,” Finn says. “I officially know way too much about your sex lives. I’m happy you’re all happy, but enough is enough.”
“Fair,” Freddie says. “Never have I ever —”
“And no singling guys out for embarrassing shit,” Georgie says. “Poor Crispy will get alcohol poisoning.”
Cristian ducks his head, face going bright red. James is pretty sure that tell is why they keep pranking him; every time he’s surprised, every time his reaction makes the prank worth the effort. And Georgie’s right. If they listed every one of the pranks Cristian’s fallen victim in the last three years, they’ll have to carry him out of Finn’s place at the end of the night. Possibly into an ambulance.
“Hockey, then,” Xavier says.
There are more groans.
“Actually, yeah,” Dylan says. “Never have I ever gotten drafted.”
“Aww, Dyls,” Georgie says, after everyone else takes a drink.
“Don’t aww,” Dylan says. “I made the show on like, extreme mode. Got myself an NHL contract and a commerce degree. Fuck do you guys have after you retire?”
“Never have I ever gotten a commerce degree,” Georgie says, and Dylan snorts and then drinks. “Figured we’d catch you up with everyone else.”
“Thanks bud,” Dylan says. “Never have I ever been drafted in the first round.”
“Oh, come on, after I just helped you out,” Georgie says, and then drinks, along with several others, James included.
James has been drafted. In the first round. He was drafted to a team he didn’t cheer for growing up. He’s scored against the team did cheer for growing up.
He’s gotten a penalty — everyone drinks to that one except their new backup goalie, who gets head pats for abstaining, and one of the rookies, who grumbles then drinks when he’s told they aren’t just counting NHL level penalties. James has drawn a penalty. He hasn’t ever gotten into a fight, a fact he’s proud of, but after post-whistle scrums and roughing are added, he drinks.
He’s missed a game or more due to injury. He’s had a concussion. He’s had sprains. He’s never broken a bone, thankfully, but he had to drink when another clarification was made, and fractures were included.
He’s played in an international tournament. Several. He’s won a medal. Won Gold. He’s played in the playoffs. He’s played in the All-Star Game. Well, he didn’t — he had to pull out both times he was invited due to injury — but Freddie tells him it counts for drinking purposes.
He’s had a goal. Had a tying goal. Had a game winner. Had an overtime game winner. Been a star of the game. Been the first star of a game.
He’s had a multi-point game. A multi-goal game. A hat trick. Though never a hat trick at home, the hats raining down onto the ice, the ice crew shovelling them into bins. Like trash, though he thinks they get donated.
James has never had this much to drink in one of these games. Not even close. He’s flushed with it, almost dizzy. He doesn’t think he’s had a single break since the goalies started scowling and Georgie fed them some goalie milestones to let them catch up a little.
No shutouts for James. No saves since he was a little kid taking his turn as goalie in rec league games. He hated those games. Wanted to be out there. Made all the parents laugh because he’d get bored of standing in the net and go for a skate, sometimes getting back in time to make a save, usually not. They were blown out every time he played in net, but he didn’t care. He wanted to score.
“Never have I ever lost in the 2015 Juniors to Finland,” Chase says.
James drinks. He’s the only one. He’s sure that was the point.
Chase takes a sip like a chaser, eyes on James the whole time. You’re not supposed to drink when you haven’t been told to, but no one ever follows that rule, not when the entire point of the game is to get drunk quickly. “Never have I ever cried on the ice after losing in the WJC to Finland.”
“I didn’t,” James says.
“Okay,” Chase says with a smirk, drinks again. “Trust your word, Jamie.”
“I didn’t,” James repeats. “And it’s James.”
“It’s no fun when it’s that specific,” Freddie says. “Let the rest of us drink, that’s literally the point of this.”
“Never have I ever been suspended,” James says, looking Chase right in the eye.
Chase’s mouth twists, and he takes a drink, gives James the finger. Everyone laughs, like it’s part of the game, Chase acknowledging the chirp, but James doesn’t think it is.
“Wait, just NHL or—” Cristian says.
“Any level,” James says.
“Crispy?” Finn says, as Cristian drinks. “Our Crispy? A thug?”
“It was an accident, I swear,” Cristian mumbles, and the game’s forgotten as half the roster turns his way with delighted faces.
James takes the opportunity to duck into Finn’s kitchen with a mumbled excuse about refreshing his drink. He gets a glass of water, drinks it over Finn’s sink, gets another.
“Hard knock life being a superstar, huh?” Chase asks. He drank almost as much as James did, but he doesn’t look drunk at all, actually is refreshing his drink, reaching over James to grab one of the bottles from the makeshift ice bucket Finn’s turned his sink into. “All the guys gunning to take us out at the knees tonight.”
“You’re not a superstar,” James says. It doesn’t come out right, sounds like he thinks he is one, that he’s one and Chase isn’t. Which isn’t all that far from the truth, but still isn’t what he meant to say.
“Can’t all be you, Erickson,” Chase says. “Can’t all be you.”
“What was that out there about Juniors?” James asks.
“What do you mean?” Chase says, twists the cap off, leaves it on the counter. There’s a recycling bin right by his feet.
“Why’d you mention it?” James says. “It’s ancient history. And I didn’t cry.”
He doesn’t remember the last time he cried about hockey. As a kid, probably, before he knew any better.
“You really do think the world revolves around you, huh?” Chase asks. “I thought it was just shit media training, the way you come off in interviews, but you really do.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” James says. “I had good media training.”
You have to, when the burden of franchise savior is placed on your shoulders before you’re legal to drink, small market or not.
“Of course you did, sweetheart,” Chase says. “It takes practice to be that bland an interview.”
He says it like an insult, like that isn’t the point; you stay even, good and bad, you don’t give the media anything to work with, don’t say anything that can be twisted out of context. PR always praises the job he does, how professional he is. A word he’s sure Chase has never heard in his life, at least in the context of his own behavior.
“At least I’m not—” James starts, can’t finish, not with Chase looking at him with one eyebrow raised, waiting for whatever James is going to say. James is sure whatever he does say will just be lobbed back. He doesn’t have the practice Chase does: he doesn’t antagonize people like it’s his job.
“Game’s back on,” Finn says from the doorway.
“They thought of more hockey shit?” Chase asks. “How? What’re we doing now, ‘scored a goal against the Devils in the third period to make it 4-2’?”
“Back to sex,” Finn sighs.
“Baller, time to get drunk,” Chase says, then, sweet as poison, “Not coming, Jamie?”
James refills his glass of water.
“Didn’t think so,” Chase says, and James can feel Finn looking at him, but keeps his head down, doesn’t let himself meet Finn’s eye.
*
After everyone leaves, it’s time to clean up.
“You don’t have to,” Finn says, but halfheartedly.
James really does. For team functions Georgie hosts the more family based get-togethers, the ones with kids running around the back yard and three D-men fighting over who gets to man the grill. Finn hosts the video game marathons, the casual drinks, and, inevitably at the start of a new season, ‘Never Have I Ever’. James hasn’t hosted in years — doesn’t even host his family when they come to town, since he converted the spare bedroom of his place into a second gym — and it’s the least he can do to help clean up the mess that remains.
James stacks empties into cardboard boxes, tries not to do the math — if x members of a roster were to go through x amount of cases, how many alcoholic beverages were consumed? Best not to know that, honestly. They’re not practicing tomorrow. It’s not his problem.
“You and Holden were getting into it there,” Finn says.
“I wasn’t getting into anything,” James says.
Finn gives him an unimpressed look. He’s unfortunately very good at it, better than anyone James has ever met, except maybe his third grade teacher. The fact he still remembers that look probably gives Ms. Sorenson the edge, though.
“I wasn’t,” James says. “He’s the one who brought up the Juniors game. Which — why does he even remember that? It was almost a decade ago. And I didn’t cry.”
“He didn’t say you did,” Finn says, frowning. “He was talking about himself. Like ‘haha everyone laugh at me, okay, done, let’s move on’.”
“What are you talking about?” James asks.
“The crying?” Finn says.
“I didn’t cry,“ James says.
“He did,” Finn says.
“I’m confused,” James admits, because Finn doesn’t judge him for it, just explains.
“Dude, he was on that roster with you,” Finn says.
James doesn’t remember him being there, but it was a long time ago, and he’d kept his distance that year. Well, there was distance; he’s not sure how much of that was him keeping his, truly. He was the youngest on the roster by an entire calendar year, two years younger than the majority, the only one under eighteen, wearing the full face shield.
Most of the team had played together for years, but not him — he’d slotted in to the next age group — and they’d acted like he was some little kid, acted like he took a spot away from someone. He stuck close to Greg the whole tournament, because he was the only person James knew. Practically clung to him, Greg said after, accusatory.
“Then why would he bring it up if he did?” he asks. So much for ‘never have I ever’.
“He was dragging himself,” Finn says.
“Dragging himself,” James says, working it over in his head. It doesn’t make sense, though, no matter how he twists it. “How?”
“Guys probably still give him shit on the ice for crying after that game,” Finn says. “Take ownership or whatever. Can’t use it against you if you use it against yourself.
“They’re his teammates,” James says. “They’re not going to use it against him.”
“‘Never have I ever been suspended’,” Finn says.
“That’s different,” James says.
“Uh huh,” Finn says. “Okay, Jamie.”
James tries not to bristle. Finn calls him Jamie all the time. He’s allowed to. There’s no mockery in it, just familiarity after growing together on the same team, building the Whalers around themselves.
“It’s different,” James says. Crying’s — crying’s embarrassing, but it doesn’t hurt anyone. James wouldn’t judge Chase for crying.
“Okay,” Finn repeats. “I got this from here, dude, go home.”
“You sure?” James asks, feeling dismissed.
“Go home,” Finn says. “You’re grumpy as fuck if you don’t get your eight hours.”
“I am not,” James mutters. And tomorrow’s an off day, so he could sleep in if he wanted. He won’t, but he could. Still, he takes Finn’s advice. It’s late, and Finn is, admittedly, fairly accurate about James’ mood when he doesn’t get enough sleep.
He should also take the implied advice about going to bed when he gets home, but he feels unsettled now, like there’s a gap in his memory, and instead he ends up looking up clips from the World Junior Championship. It’s not easy to sort through them to find what he wants; it’s been almost a decade, and most of the clips are highlights from the games, understandably. It isn’t until he reconsiders his approach and types in ‘Holden Chase crying’ that he finds it.
There are quite a few results, mostly with similar screenshots. He clicks on the longest one, which ends up being the entire anthem, the camera mostly focusing on the triumphant Finnish team as they sing along with their arms around one another, grins splitting their faces. It’s still hard to watch that, even with the wash of time, leaves something bitter tasting in James’ mouth.
The sweep over Team USA is faster, almost an afterthought, but he catches himself, pauses. James is standing up straight, looking disappointed but stoic. No tears, just like he thought. Handling it with dignity.
Chase is down the line from him, face screwed up, bright red, but not in a way anyone would mistake for exertion. He unpauses, watches the jerk of his shoulders. Greg puts a hand on his back and Chase shrugs it away, hard enough James feels offended on Greg’s behalf, even years later, even though they haven’t talked in a long time. Chase looks like a toddler mid-tantrum. James isn’t surprised he’s still chirped about it. Crying like a little kid.
James doesn’t understand why he brought it up, why you’d ever bring up anything you’ve done, unless you’re trying to make yourself look better. Chase doesn’t come out of that looking good, and it isn’t anything that anyone would remember, apparently even if they were on the same team. ‘Taking ownership’, Finn said, but no one would have mentioned it. It’s far from the worst thing he’s done on the ice. Far from the worst thing he’s done after time’s expired, even. And he shows no interest in taking ownership for any of that.
*
“I thought you were saying I cried,” James tells Chase before practice. “During the game,” he adds, when Chase just stares at him.
“No shit?” Chase says.
“I realize now that you weren’t,” James says.
“Okay?” Chase says. “I’m glad you had the epiphany that there were, in fact, other players on that team. Congratulations.”
“I—” James says. “There’s no shame in crying.”
“Are you for real right now?” Chase says.
“Yes?” James says. “There’s no—”
“Jesus Christ Erickson, fuck off,” Chase says.
James looks around to see if anyone’s overheard — if they have, they’re not showing it — before he takes it in the spirit it’s clearly intended and goes back to his stall to finish dressing.
“All good, Sonny?” Georgie asks James as he jerks up his socks.
“I don’t know why I fucking bother,” James mutters.
“So clearly all good,” Georgie says, and thankfully leaves it at that.