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“Am I a bad person?” Holden says.
“The worst,” Fiona says. “Truly irredeemable.”
“Fee,” Holden says.
Fiona sighs. “You’re not a bad person, babe.”
The thing is, though, Holden’s pretty sure that isn’t actually true.
“Is this about that hit?” Fiona asks. “He’s fine. He’s playing.”
He’s fine. He’s playing. She checked, then. Her knowing that means she checked. Meanwhile Holden wasn’t thinking about that at all.
How is it that James throws a punch at him and Holden’s the one who feels like a bully?
“It’s nothing,” Holden says. “Never mind. Just — never mind. How’s work?”
“Oh my god, don’t even get me started,” Fiona says, then, of course, gets started herself, which was exactly what Holden was hoping for.
He tries to listen. Even if he is a bad person, he doesn’t ever want to be one to Fee. He catches something about Marla’s thieving ways, a supremely useless intern she suspects is related to someone higher up, her boss telling her not to bother on a presentation all of a day before it was due.
“Not that I’d finished it,” Fee says. “I was going to have to stay up half the night to get it done. But like, I’d started, you know?”
“Yeah,” Holden says, thinks of how James, with his eyes squeezed shut, face drawn tight, reminded him of the kids in high school that thought if they made themselves invisible, they’d be left alone, the ones who didn’t realize that everyone could see just how scared they were, that the attempt at camouflage was achieving the exact opposite of what they wanted. That smelling fear is something all predators can do, even the ones that reek of body spray and sexual frustration themselves.
Reminded Holden of when he’d watch the attempts at invisibility fail, watch those kids get caught. He never said anything to pile on, make things worse for them. If he was saying anything it was trying to change the subject, or lighten the atmosphere, cracking a joke and dragging people’s attention to him instead of their prey.
Which makes him sound like a nice guy, a noble one. He wasn’t. It was usually his friends doing the hunting in the first place.
‘Why are you friends with them?” Fiona asked, when they first started dating. “Guys like that.”
'Guys like what?' Holden asked.
'Dickheads,' she said, and maybe it said something that Holden wasn’t offended by her calling them that, didn’t even argue the point.
'Maybe I’m a dickhead,' Holden said. 'You don’t know.'
'You aren’t, though,' she said, and he’d felt good after that, felt redeemed or something, but maybe it’s just because he was never a dickhead to her.
He felt like he was back in high school, except this time he wasn’t witnessing shit, other than the results of his own actions. When Holden skated away, James was stock still, all tension, but in all the places he wasn’t strung tight, he was shaking like a leaf.
James hadn’t said a word to him that game. And sure, he usually didn’t talk to Holden much, but there was always the exception on the ice, ‘I’m open’, or ‘pass back’, or ‘Chase’. He didn’t use any of them that game. And he wasn’t just like that with Holden, but Beanie too, the D. They played like shit.
‘The fuck did you do?’ Beanie asked, after the game, and Holden couldn’t even be pissed at him for assuming, because it wasn’t like he was wrong.
“That sucks,” he says, when Fee blows out a final breath, her vent through.
“Yeah,” Fiona says. “It is what it is, though. Hey, you okay?”
“Just feeling weird today,” Holden says.
“Want to talk about it?” Fiona asks.
“Nah,” Holden says. “Not really.”
“Well,” she says. “I’m here.”
She isn’t, though. If she was here she would have stopped him by now.
*
Holden pays close attention to James, walking into their next practice. Which is no different than usual, now that he’s thinking about it, except this time he isn’t scouting for weakness, or if he is, he’s going to feel bad about what he finds.
He sees James flinch when he walks past him. Like he thinks Holden’s going to try something, which is kind of rich, considering he’s the one who had to sidestep a punch. James’ form was as shit as you’d expect from a novice fighter, telegraphed well ahead of time, but if Holden hadn’t had enough time to dodge it he suspects he’d be nursing one hell of a bruise.
Bad form or not, the guy’s about two-hundred pounds, and that wasn’t the kind of punch you throw just to see someone flinch away. Usually, the rookie fighters have to get past the tendency to pull their punches, but nobody needed to tell James how to do that.
Holden would be impressed, if it hadn’t been his face on the line. Kind of is anyway, honestly. He’d tell James that, but he doesn’t think James wants to hear it. Doesn’t think James wants to hear anything from him right now, and Holden respects that. That shaking, shit scared — that’s not the reaction of a squeamish homophobe hearing shit. What it is, Holden hasn’t figured out yet.
There’s a wariness to the room, everyone a step back from the action, waiting for something to go down. An echo of that practice, guys standing stock still, like kids playing statues. Nobody, and Holden means nobody, met Holden’s eye. He got asked if he was okay by the D coach, of all fucking people, but everyone else seemed to think whatever it was he got, he’d deserved it. Or maybe they were just as stunned as he was that James Erickson had lost his composure like that.
Boston soon. Holden holds onto that with two hands, grateful when they head out on the road because at least he isn’t in fucking Hartford. There’s a restlessness in him that he hopes the roadie takes care of, though he’d prefer Cali or something over the rust belt. They lose their Halloween game, and Fee doesn’t get her birthday present until the next day, even though he tried to time it perfectly, set alarms on his phone and everything, ‘buy fee iphone’ between ‘naptime’s over’ and ‘naptime’s really over i mean it’. Which was maybe bad timing, now that he’s thinking about it.
She doesn’t mind, he knows, had a Halloween party to go to that night anyway, with Sean and a bunch of his buddies from — somewhere. Holden was thinking about James while she told him about it, he’s pretty sure. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Was doing that a lot before too, probably, but plotting feels different than whatever this is. Feeling shitty. Feeling curious. Not sure which one beats the other out. He keeps finding himself watching James, and the only reason he notices is because James does — he goes tense and tight, and Holden watches it happen, realizes he’s the reason it’s happening, and then he’s right back to feeling shitty all over again. It’s a thing. Not a good thing, but a thing.
They split the points in Pennsylvania, head to Michigan, Holden’s eyes on his phone the entire time, hoping he doesn’t get a text from his dad saying his parents are making the 5 hour drive. It’s a good game, all told. One of those where you trade chances, blows, penalty minutes, the kind where the lead evaporates as soon as it’s clutched at, and it’s only right that it goes to OT, unsurprising, if annoying, when they have to decide it in a shootout.
Beanie has the balls to try a spinorama move he’s only ever done while fucking around in practice, and somehow he pulls it off. Wins the game with it too, and the team all heads to a bar after, cheerful after that victory, everyone alternating slapping Beanie’s back and calling him a fucking idiot, sometimes at the same time. Fuck knows he deserves both.
Holden comes, because he figures it’s expected, and fuck knows he’s just going to get himself into trouble if he tries to hang around his hotel room, though he finds himself some trouble anyway, because he’s good at that.
His name’s Bentley, and Holden holds back the first six jokes he can think of, buys him a drink. Doesn’t joke about the fact he orders a margarita either, like it’s spring break in Miami instead of freezing rain in Motor City. Do they still call it that, now that the auto manufacturers have all fucked off, left it to die? Holden knows better than to pose that question to a dude named after a fucking car company.
“You seem like a nice guy,” Bentley says once he reaches the bottom of his second margarita. Holden bets he tastes like a shot of tequila right now, heavy on the lime.
“You know, I’m really not,” Holden says, but he makes sure to cut it with a grin, and twenty minutes later they’re back in a glorified closet that apparently serves as Bentley’s bedroom. The bed takes up most of the floor space, even though it’s just a double, a focal point if there ever was one, but that’s fine. It is, after all, exactly what Holden came to see.
Holden’s in a pretty decent mood when he gets back to the hotel just shy of unacceptably late. Better than it’s been for awhile. Not like getting laid is going to solve all his problems or anything, but it sure as shit doesn’t hurt. Like doing maintenance, or something. Getting a tune up.
He’s got to get out of this fucking city before the car metaphors take over his brain.
Holden’s feet stop up without his permission when he hears his name called out from the lobby bar, so he can’t pretend he didn’t hear it and keep on walking. It’s Georgie, so could be worse. Could be James, but then, James wouldn’t be calling him over.
If it was one of the other guys Holden would say he was wiped, keep moving, but while Georgie said his name all friendly, Holden’s well aware that it was an order, not an invitation. Holden’s A calling him over for a talk, and Holden doesn’t really need to think hard to figure out what team leadership wants to talk about right now. James won’t, Finn’s already had a turn or two, so Holden goes and sits down beside door number 3.
“Up late, old man,” Holden says.
“Fries?” Georgie asks, nudging a basket over, and Holden takes a couple, “Best hotel fries in all 50 states.”
“Better ones in Canada?” Holden asks.
“Poutine,” Georgie says, which are not fries. Obviously fries are involved, but it’s like comparing chips and dip to nachos — once you hit that kind of topping level it becomes a whole other food.
The bartender comes by during that debate, warning them about last call, and Holden finds himself ordering a drink on autopilot, then internally cussing himself out. It’s whatever — he’s not going to come down for a bit anyway, still buzzing. It’s been so long since he fucked around he half thought he was in love with the dude at one point. That’s where repression will get you, Holden guesses.
“Beanie says you owe him a drink or three,” Georgie says, when Holden’s beer arrives. “Was looking all over for you, wouldn’t let it go.”
“Shit, I forgot about that,” Holden says. He told Beanie weeks ago that if he pulled that spinorama shootout shit off in a real game he’d buy him drinks for a night. He didn’t think he’d actually do it, mostly because it was dumb as fuck to try it in a game, would have gotten him eviscerated by the coaching staff, not to mention the media, if it hadn’t worked. But Holden’s starting to learn Beanie’s not exactly, well — bad bet to make, turns out.
“Who knew he had the balls, huh?” Holden asks.
“I told him you’d probably slunk out early to avoid paying,” Georgie says, which is rude — Holden pays his debts, thank you. Or would have, if he’d remembered them. “Guy was cute.”
Holden thinks he just learned why he got called over, and it’s got nothing to do with James at all.
Fuck. He thought he’d been subtle, too. He gave Bentley five minutes lead time before he headed out, did a scan of the room to make sure nobody was paying attention to him before he left. Apparently he didn’t do a very good job.
“I didn’t mention it,” Georgie says, takes a fry, like it’s all casual, like they haven’t gone cold and limp at this point. “I wouldn’t.”
“Okay,” Holden says. It’s a heads up, not blackmail, at least not overtly. Not worst case scenario.
“I had a boyfriend in college,” Georgie says. He’s not looking at Holden, which Holden’s grateful for, because he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to react to that. Right now relief’s winning out. Not blackmail at all — when you’re blackmailing someone, you don’t hand them shit they could use to blackmail you. “It was pretty serious.”
“Then you hit the show,” Holden says. Not hard to fill in the blanks. Holden’s life looked a lot different his one year playing college hockey than it did his rookie year with the Bruins. And he was a stud, too, the year he played, hot shit, Hobey Baker finalist. Doesn’t matter. It’s a whole other level of scrutiny in the show, and you’re walking into a locker room of grown men, firmly at the bottom of pecking order, no matter how good a prospect you are.
“Like I said, I’m not saying anything to anyone, but if you want to say anything to me, I’m here,” Georgie says, finally looking at him.
Holden ducks his head, getting stuck on the band on his left hand. He wonders if his wife knows. If it was serious, probably, though never smart to assume, especially with that sort of shit. Holden could be marrying a dude and he still probably wouldn’t be saying shit to his parents about him. Not that he’s the marrying kind. Unless Fee takes him up on it, he guesses, but Sean probably wouldn’t appreciate that.
Holden knows he should answer Georgie, but for once he can’t think of a single thing to say. Maybe ‘don’t you know I can use this against you?’, but then, Georgie had the ammo first. He handed this to Holden for free.
Solidarity, as Fiona would say, but Georgie Dineen’s got a wife and a kid, another on the way, that college boyfriend in the rearview mirror, a story to tell the guy who isn’t quite as circumspect as he thought he was. All Holden’s got are fingerprint bruises he hopes aren’t still there by the time he’s stripping off in the locker room, a fading buzz that’s been thoroughly punctured by this conversation.
“Okay,” he finally goes with, just because it’s something that isn’t silence.
“I’m going to head to bed,” Georgie says. “Be safe, hey?”
Holden snorts at the elder statesman act. “Sure.”
“Better for you than pulling Cap’s pigtails anyway,” Georgie says, just as Holden’s taken a sip of his beer. He swears that timing was on purpose — he’s already walking away when Holden chokes on it.