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"You need to get low," Little Genma says.
It takes a minute for Rou to put the words together into coherence—he's still trying to catch his breath, get his bearings. The hit had been clean, right at the blue line, the kind of huge open-ice slam that makes the crowd and the bench do one big collective inhale, like a missed landing; his lungs are still aching when he breathes, and he isn't sure he hasn't broken a rib. He'd gotten a few casual, sympathetic pats on the shoulder when he'd limped back to the bench, but no one had said anything, even as he'd slid down into his dedicated thirteenth-man spot, right up against the defencemen.
And now Genma's talking to him.
Not looking at him, mind. His gaze is still fixed on the play, tracking every pass before it happens: he's bent forward, leaning on his knees, so that Rou can barely see his face at all, barely hear him over the shouts of off, off and no ice and here.
"What," Rou says, intellectually.
Genma's shoulders tighten a fraction. "Get low," he says, like he's grinding his teeth. "Drop your centre of gravity. Lean on your edges. Move side to side." He flicks a harsh glance up a Rou. "I know you think we skate ugly, but there's a reason."
Rou considers this information as he executes the finesse operation of getting a squirt of water from his bottle, through his cage, into his mouth. It's mostly effective. "I won't see them coming, then," he says, mildly dubious.
Genma leans back at last, showing Rou his sharp profile, the weight of his gaze under his drawn down brows. "Body low, head up," he says, like he's repeating something. "Eyes on the prize." Then he shifts, a little, where he's pressed against Rou's side—leans forward to yell hey, hey, about something Rou can't even identify, as the play comes close to the bench. Goes silent.
For a second Rou thinks the strange conversation is over. Then:
"We can work on it," Genma says, sounding—oddly tense. He sounds, Rou thinks, the way girls sound when they confess: like he's waiting to be let down. Like Rou's going to say screw off, I'm not practicing anything with you—like that's not what Genma wants.
There's an odd little flutter in Rou's chest.
"Okay," Rou says.
"Good," Genma says. The tips of his ears are pink.
On the ice, Kai falls back behind the net, directing traffic, and the defencemen hustle over to the bench calling for a change. Genma pops up, one leg over the boards, ready to go. "Otherwise you're gonna get hurt," he says, without turning his head, and then he's gone.
There's nothing kind in the way he says it. His voice is as harsh and accusing as it ever is.
Behind his cage, Rou bites his lip to stop himself from smiling.