Communication hiccups
THE NIGHT OF OUR SEASON OPENER HOME GAME, I DRIVE TO THE Graham Center with Beckett and Shane. Sitting in the back seat of Shane’s Mercedes, I type on my phone and send the usual text message to our Eastwood group chat, a superstition that started last year and now we’re stuck with. During the drive, a dozen notifications blast the same message.
In the locker room, Beckett attempts to defend some movie he tried forcing Shane to watch last night.
“You don’t get it. The hero wasn’t in the same timeline as the brother—”
“Like I told you last night, it made zero sense and I don’t care to discuss it.”
“And like I told you, you have to watch it at least three times before it makes sense—”
“What kind of time do you think I have?” Shane interrupts. “I barely have time to watch one movie once, let alone the same fucking movie three times.”
“Funny coming from the bloke who watched porn for four hours straight last weekend. Loudly.” Beckett turns toward our Eastwood buddies. “Four hours, no joke. Although, I will say, he picked something good. I’ll give you that, Lindley. Not sure if it was the same chick moaning in all the clips, but she was amazing. Nice tone and pitch. She sounded really hot.”
She was. She was pure fire and my body still feels the heat of her on me.
And like an ass, I haven’t called her since that night.
I just…can’t.
Something happened that night. I love sex as much as the next guy, but Gigi came over before the sun set and left in the wee hours of the morning. We didn’t even eat, for chrissake. Just pounded water and each other. Longest session of my life, and it still wasn’t enough by the time she left. And then, all those moments in between, where we lay there talking. Well, she did most of the talking. But I wanted to listen. I asked questions. I initiated.
Needless to say, this behavior cannot be repeated.
Before we hooked up, I made it clear to Gigi that all I wanted was sex. Yet, somehow, I’m the one who forgot that.
Until I can make sense of whatever the hell’s happening in my head, I can’t risk the temptation of seeing her again.
“Don’t bloke me,” Shane grumbles at Beckett, bending forward to stretch out his back. “This ain’t Australia, matey.”
I notice Will Larsen chuckling during their exchange, but he stops when he notices Colson frowning at him.
Once everyone is suited up, Coach Jensen comes in for his first pep talk of the season.
“Go out there and deliver.” He nods, then turns toward the door.
“Wait, that’s it?” Patrick blurts out.
Jensen turns around. “What? What else do you want? Do you want me to do a little dance for you?”
“I, personally, would love that,” Tristan Yoo says.
A couple of titters ring out.
“I don’t do speeches,” Coach states firmly. “I do enough talking during practice.” He looks around the locker room. “With that said—individually, every single one of you has the chops. As a team? Well, we’re about to find out.”
And find out we do. The game is fast-paced from the first face-off. Which is surprising because Northeastern isn’t typically as strong as either Briar or Eastwood. Not only that, but from the film I’ve seen, their new sophomore goalie is a sieve.
And yet we can’t shoot a single bullet past him.
I’m on the first line, skating with Colson and Larsen, and defensemen Demaine and Beckett. We’re the strongest players on the team and should be unstoppable.
And yet.
On our next shift, we try to make something happen. The chill in the rink suffuses my face as I skate hard past the blue line. We’re on the attack.
“On you,” I shout to Case, whose back is to the play when the opposing defenseman goes in for the forecheck.
He completely ignores the warning and proceeds to get slammed into the boards. Luckily, he manages to win that battle and get the puck.
Beckett shouts, “Point, point,” to indicate he’s open. Colson ignores our defenseman and tries to be a fucking hero. He takes a shot at net, it’s scooped up by our opponent, giving Northeastern a breakaway.
“What the hell was that?” Beckett shouts at Colson, utterly irate.
Beckett never loses his temper. Yet we’re only in the first period and he’s already snapped twice at our cocaptain. Our intrepid cocaptain who, apparently, thinks he’s the only one playing out there. I remember Rand Hawley’s warning at the beginning of the year about whether I can trust Colson to share with Eastwood.
Guess we have that answer now.
Coach calls for a substitution as the other team regroups behind their net. I fly back to the bench, while Shane, Austin, and the rest of the second line hits the ice. They’re equally good, and equally in trouble.
As an observer from the bench, I clearly see the issue.
There’s zero communication out there. At least not between anyone from Briar and formerly Eastwood. And that’s a massive problem, because you’re supposed to be able to rely on your teammates out there. They’re your second pair of eyes. You alone can’t be everywhere all at once, and during a game there are constant mini battles being fought on the ice. Your teammates are seeing plays you might not know are available to you. And they’re supposed to fucking tell you.
“Golden Boys,” Jensen shouts. “You’re on.”
Okay. I guess that’s the name of our line now.
We’re back on, and I win the face-off and snap a pass to Colson. When it comes to handling the puck, the guy is excellent at deception and throws off defenders left and right. He’s so good at what he does. Weaving and cutting through opponents, faking a shot only to cut away and fake another one. His patience is superhuman. But even with all that skill, we can’t seem to score on these damn guys.
After a dump and chase, I’m caught up behind the net fighting two Northeastern forwards. I use all the moves I’ve been teaching Gigi, pivoting hard and creating confusion until I hear Demaine shout, “Open slot,” and get a quick pass to him.
He goes for the one-timer.
It’s denied.
“Motherfucker,” the French-Canadian growls as we scramble for the rebound.
The ref’s whistle suddenly pierces the air.
I groan when I see Beckett took a penalty for slashing. The Briar fans scream their outrage, and then our line is off the ice and the penalty kill team takes over. Trager and Rand are both on that line. They’re two of the best penalty killers in college hockey. But they’re not in sync at all. They’re so busy encroaching on each other’s territory that they both somehow lose sight of the puck.
The Northeastern left winger easily scores, drawing first blood in the game.
Coach throws down his clipboard.
He’s fuming when Trager and Rand return to the bench. “What was that?” he yells. “What in goddamn hell was that?”
You’d think they’d feel foolish enough to be shamefaced, but they’re too busy glaring at each other.
“That was a garbage goal,” Rand mutters when he catches me frowning at him.
I stare at him in disbelief. To even imply it was nothing but a lucky goal is insane. He and Trager screwed up and the other team capitalized on it. The end.
He sees my face and ducks his head, his own expression dark.
The buzzer signals the end of the first period. Coach reams into us in the locker room during intermission. It’s well deserved, and we take it without a word. Trager looks like he’s got something to say, but he blessedly keeps his obnoxious mouth shut under the face of Jensen’s wrath.
But he’s got plenty to say when the game resumes. After I miss a shot and return to the bench for a line change, Trager glowers at me and spits out a series of insults, ending with, “Why the fuck didn’t you pass? Case was wide open.”
I give him a withering glare. “I didn’t see that he was wide open. I don’t have eyeballs in the back of my head.”
“Enough. All of you shut up.” Coach’s eyes are stone-cold murder.
The second period is much like the first. We’re completely out of sorts. The only saving grace is that our goalie is a rock star. That starting position was well earned by Kurth. He’s truly the greatest goaltender I’ve ever seen play outside a professional setting.
“He’s incredible,” Shane mutters as we watch Kurth’s glove pluck another shot out of the air, and the home crowd releases a deafening roar of approval.
“Rock star,” one of the Briar guys agrees in awe.
Evidently, that’s the only agreement we can reach on the bench—that our goalie is saving our collective asses.
As the game nears its last seconds, we’re still completely shut out by Northeastern’s goalie, who typically has more holes than Swiss cheese. It’s a testament not to how good he is, but to how bad we’re playing.
The final buzzer blares to cheers from the small amount of Northeastern fans and a chorus of boos from the Briar crowd.
Our first game is the most dismal Briar showing in a real long time, and for a man who’s not into speeches, our coach has no problem telling us that in the locker room.
“That, in all my years of coaching at this university, was the most pathetic display I’ve ever seen,” he fumes. “And not because you lost. We’ve been shut out before.” His harsh gaze flicks toward some of the older Briar players. “We all know what it’s like to lose. But to lose like that? Because you couldn’t be bothered to work together? Goddamn unacceptable.”
He whips his clipboard across the room in an explosion of pages.
Jensen draws a breath. Then he exhales in a slow, even rush.
“Keep your gear on, except for your skates. Put on your shoes and go meet Coach Maran in the gymnasium.”
He stalks out of the room.
We all stand there, still in full uniform and pads, still sweating from the three periods we spent skating around like chickens with our heads cut off.
Guys exchange wary looks.
“I don’t like this,” Patrick says uneasily. “Why can’t we change and shower?”
“C’mon,” Nick mutters. “Let’s get this over with.”
A few minutes later we enter the gymnasium, where Nazem lets out an anguished wail that bounces off the acoustics in the cavernous space.
My vision is assaulted by three unacceptable things.
Nance.
Sheldon.
And an obstacle course.
“No,” Shane moans. “Please. I can’t. No.”
“Jensen had this set up already!” Patrick exclaims, betrayal filling his eyes. “That means he thought we were going to lose.”
He’s right, I realize. Which evokes a rush of acrimony, because what kind of coach has such low confidence in his team that he proactively prepares a punishment for an expected loss?
Everyone swivels toward our assistant coach in pure accusation.
“Oh, no, this was going to happen either way,” Maran reveals with a shrug. “Win or lose.”
“So if we won, we were still going to get punished?” Trager is outraged.
“Now, boys, this isn’t punishment,” Sheldon says, stepping forward with a comforting smile.
“It’s a reward,” Nance tries to reassure us. “This is soul food. We have to nourish the soul in order to reach our full growth potential.”
Sheldon makes a tsking noise with his tongue. “With that said, we heard we have an itty-bitty communication problem happening here.”
Assistant Coach Maran snorts.
“Luckily, we have the perfect exercise to solve this problem,” Sheldon says.
Both siblings are wearing whistles and pastels again. And both look way too excited to be spending their Friday night playing communication games with a bunch of pissed-off, sweaty hockey players.
“I can’t,” moans the freshman who replaced Tim Coffey on the starting roster until Coffey’s wrist heals. “Come on, Coach. We just played three periods of hockey. I’m so tired.”
“Yep. And now you’re going to complete an obstacle course,” Coach Maran says cheerfully. He nods at the Laredos. “I’ll leave you to it.”
I clench my teeth to stop myself from hissing expletives at Maran’s retreating back. This is a goddamn nightmare.
“I should’ve transferred schools,” mutters Shane.
“Yeah, for real.” Beckett sounds exhausted.
“Whatever,” Trager says, stalking forward. His Converse sneakers look absurd with his uniform, though I’m sure we all look equally ridiculous. “Let’s get this bullshit over with.”
“All right,” Nance announces, clapping her hands. “You’re going to pair up now. Each pair needs to consist of one former Eastwood and Briar player. Doesn’t matter how you pick your pairs, but that’s the only stipulation.”
Colson is standing beside me, so I look over and we exchange a tight nod. On my other side, Beckett seeks out a Briar guy and winds up with Will Larsen.
I step forward and examine the course in front of us. Three lanes wind their way from one end of the gym to the other. One side has a raised wooden platform I assume is the starting position, the other side offers a color-specific mat that must be the finish line. The lanes are color-coordinated and contain identical features. Balance beams about three feet high. Random milkcrates, painted their lane color, along with a few big black tires, are scattered on the waxed floor. Past the minefield of crates and tires is a kiddie pool with a second balance beam suspended over it, although this beam is wider and lower to the ground. Beyond that are big fake papier-mâché boulders.
“Here’s how this is going to work,” Nance starts, pure joy shining on her face.
I swear she gets off on this shit. She probably sits at home and fantasizes about all the team-building exercises she can torture college students with.
“One player will stand on the starting platform—this is the caller. The other player, the runner, will be blindfolded. He’ll navigate the course under the guidance of his caller, who must communicate the best path forward to his runner. Callers, make sure your runners follow your designated path. Runners, you will be dodging the obstacles as well as the other players on the course at the same time. Once your partner safely reaches your color mat, he’ll take off the blindfold, and the runner will become the new caller. Be warned—it is going to get loud in here. So, please, no cursing. Because I don’t like to hear it. I am a lady.”
“A sexy lady,” Sheldon says, beaming at her.
Beckett raises a brow. “Yikes,” he says, low enough they can’t hear.
“Communication is key in this exercise,” Nance explains to us. “As it is in nearly every aspect of our lives. Without communication, for example, our marriage would not thrive.”
Now they’re beaming at each other.
“Wait, what?” Patrick blurts out. “You’re not brother and sister?”
Sheldon frowns at him. “We’ve been happily married for twenty-two years.”
Patrick remains entirely unconvinced. “Come on. You’re just playing around now. You’re brother and sister,” he insists. He turns to the group for backup. “Am I the only one who thought that?”
Shane laughs silently into the crook of his arm, broad shoulders shaking.
“In fact, one of our side gigs is marriage counseling,” Sheldon tells us. “We work primarily with couples whose marriages suffer from communication hiccups. So, if any of you young men are married and need guidance…”
“I’d rather get divorced,” someone says.
Several guys snort with laughter.
Nance sighs and tries to direct our attention back to the course. “Before we get started, are there any questions?”
“Are you really not brother and sister?” Nazem asks.
“Any other questions?”
