admiration. A compliment from the team captain always felt good, even if it came at Robbie’s expense.
“All right, boys. We’re done. Have a good weekend, and don’t do anything stupid. I’m looking at you, Ray-Ray,” Coach said, clapping his hands. But, before we could move, he added, “Margarine, stay here.”
I glanced at my brother, who hung his head. Raiden tapped Robbie’s shin with his stick as he passed, a sympathetic frown on his face. As I skated to the tunnel, I heard Coach’s voice. “You skated like shit.”
“I tried, Coach.”
Queasiness settled in my stomach. I knew I shouldn’t have been listening, but I stalled in the tunnel.
Coach’s tone became harsher. “No room for trying. Only doing.”
“I thought I did.”
“You want to be drafted? You want to be the best forward on the team?”
“It was one stupid exercise. It wasn’t like it was a game.”
“You want that stupid exercise to give your competition ammunition?”
“Ray-Ray freaking moonwalked over the finish.”
“Ray-Ray’s an idiot. What if a scout was watching? You need to be one hundred percent all the time. No time to be some weak-ass pansy. Give in a little, and they’ll make you bend over and take it. Understood?”
Robbie shrunk. “Yes, Coach.”
“What aren’t you going to do?”
“Bend over and take it.”
“Again. Louder. ”
My brother’s voice became terse. “I’m not going to bend over and take it.”
Coach Benoit nodded. “Forty laps as fast as possible. Then you can shower up. Maybe next time you’ll actually win.”
I hustled into the locker room so they wouldn’t know I was listening. I changed and scooted off into the shower. Most of the guys had already left practice. By the time I came out, Robbie was sitting on the bench with his head in his hands. He was fully dressed, except for his helmet. His body was drenched in sweat, hair flat against his scalp. Robbie’s shoulders curled in. I smoothed out my polo shirt and sat next to him on the bench. “What’s wrong?”
Robbie got to his feet. He pulled off his jersey. “Let’s go home.”
“Is Coach still pissed that I beat you?”
“Really, Tristan? Really?”
I shut up. Fine. It didn’t matter. If he didn’t want an ounce of empathy, I wouldn’t give it to him.
So, why was that getting harder to accept?
We left the locker room and headed out to the parking lot. Snow dusted the sidewalk. As I got into the driver’s side, my phone buzzed with a text message from Heather. One acronym: POTO.
9
T he best thing about living in North Jersey was that we could hop on any bus or train straight to New York Penn Station. We mostly walked around Times Square and the theatre district, coughing in the smog and hanging out by the stage door after the show for autographs. The last time we went into the city, we saw Wicked. That was Heather’s favorite musical. It was kind of growing on me even though at first I thought it was overrated. The time before, we saw Rock of Ages, which had kick-ass, old rock songs from the eighties. The time before that, we saw Matilda, which I said was only okay even though I loved it. Heather caught my bluff because she suggested we do Trunchbull and Miss Honey for Halloween at her party. Instead I went as Gabe from Next to Normal and wore just my underwear. Everyone was all over me, except Heather, so it was almost great.
I packed a toiletry bag and finished my hair, wondering how close to the chandelier we’d be able to sit, whether we’d get first cast or understudies, what sort of effects would be used.
On a hanger were my dress pants, a pressed white shirt, and a slim, burgundy tie. On another hanger, I had a navy sports jacket. I figured I could decide how dressy I should be at that last minute.
A loud crash came from downstairs, followed by shouting. I dropped my backpack and clothes before taking off down the steps. “Everything okay?”
Robbie stood in the kitchen looking wild. He
“All right, boys. We’re done. Have a good weekend, and don’t do anything stupid. I’m looking at you, Ray-Ray,” Coach said, clapping his hands. But, before we could move, he added, “Margarine, stay here.”
I glanced at my brother, who hung his head. Raiden tapped Robbie’s shin with his stick as he passed, a sympathetic frown on his face. As I skated to the tunnel, I heard Coach’s voice. “You skated like shit.”
“I tried, Coach.”
Queasiness settled in my stomach. I knew I shouldn’t have been listening, but I stalled in the tunnel.
Coach’s tone became harsher. “No room for trying. Only doing.”
“I thought I did.”
“You want to be drafted? You want to be the best forward on the team?”
“It was one stupid exercise. It wasn’t like it was a game.”
“You want that stupid exercise to give your competition ammunition?”
“Ray-Ray freaking moonwalked over the finish.”
“Ray-Ray’s an idiot. What if a scout was watching? You need to be one hundred percent all the time. No time to be some weak-ass pansy. Give in a little, and they’ll make you bend over and take it. Understood?”
Robbie shrunk. “Yes, Coach.”
“What aren’t you going to do?”
“Bend over and take it.”
“Again. Louder. ”
My brother’s voice became terse. “I’m not going to bend over and take it.”
Coach Benoit nodded. “Forty laps as fast as possible. Then you can shower up. Maybe next time you’ll actually win.”
I hustled into the locker room so they wouldn’t know I was listening. I changed and scooted off into the shower. Most of the guys had already left practice. By the time I came out, Robbie was sitting on the bench with his head in his hands. He was fully dressed, except for his helmet. His body was drenched in sweat, hair flat against his scalp. Robbie’s shoulders curled in. I smoothed out my polo shirt and sat next to him on the bench. “What’s wrong?”
Robbie got to his feet. He pulled off his jersey. “Let’s go home.”
“Is Coach still pissed that I beat you?”
“Really, Tristan? Really?”
I shut up. Fine. It didn’t matter. If he didn’t want an ounce of empathy, I wouldn’t give it to him.
So, why was that getting harder to accept?
We left the locker room and headed out to the parking lot. Snow dusted the sidewalk. As I got into the driver’s side, my phone buzzed with a text message from Heather. One acronym: POTO.
9
T he best thing about living in North Jersey was that we could hop on any bus or train straight to New York Penn Station. We mostly walked around Times Square and the theatre district, coughing in the smog and hanging out by the stage door after the show for autographs. The last time we went into the city, we saw Wicked. That was Heather’s favorite musical. It was kind of growing on me even though at first I thought it was overrated. The time before, we saw Rock of Ages, which had kick-ass, old rock songs from the eighties. The time before that, we saw Matilda, which I said was only okay even though I loved it. Heather caught my bluff because she suggested we do Trunchbull and Miss Honey for Halloween at her party. Instead I went as Gabe from Next to Normal and wore just my underwear. Everyone was all over me, except Heather, so it was almost great.
I packed a toiletry bag and finished my hair, wondering how close to the chandelier we’d be able to sit, whether we’d get first cast or understudies, what sort of effects would be used.
On a hanger were my dress pants, a pressed white shirt, and a slim, burgundy tie. On another hanger, I had a navy sports jacket. I figured I could decide how dressy I should be at that last minute.
A loud crash came from downstairs, followed by shouting. I dropped my backpack and clothes before taking off down the steps. “Everything okay?”
Robbie stood in the kitchen looking wild. He
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