Chapter Twelve

February

The weekend in Montreal had flown by faster than Ryan had even thought might be possible, and it had been even better than he'd thought possible. Rosa Aronson was as different from his father as you could imagine, and Eric had been so visibly happy to be at home with her again that Ryan still got a little reflective glow of it in his chest whenever he thought about it.

That had been the strangest thing to realize about Eric: that under the fighting and the sarcasm and the abrupt rudeness, he was really just a guy who loved his parents more than anything and lived for hockey and was game for whatever stupid ideas Ryan came up with in bed. That he had the same little unhealed wound of regret when it came to his father that Ryan had about his own mother. That they had nothing in common at all in many ways but also everything in common in the ways that really mattered.

It was almost a shock going back to work and dealing with the realities of being the head coach of a major league hockey team. Part of Ryan's brain was still in Montreal, waking up next to Eric in the bed that was technically too small, or walking in Mont Royal, or helping Rosa wash the dishes. Instead of any of that, Ryan was right back in the swing of leading practices, handling the media afterward, planning strategies and managing the lineup.

The first practice after the break proved to be kind of a mess. It was clear that Cook and Williams were exhausted, and also that several of the other members of the team had been using the time off from work to party it up. Keen and Martel both showed up at the practice facility with dark bags under their eyes, looking a little green around the gills, and Ryan bit back a frustrated sigh when he noticed.

Before he could say anything, though, Ryan chanced to look up at the yellow bleachers that stretched along the inner wall of the practice facility and froze in place. The practices were open to the public, and there were usually fans lining the stands to watch the team working through the drills. Usually, it wasn't a problem; everyone knew the rules, and no one interrupted or distracted the players.

The person who had caught Ryan's notice wasn't doing anything either, not really. But it was just like his father to show up where he wasn't wanted, to make a point that your own wishes didn't mean shit when compared to what Mark Sullivan wanted. You could establish as many boundaries as you wanted, and it didn't matter if you couldn't actually get away from him.

Dad noticed that Ryan had seen him, and although Ryan couldn't make out the details of his face this far away, he did cross his arms over his chest, which was the kind of self-satisfied gesture that Ryan knew was probably reflected in a smirk.

Petey noticed something was wrong first. "What're you looking at, Coach?"

"Unwanted visitor," Ryan said grimly, as he waited at the red line to start the latest drill.

Petey's gaze traveled up to the stands, but obviously he didn't recognize Ryan's dad. "Oh yeah?"

"I guess I never told him he couldn't come, but I'd hoped the fact I wouldn't get him free tickets was enough of a goddamn clue for him to know he wasn't welcome."

He never knew what to expect when his father showed up to things like this. When Ryan was younger, it had usually meant being loudly heckled if he wasn't playing up to his father's standards or screamed at in the car if they had lost the game. Things had changed a little bit now that Ryan was an adult—his father never yelled at him the same way—but there was a part of Ryan that always curled up in an instinctive recoil when his dad turned the force of his disapproval on him. It was unfuckingcanny, really. Thirty years later and it still made Ryan feel like a kid again.

Ryan contemplated skating off the ice and stomping up the bleachers, skates and all. Telling his dad to get the hell out, what kind of a stunt did he think he was pulling. But that was unnecessary conflict. His dad wasn't doing anything, except sitting there, knowing that his presence would be bothering Ryan.

Ryan swallowed hard and turned back to the practice at hand. "All right, boys. We're going to be working on special teams today. Black team's on penalty kill first; gold team's power play. We'll do each drill from both sides. I especially want to see attention to detail—once again, we're working on making the right pass, not too many, not too few. You're going to need to make these reads in a split second, same as you would in the games."

"Yes, Coach," the team chorused, although he could see Keen in the back rolling his eyes.

The practice went on: Eric was using a tablet to video the players so he could immediately show them what they were doing, good or bad; it was a funny little extension of his penchant for taking pictures. It was a fast-paced practice and Ryan should have been satisfied with it, but he couldn't relax enough to pay attention.

Maybe it was his father's presence that made him feel so unsettled, maybe it was just the sour notes ruining what had been one of the best weekends of his recent memory, but Ryan had a brief moment of rage that shivered through him. As a player he'd always been a tenacious, gritty competitor, but it was fueled by his love of the game, not his fury. This was different. For a second, he felt like his skin was too tight for his body, like he might explode. He took a deep breath and counted to ten. He exhaled on another count.

"Keen, is there anything you'd like to share with the class?" Ryan said. It wasn't the tone of voice he liked to take with the boys: even with the healthy scratches, he usually strove for patience. This clipped snap wasn't anything close.

"Just that we've been doing these drills for fucking ever and the power play still sucks. Like, no offense, Coach. But it does."

Ryan thought about the way Eric always pinched his nose when he was trying not to say something he'd regret, and wondered whether that would help. He turned a flat stare on Keen. "While some of that is strategy, Keen, it's also on execution. Which is why we have returned, once again, to doing the drills. It's not your concern, particularly, as you are not going to be on either power play unit this game."

Keen's chin lifted and his eyes were briefly mutinous. Ryan could feel the tension of the moment in the silence on the ice. He had the room and had had it since the beginning of the year when he had come in and given them his pitch. That hadn't changed, even though they'd gone through a roller coaster of a season with a few hot streaks here and there followed by abject blowouts, a season marred by injuries and roster shuffling. He had the room, but that didn't mean the boys weren't waiting to see how he would deal with something like this.

Keen stared back at him, but eventually, looked away first. As soon as he broke eye contact, some of the tension broke too, and everyone moved into position to start running through the drills.

Ryan always did the drills with the team, and he usually liked skating hard through them, whistle clenched between his teeth, stick in his hands as he passed and shot with the rest of them. Sometimes, the coaches would have their own little side-game going, who could get the most shots on net, who could skate the drill the cleanest among all of the suited-up players on the ice. It made things fun .

Today wasn't like that, though. It didn't matter what he did, he was constantly aware of his father at the corner of his peripheral vision, watching. Probably judging. Since Ryan had become the head coach of the Beacons, his father had often offered unsolicited advice in voice mails and text messages that Ryan tried to ignore. Ryan was well aware of what Mark Sullivan thought about his coaching style, and it wasn't positive. Having him there felt like an itch between his shoulder blades, just out of reach, building and building until it was almost painful.

"Ryan?" Eric said, during a lull in the activity. "You okay?"

"My dad," Ryan said, jerking his chin up in the direction of the stands.

Eric looked up, a slow, level look. Ryan didn't have to say anything more; Eric immediately understood the situation. "Ah."

The drill was a good one, even if Ryan was working distracted and out of sorts. He wondered whether anyone could tell by his face. The boys were skating hard, and each time he blew the whistle short and sharp to bring new players out into the drill area, it all went smoothly. When he blew three blasts of the whistle to indicate that the black and gold teams were to switch their positions, he realized that Eric wasn't on the ice anymore. For a second, Ryan stopped skating himself, wondering whether he'd hurt himself somehow.

It took a minute before he could see Eric's gangly frame, still in skates, stomping his way up the stairs of the bleachers. Which was— what the fuck. He was going to ruin his blades.

Eric wasn't just headed up the stands, he was making a beeline for Ryan's father. And then he stood there, looming over him. Ryan couldn't hear what they were saying, or even really see his father's facial expression, but judging by the agitated hand gestures that flashed around the side of Eric's body, whatever Eric had told him was not what he wanted to hear.

Disoriented, Ryan blew the whistle again to signal a change. Not everyone had noticed something was wrong, of course, but Williams, who was waiting for his turn, skated up to him. "Is everything okay, Coach?"

"Uh, yeah," Ryan said. "Sorry, just distracted."

"What's Coach Aronson doing?"

Eric's back was still facing the ice, but he hadn't moved. Whatever he was saying to Ryan's father was still ongoing. Mark Sullivan stood, and for a second, Ryan wondered whether he was going to try to hit him. Even in his playing days, Mark had been known as a rat, the kind of guy who wouldn't wait to ask you if you wanted to go before the gloves were coming off. He was older now, achier and heavier, but that didn't mean he didn't still have a temper.

Eric could handle himself, of course, but Ryan still didn't want him to have to.

"He's talking to my father."

"Your dad ?"

Ryan chuckled, although it wasn't a noise with much amusement behind it. "Yes. You knew I'm a local boy, of course. He was bound to turn up for practices at some point."

Williams's dark, thoughtful gaze had turned back up to the bleachers, where Eric was still speaking with Ryan's father. His father had raised his voice, but his words were still indistinct beneath the noise of the practice. All Ryan could hear was a garbled, furious insistence that he had every right to be here in a public facility. Eric, on the other hand, was still speaking quietly enough that his response was lost in the noise.

His father scowled at Eric and flipped him both middle fingers, said " Fuck you" loudly enough that the sound carried down to the ice. Everyone froze, watching in silence as he stomped down the line of seats, broad body shaking with fury as he made his way toward the exit. Eric followed behind him, and as they both came into a closer view, Ryan could finally see their faces clearly. Eric and his satisfied smirk, Dad's face mottled red with fury.

It was awkward. The kind of public scene his father's wife despised. Chelsea hadn't come, of course, but Ryan could imagine her face draining of color while Dad ranted at her once he got back. She always nodded and agreed with him, but that didn't mean anything. Dad was great at steamrolling people into acquiescence.

Eric shot him a brief thumbs-up, then looked at the team and said, "What are you lot looking at? Back to fucking work, boys."

When Eric had made his way down to the ice, Ryan asked, "What the hell did you say to him?"

"Just told him that he wasn't welcome here today, and that if he wanted to make a scene, I was more than happy to provide him with one." Eric's smile was a little crooked, and not for the first time, Ryan regretted the fact that he couldn't kiss him whenever he wanted. "Surprising how far a few polite words can get you after all. Should've tried that one during my playing days."

He had shocked a laugh out of Ryan, a short bark, and Keen's head whipped around to glare at them. Ryan ignored him. "You didn't have to do all of that, Eric. Thank you. But I was fine with him here."

Eric just looked at him, head cocked a little to the side. He did look very much like a crow in that moment, his bright, dark eyes seeing right through Ryan. "Maybe you were, maybe you weren't. But I took care of it for you anyway." There was an awkward little pause, like he'd swallowed off something else he was going to say. "Don't worry about it. I don't know if he'll be back, but we'll all be here if he is. He's a real asshole, huh?"

"You have no idea. One of my first hockey memories is him pounding the glass so hard after I took a penalty, he shattered it."

"Holy shit, Ryan."

"Yeah, well. Now you know why I'm so focused on making sure everyone gets along. What'd you call it the first week? My kumbaya shit?"

"We've both come a long way since then, I think," Eric said, and patted him on the shoulder.

"You're right," Ryan said. All of a sudden, he knew with certainty something that had been wheeling around in the back of his head. They were up against the cap limit, and some of the veterans were underperforming. There were a few prospects in Providence that he wanted to give a chance, wanted to see how they could do after the trade deadline. He'd been avoiding it, knowing the conflict that would result. But now? He knew. "I want to talk to Conroy about waiving Keen."

Eric whistled. "Finally."

"It's time," Ryan said, watching the players running through the drills again. While they had been talking, Petey and Heidi had stepped in smoothly to take over, make sure things were still running. "He's been a real disruption in practice. And his effort on the ice...well, the less said about that, the better."

"You don't have to convince me," Eric said, laughing. "I was on board from the beginning. But I'm just—this is a big step for you, buddy."

"It's the right one." Strangely enough, he knew, as he said it, that it was true, with all of the certainty he always felt when he knew he'd made a good play, something that was going to end up in the back of the net. "All right. I'll get Conroy on the phone after practice, and I'll see what he thinks."

"Are you kidding?" Eric teased. "His homegrown coaching prodigy? The only question he's gonna have is how fast can he get that guy on a bus to Providence."

Ryan's stomach still felt unsettled: the vague sense of shame that he still hadn't been able to confront his father himself, the flare of heat in his chest when Eric had just done it for him anyway, the tingling nerves up and down his spine of figuring out how that phone call was going to go. He shoved all of it down. He didn't have time for this. He had a practice to run. Taking a deep breath, Ryan blew the whistle to stop the drill, and said, "All right, now we are going to talk about gap coverage on the penalty kill..."

And he had Eric and Petey and Heidi behind him.

The main takeaway that Eric had had from the Montreal trip—besides the fact that he'd somehow fallen in love with Ryan Sullivan—was that Maman also fucking loved Ryan. And not only that, she was all too eager to team up with him to find out all kinds of embarrassing stories about Eric's childhood. He smiled, a little, thinking about the two of them at Maman's kitchen table, Ryan listening eagerly as she told him a story about how during Eric's bar mitzvah, he'd corrected the rabbi in front of the entire congregation about a particular point in the Torah portion Eric had been reading.

"You were a little know-it-all even then, huh?" Ryan had asked.

"Little? I was already six feet tall," Eric had retorted. He'd grinned. "Unfortunately, you'll never get anywhere near there."

Ryan had flushed, although it was the half-pleased way that he always did these days, when Eric teased him. Because they both knew how much they enjoyed the size difference, how it worked in bed. Neither of them could say that in front of Eric's mother, but they'd known it, and as soon as Eric had been able to get him upstairs and into his room, he'd showed him.

As practice wound down, Eric thought about Mark Sullivan's furious face, the way he'd spat venomous words back at Eric when Eric had asked him to leave. Ryan hadn't asked him to do it, of course. Ryan would never have asked for anything like that. His default manner of dealing with his family was avoidance, the same way that his default manner of dealing with Keen and some of the more useless veterans had also boiled down to it.

Eric had been happy to step in between them. But that didn't mean that knowing exactly what a vile person Sullivan was made him feel any better. He thought about Ryan as a boy, growing up in that household. Thought about Ryan's broad smile and bright brown eyes and the way he was so fucking earnest about everything. Thought about Mark Sullivan trying to crush that earnestness underfoot. No wonder Ryan never wanted to go home.

The coaching staff had gone into Ryan's office after the practice, listening on speaker while he spoke to Conroy about Keen and the request for waiver. Conroy hadn't been surprised, and Ryan had been short and to the point. When the call had ended, they went to tell Keen, before it was confirmed with the league.

Predictably, he reacted badly. "You're waiving me? You're fucking kidding."

"You should be glad that Sully is a more patient man than I am," Eric said shortly. "Or you would have been sent down to Providence in December."

"You had a chance to change your attitude and your play," Ryan added, because of course he was always so reasonable about it. "The closer we're getting to the trade deadline, the more roster flexibility I'm going to need, especially with call-ups. Unfortunately, Jesse, you are the odd man out on this one."

Keen spat on the floor of the locker room. He muttered something under his breath that sounded awfully like fuck all of you . And with that, he turned around and stalked out of the practice facility.

Ryan drove Eric back to his apartment, silent and out of sorts. Eric thought about the language Mark Sullivan had snarled at him and the hot fury that had risen in his chest. He hadn't told Ryan about what his father had said. There was no need to upset him. But it had been an internal triumph that Eric hadn't let himself be baited into doing something stupid. He'd been polite and he'd been steely and eventually, he had won.

"Ryan," Eric said, sliding his hand sideways to grip Ryan's thigh. The muscle was tense under his hands, even sitting in the car. "Are you okay?"

Ryan's brown eyes were troubled, his mouth, almost always smiling, turned down at the corner. "Should I have said something to my dad? I don't like the idea of you fighting my battles for me."

"You didn't have to say anything to him if you didn't want to."

Ryan flicked the turn signal on, his eyes checking the right-of-way. It was convenient; he didn't have to look directly at Eric while he was driving. "It's just—you saw a little bit of how he is. When he gets angry, he won't stop fighting until he's just fucking destroyed everything in his path. I learned really early on that it was just easier not to engage. And honestly, it's the only way I've ever been able to have a relationship with any of them."

"Ryan," Eric said quietly, "you know them best. And you know...you may not have been a fighter, but you were always tough to play against. Don't forget that now, when things are complicated."

"Thanks," Ryan replied, except he still sounded out of sorts. Frustrated.

"Maybe it just wasn't the right time."

"When will it be? When will it ever be? Jesus, Eric, what if I'm always a coward like this?"

"It's not cowardly. Trust me. If you think what you got with me was a scene, you can only imagine what it would have been like if you'd confronted him today. He probably would've blown a gasket."

"Oh, he wouldn't've left, that's for sure," Ryan said, and sighed. He turned on the radio—of course, it was already tuned to 98.5, the sports-talk station. They drove in silence, listening to the hosts of the show chatter on about the happenings in the league.

"And this is just in, following an investigation by the law firm of Johnson Brown & Williams, the final report on the Railers' handling of the sexual abuse allegations during their Cup run decades ago has been returned. We have not been able to read the contents of the report, but it appears that the entire front office, along with Richard Terrance, the Railers' longtime head coach, have been fired."

"Holy shit," Ryan said, and glanced sideways at Eric for the first time. "If they got rid of Terrance —that's huge."

"He must have known," Eric said grimly. "He must have known and never done anything."

Ryan's face reflected exactly what Eric felt: horror and disgust and worry. "And in the middle of the season like this, too. It must have been really bad."

"It's really hard to imagine that anyone could treat one of the boys like that," Eric muttered. "It makes me just—furious, thinking about it."

"It would never happen here," Ryan said firmly. "Not like that. You can trust me on that one."

"I do trust you to do the right thing. Quite a lot, you know."

Ryan's face was red when he glanced sideways again before turning his attention back on the road. They made the rest of the trip in silence, both lost in their own thoughts about the news.