Page 65 of Line Change

I reach the rink a few minutes after Pope. His SUV is already in the player lot, but he’s not in the locker room when I get there.

My coat hides most of the teal until I reach my stall, but the room goes quiet as soon as I pull one arm free. That almost never happens, so I stop with the other sleeve caught at my wrist.

Two guys near the equipment room quit talking while Anton pauses with half his tape job hanging from the knob of his stick. Everyone who has noticed me is waiting for somebody else to say it first.

Bobby stares at my chest. “What the fuck is that?”

“My shirt got dirty.”

“That’s Miami.”

I pull my other arm free of my coat. “I know.”

Three people tell me to take it off while somebody by the showers suggests letting the trainers cut it off me. Bobby crosses the room and catches the bottom of the hammerhead crest between two fingers.

“This isn’t yours,” he says.

My pulse kicks anyway. I pull the fabric out of his hand. “It’s Pope’s.”

The answer gets more noise than the shirt did.

Bobby follows when I try to get to my stall. “Why are you wearing Pope’s clothes?”

I put my bag on the bench. “I spilled Pad Thai on mine.”

“At his place?”

“Yeah. We were playing Mario Kart, and I fell asleep on the couch.”

I rehearsed it twice in the car. I busy myself with my bag so I don’t have to watch Bobby decide whether he believes me.

The door opens before I have to answer.

Pope comes through the door with his gear bag in one hand. His shoulders tighten as he looks from Bobby standing over me to the old Miami shirt.

Bobby turns on him. “Fraser says he slept at your place.”

Pope looks at me. For half a second, I want to tell Bobby to mind his own business and see what happens.

“On the couch,” Pope says.

“He says you were playing Mario Kart.”

Pope’s hand stays on the zipper of his bag. “Yeah.”

Bobby looks between us. “Who won?”

“Pope,” I say.

Pope sits and opens his bag. “I did.”

That is enough to turn the room on me. Anton wants to know how I lost to Pope while the guys near the equipment room argue over whether it counts if Pope owns the console. I let them talk and start on my shoes, though my fingers slip off the lace on the first try.

Bobby isn’t finished. “Did he make you breakfast?”

I look at Pope. His attention is on his gear, but he has gone still again.

I could say no and make the morning disappear. “Yeah.”