Changing on the Fly Read online

  It was just how hockey worked. But Nick felt bad for Sparrow as he watched the media close in, scenting blood. They knew he was upset, and they wanted him to admit it. It was a better story than the usual, “I’m excited for new opportunities but will miss my teammates and the fans here in so-and-so.” Nick shifted on his feet, wishing he could do something, but he might as well have been a non-entity for all the press was concerned.

  Well, one of the reporters from HockeyTalk.com was giving him the eye but not to interview. Nick tried not to blush or make eye contact. He was terrible with girls, which made it a good thing he didn’t want to sleep with them.

  He’d tried a few times, back in juniors and when he was consistently with the Barons. Nick was never sure enough of his status on the team or in the locker room to know if it would be a big deal or not if he came out. Last season, he’d been a starting defensemen for the Barons, but he still hadn’t said anything to his teammates. It wasn’t like he was dating anyone. He spent most of his time either on the ice, napping, at the gym, or traveling between Rochester and Buffalo. Not a lot of time to have a relationship.

  And now he was going to Philadelphia to play for the Foxes. Maybe that was the reason Sparrow was so upset, and if it was, Nick couldn’t blame him. The Foxes were awful, very likely out of playoff contention and making trades to build a better team for the following season. Nick might have played in the playoffs if one of the key guys on the Knights was out, but it hadn’t been a sure thing. Sparrow, however? Yeah. That must suck.

  The media finally left when it was apparent they weren’t going to get any expletives or tears out of Sparrow. When they were gone, the silence hung heavy, and Nick realized it was just the two of them left in the room.

  Sparrow blinked rapidly as he met Nick’s gaze. His eyes were red, but he didn’t say anything.

  Nick didn’t know what to say, either, so he just stared back.

  “First trade?” Sparrow asked, his voice a little unsteady.

  Nick nodded. “Yeah.”

  “See it coming?”

  Nick shook his head no.

  “Me neither.” Sparrow looked down at his hands, which were clenched into fists, for a minute. He swore softly. “Guess we better clean out our lockers.”

  “Guess so,” said Nick.

  They worked in silence, throwing gear into bags and carefully stowing personal good-luck tokens. Nick had a stall with his name on it, but one where player nameplates were printed out on a computer and could be removed easily. Sparrow’s wasn’t the same kind of locker, because he wasn’t the same kind of player.

  Nick pulled his gloves on and pulled the hood of his winter jacket up over his head. He was used to the cold by now, and wished that if he had to be traded to a terrible team, it could have least been one located somewhere warm.

  They headed out to the parking lot. It was too cold for anyone to be lingering around in an attempt to get a player’s attention. The snow danced in the light of the few lampposts, covering the few remaining cars – including Nick’s. Nick had to drive back to Rochester and be ready to leave for Philly in two days. He had no idea if he’d be playing for Foxes or their AHL team, which was in Lehigh Valley. Sparrow would be with the Foxes, no question.

  Nick stopped as Sparrow went to get into his Escalade, which he’d somehow remote started the second they got out of the building. Nick drove a 2002 Ford Focus and was lucky if it started when the key was in the ignition.

  “So, uh,” Nick said, not wanting to just walk off but still as uncertain as he’d been in the locker room about what to say. “See you in Philly, I guess.”

  “Yeah,” Sparrow muttered, yanking the door to his luxury SUV open with too much force. “See you in Philly, kid.”

  Nick managed to get his own car door open, grabbed his ice scraper, and turned the car on so he could blast the heat. He watched Sparrow drive away, leaving tire tracks in the snow.

  ***

  A FEW DAYS later, when Nick was halfway to Philly, his agent, John, called to tell him he’d been given a spot on the Foxes’ roster and wouldn’t have to turn around and head to the minor-league Cubs in Lehigh. That was a relief. He was tired of driving. A sign of just how tired he was? Learning he’d made an NHL team roster merely made him smile. He knew John would call his parents, who would be thrilled. Maybe not as thrilled as they were when Nick’s brother, Jacob, got a spot on the hometown Winnipeg Aces, but still.

  Nick’s brother had been the kind of player who was drafted at eighteen in the first round and went on to play in the NHL without a single minute played in the minors. All the firsts had gone to him – first juniors’ championship, first draft day, first time playing in the Stanley Cup playoffs. Jacob had been in the running for the Calder trophy for the league’s best rookie his first year, though he’d lost out to a guy from the Washington Centurions. Nick loved his brother a lot, but he was determined to be the first Miles brother to win the Stanley Cup. Except now that he was on a team in the basement of the Metropolitan Division, it might be a little while.

  The idea that he was an honest-to-Gretzky NHL player started to sink in the closer he got to Philly. Nick would have his own locker and everything. The thought cheered him, and – along with a stop for coffee and a donut – helped the last hour of his five-hour drive fly by.

  His phone chimed a few times, both with text messages and a missed call he’d bet was from his parents. But he needed to get to the arena in a hurry so he wasn’t late to meet the coach. Nick wondered if Sparrow was as happy about being here as he was. Probably not.

  It wasn’t quite as snowy in Philly, but it was just as cold. Nick parked and made his way inside the arena in search of the locker room. He was still in his parka, and he pushed the hood off, tugging at the zipper as he traversed the corridors.

  The coach of the Philly Foxes was Mike Samuels. He greeted Nick with a handshake and a distracted smile, waving him into the messy office.

  Nick took off his parka, sat in the indicated chair, and slung the coat over his lap.

  “I suppose you know you’re on our roster and won’t be going to Lehigh.”

  Nick nodded. “Yes, Coach.” He remembered his manners. “Thank you. For, um, the opportunity.”

  Coach Samuels had piercing blue eyes that made Nick think the man was opening him up: looking for weaknesses and searching for strengths. “We’re going to see how you fit in with the team, so it’s not a guarantee that you’re here to stay. But you’re a good player, a good D-man, and the trade is a commitment to building a strong team with a reliable core group of players.”

  Nick knew this speech and what it really meant. There’s no hope of the playoffs this year, but maybe next season. Maybe. Rebuilding was a tricky and delicate process.

  “You’ll be in the game tomorrow night here against Boston.”

  That was exciting. Nick had never played against the Battalion before.

  “Quiet one, aren’t you,” Coach Samuels said, but even though he laughed, it wasn’t mean. Nick blushed anyway and made some mumbled agreement before he was shown to his locker to put away his gear.

  Nick wanted to take out his cell phone and snap a picture of his nameplate and number, but he didn’t because the coach was in there and so were a few other guys – trainers, probably, by the looks of them.

  A few feet away was an empty locker with E. Sparrow written above it. Nick glanced at it every so often as he unpacked his gear, wondering if Sparrow had shown up yet, but not wanting to ask.

  After he was finished, Coach Samuels handed him a piece of paper and a set of keys. “The team is putting you up at a place until you can find your own. We have a realtor that works with the team; I left her information on the fridge in the condo.”

  Nick pocketed the keys. “Thanks, Coach.”

  Samuels chuckled. “You’re a lot different than Sparrow, that’s for sure.”

  So Sparrow had arrived.

  Chapter Two

  THE TOWNHOUSE WAS a f
ew blocks from the arena. Nick pulled his Focus into the driveway and noticed the place had a one-car garage. That would come in handy for the rest of the winter. He’d never had a garage before.

  He grabbed his duffel and left the rest of his belongings to have a look around. To his surprise, the door was already open. Worried, he pulled back to look at the number and checked it with the address on the paper. He went inside.

  And found Everett Sparrow pacing the living room, looking agitated and speaking to someone on the phone.

  “No, I haven’t changed my mind, and anyway, it wouldn’t matter—” he stopped as he got a look at Nick. He was clearly neither expecting nor pleased to see him. “Look, I have to go.”

  Nick shifted his duffle to his other shoulder. Of course, Sparrow would be here too. He wondered why Coach Samuels hadn’t mentioned it. “Sorry,” Nick muttered, and looked around sort of wildly. He shouldn’t have to apologize for walking into his own place, but Sparrow made him nervous.

  “Close the door,” Sparrow snapped. “It’s fucking freezing.”

  Nick did so, and when he turned around, Sparrow was gone. Nick dropped his bag by the stairs and went to the galley kitchen, determined to get over whatever his shyness with his new teammate was. “The bedrooms upstairs?”

  “Mine’s the first one on the left,” Sparrow said, not looking at him. He was staring in the mostly empty refrigerator, a poignant and determined gesture that said I don’t want to talk to you.

  Nick wondered how long Sparrow had been here. “Cool. Coach said I should stay here until I found someplace permanent.”

  Sparrow didn’t say anything, which wasn’t really anything new. He was hot as hell, but his personality needed some serious work. At least, Nick could have some covert eye-candy while they were forced to share a house.

  One thing they definitely couldn’t share was the garage. Sparrow had already parked his Escalade inside, so it looked as if Nick wasn’t quite done scraping ice off his windshield.

  ***

  THEY TOOK SEPARATE cars to the arena for morning skate, though Nick had offered to drive. Sparrow gave a curt shake of his head and was on his phone in his Escalade before Nick could so much as blink. Nick was irritated by Sparrow’s gruffness, but he was nervous about the day ahead, so he just climbed in the Focus – which he’d parked on the street – and tried to put his surly teammate out of his mind.

  The Foxes were nice enough, greeting him with handshakes and a back slap as they filtered into the locker room. The team captain, David Anders, asked him how the house was and if he was settling in, if he needed anything. No one said much of anything to Sparrow, who was quietly unpacking his gear and wearing a pair of headphones. He got a few weird looks, and Nick saw more than a few eye-rolls.

  On the ice it was all-professional. Nick had to struggle a little to keep up at first, but he found his groove and his D-man partner, Stefan “Rems” Remek, was helpful and nice enough if not overly chatty. Hockey was hockey, and no matter what team you were on or what language your teammates spoke, the game was the same. It was familiar and comforting to fall into the drills and let his body take over.

  Nick had always been quiet and reserved, always worried that his preferences would be somehow obvious to his teammates, and it wouldn’t be taken well. By the time he’d learned that it shouldn’t be a big deal, hiding his sexuality was as instinctual as his hockey skills.

  Chris Harris, the Fox’s enforcer known as “Harry” to the team, wandered over with Rems after morning skate. “Hey, Milesy,” he said, easily adopting Nick’s surname into a nickname. “I played with your brother in juniors.”

  Nick made an effort to have a conversation with the easygoing Harris, and before long, they’d invited him to grab some lunch. It was a game day and that meant a light lunch, a nap, and then a team dinner. He was glad to have someone reach out to him, and as he left, he noticed Sparrow sitting on the bench in front of his locker, staring at his shoes.

  ***

  “SO HE’S NOT very friendly, eh?” said Harry, as they were finishing lunch. “Sparrow.”

  What should he say to that? Nick shrugged, feeling an odd sense of loyalty though he didn’t know why. He didn’t want to start rumors, but Sparrow wasn’t friendly; it’s not like it was a secret. “I don’t know him very well,” he admitted. “I was with the Barons most of the time and only played a few games with the Knights. He might just be having a rough time with the move. People really liked him in Buffalo.” There, that sounded polite enough.

  “People won’t like him here if he doesn’t talk,” said Harry. He paused. “Well, they might if he scores goals and helps us win games.”

  “We don’t do that a lot,” Remek added then sighed. “It’s been a rough season.”

  Nick picked at the remains of his baked chicken and wished he could put cheese sauce on his broccoli. “He’s good, though,” he offered, feeling as if he should say something complimentary. “On the ice, I mean.”

  “Sure.” Harry smiled, all easy charm. “Eat up, Milesy. You ready for the game tonight? I’d say we had a rivalry with the Battalion, but lately, the only rivalry we have is with the win column.”

  Remek snorted, and Nick gave a small laugh. “I’m ready,” he said, and felt the first stir of anticipation. It wasn’t his first NHL game, but it was just as exciting a milestone for Nick. He wanted to do well here. He wanted to be worth the trade they’d made.

  They lost to Boston, 4 to 1, but Nick played well, and the coach praised him for his on-ice efforts and gave him a friendly pat on the back after the game. Sparrow scored their only goal and earned himself some major points with the team, on the ice if nowhere else. Sparrow was a totally different man when he was playing hockey – a lot less broody and tense, he actually smiled when he scored his goal and celebrated with his new teammates. Nick wondered if the good cheer was genuine and hoped that it was. The guys knew that Sparrow’s trade was a huge adjustment, and they’d been giving Sparrow space in the locker room to make the adjustment. They were good guys, the Foxes.

  The media that night were all over Sparrow in the locker room, asking about the trade and the new team. It was eerily similar to that night in Buffalo. Nick stood in the background, once again forgotten, just a new kid up from the minors to play with the big boys. That he’d come along with Sparrow was apparently of no interest. He couldn’t say he was sad to be spared an interview – he wasn’t the kind of player gifted at giving sound bites and the cameras made him uncomfortable – but it was mildly irritating to be ignored.

  Sparrow shocked the hell out of him, though, at the end of his interview. “Milesy had a good game, too,” he added; it was an afterthought, but it sounded sincere.

  Nick blushed and smiled a little as the cameras flashed at him. He answered a few questions about the trade and said that yes, he was very excited to be here on the roster. He was happy that Sparrow had remembered he existed, until it became apparent that Sparrow had mentioned him only as a means of escape.

  When he got home, Sparrow’s Escalade was nowhere to be seen, so Nick parked his Focus in the garage.

  Chapter Three

  THE TEAM LEFT for an extended road trip a few weeks later. The season would be winding down for the Foxes, who wouldn’t have a spot in the playoffs unless six other teams spontaneously ceased existing. In some ways, the lack of pressure was good for the team. They won a few games before leaving on the trip, and the consensus was that the trade was beneficial. Nick was finding his stride playing with Rems and was beginning to feel like he was part of the Foxes. It was a nice feeling, even if the team wasn’t that good.

  Harry had sort of adopted him in a big-brotherly way. He was a bear of a guy, six-foot-three with a full bushy head of red hair and a beard, and the crowd loved him. He trash-talked constantly and drew a lot of penalties. Too bad the Foxes hadn’t scored a power play goal in thirteen games and were ranked dead last in the NHL. It didn’t stop Harris from doing his job, which Nick found e
ndearing if not a little frustrating. The Foxes’ penalty kill wasn’t much better than their power play, and Harry ended up in the box about as often as he put other players in it.

  On the road, Nick and Sparrow were roommates. Sparrow filled up the hotel room as if he were three times larger than he was. At home, Sparrow wore the typical pro-athlete uniform of sweats or running pants and t-shirts with either sports-or-brand-name logos. Which meant that Nick had not expected him to come walking out of the bathroom in Detroit wearing nothing but a pair of tight boxer-briefs.

  Nick was sitting on the edge of the bed, in his suit, playing a game on his phone. He could feel his face turn as red as the bird he was lobbing toward a pyramid of pigs as he took in Sparrow standing all but naked in front of him. Sparrow was classically good-looking, chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones, short, spiky dark hair, and coffee-brown eyes. His body was as perfect as you’d expect for a guy who’d been playing professional sports for a few years, honed and toned in all the right ways.

  Nick tried not to look, but it was impossible. Sparrow was right there. Besides, he could feel Sparrow’s dark eyes boring into him, so finally he gave up failing at Angry Birds and looked up.

  Sparrow smiled like he did on the ice sometimes— when it was genuine. It made Nick’s insides flip around; it definitely didn’t help that Sparrow was hot as hell and smiling. “You blushing, kid?”

  “No,” Nick mumbled, but he was and he knew it. It was probably obvious, as fair skinned as he was. He waved a hand. “I wasn’t expecting —”

  “Me to look so awesome without a shirt?” Sparrow teased, and Nick snorted a laugh before he could help himself.