Empty Net (8 page)

Laurent heard a soft noise that might have been a laugh, and he scowled at the idea of Coach laughing at him. “You don’t have—”

“St. Savoy, whatever it is you’re going to say, don’t,” Coach Samarin interrupted. “Do you want to be in goal for this game or not?”

It took Laurent a moment to realize he was being asked, not told. He was utterly thrown by the question. “What?”

“The game against the Ravens,” Samarin said, his voice perfectly even. “I am asking you if you want to start in goal.”

“Why?” Laurent knew how that sounded, like a challenge he didn’t necessarily mean, but he couldn’t help it.

It seemed as if Coach Samarin understood Laurent’s instinctive reaction, because some of his cold formality seemed to melt a little. “You are making an effort. I am doing the same. All right?”

Laurent stared warily at him. He hated everything about being subjected to Coach Samarin’s unexpected kindness.

“If you don’t want to play, you’ll start the next game in Orlando,” Coach Samarin continued. “Whether or not you are in Asheville, this is your choice. So make it. Now.” Despite the harshness of that, Coach Samarin didn’t sound mean. Only resolute.

It made Laurent relax in much the same way Isaac’s calling him Saint
and telling him not to talk did. “I don’t—I don’t know,” he said, hating that he was showing any vulnerability at all. He looked at Samarin and breathed a little faster. “I don’t
know
.” Laurent’s shoulders slumped, and he looked down at his hands. They were clenched into fists.

“Would you like my advice?”

The urge to tell the coach to fuck himself was overwhelming. But Laurent thought about Isaac, waiting for him outside the office, and the promise he made. He pulled his fingers apart and smoothed them over his thighs again. “Yes.”

“I think you should play,” Samarin said. “I think you should do your best in front of your net—our net—and treat it like any other game.” He paused. “He’s not your coach anymore. I am.”

Laurent’s head snapped up, and he couldn’t breathe. Had Isaac told him anything? Laurent knew he shouldn’t have trusted him. He
knew
it. “Whatever Isaac told you—”

“He didn’t tell me anything,” Samarin interrupted. “He doesn’t need to. I hated my father too.”

Shame made Laurent’s eyes fill up with hot, angry tears. He couldn’t do that. He was going to lose it right there in the coach’s office, and the only thing he could think to do was say something awful enough for Samarin to kick him out. Or off the team. Or beat him up until Laurent didn’t feel anything at all.

Be quiet, Saint.
He heard Isaac’s voice and his words, even though Isaac wasn’t there. And it helped him to breathe.

“So it’s up to you,” Samarin continued. “This time, and only this time. So. What is your decision?”

Laurent raised his head and thought about it. He wanted to be worth whatever was making Coach Samarin give him a concession—or whatever made Isaac Drake turn around and come back when he heard Laurent sobbing in the showers. He hated playing hockey, but he didn’t hate Isaac.

He raised his head and met Samarin’s dark stare with his own. “I’ll play,” he said, his voice as even as he could make it. “And I’ll get a shutout.”

Coach Samarin’s mouth quirked into the smallest of smiles. “I’ll hold you to that.” Laurent thought he looked pleased. Then his expression smoothed, and he waved Laurent out of his office.

LAURENT WAS
going to be a mess. Isaac just knew it.

The game in Asheville was one of the nastier games of hockey Isaac could remember, even more so because he was watching instead of playing. And that was hard, because he wanted to be playing. Seeing those assholes in their black, blue, and orange uniforms made him angry, but being on the bench and watching Denis St. Savoy was like torture
.

He wanted to leap over the boards, skate across the ice, and put his fist in St. Savoy, Sr.’s mouth. Like that bench brawl in Toledo last season, only he wanted his whole team to dog-pile that sorry excuse for a man and beat him to a pulp, like he did to Laurent.

That was violent and inappropriate, but Isaac couldn’t help it.

He wondered how Laurent felt, playing his old team with a new one in front of him that didn’t like him all that much. The outward hostility had cooled somewhat since Laurent was making an effort, but he still wasn’t the easiest guy to get to know.

And the guys knew that Laurent playing his old team was a Thing, even if they didn’t know the extent of it. Isaac had yelled at them on the bus, during warm-ups, and in the locker room during intermission to go out there and demolish the Ravens, and of course they wanted revenge for the playoffs the year before, so they didn’t necessarily need Isaac egging them on.

When a team was knocked out of the playoffs, they typically beat that team the next time they met, and that game was no exception. The Spitfires scored three goals before the end of the second, and no matter how many fancy plays the Ravens ran or how many insults they hurled at the Spitfires or their new goalie, they couldn’t find the back of the net with a floodlight.

And for the first time, Isaac saw just how good a goaltender Laurent was.

He was
amazing.

Isaac was a good goalie, and he had a lot of natural grace and flexibility to thank for that. His stature wasn’t as broad, and he wasn’t as tall as most goalies, so he’d improved his speed and flexibility to compensate.

But as he watched Laurent, he was amazed the guy wasn’t in the NHL. In practice and during drills he’d been fine, but it was hard to measure a goalie’s talent when you had an entire hockey team skating and shooting pucks at him. Even the year before, when Laurent was in net for the Ravens, Isaac didn’t remember seeing that sort of performance from him.

I threw those games in Asheville.

Laurent was way better than the performance he turned in during the playoffs.

And he was as quiet and reserved in the locker room as always, but with more intensity and focus than his usual standoffish or prickish persona. He was also hot as fuck, with his thick dark hair all sweat tousled and his fair skin stained red from exertion.

In the second period intermission, no one said a word to him, but it wasn’t because they didn’t like him. It was because of superstition. Laurent was well on his way to a shutout, and referencing it in any way was bad luck.

The Spitfires won the game, 4-0, and for the first time, the whole team skated down the ice to give Laurent his helmet taps. Isaac was wearing his Spitfires cap, but he went out on the ice too.

Even Coach Samarin couldn’t quite keep his expression neutral when he gave Laurent a restrained pat on the back as he came in from the ice—unlike Coach Ashford, who enthusiastically knocked Laurent between the shoulder blades with a wide grin.

“Man, Saint,” Hux said to Laurent when they were getting ready to head to the hotel. “Those fuckers do not like you.”

“They don’t like anything,” Laurent said. “My fa—their coach makes sure they don’t.” He paused. “I don’t like them very much either.”

Isaac was proud of him for saying that, and the guys’ attitude thawed by a few more degrees.

But Isaac knew Laurent was going to be a mess after what was arguably a successful game, because he saw the man waiting to speak with Laurent when they were leaving the locker room.

Laurent, who’d fallen into step beside Isaac, looked not so much happy as grimly satisfied, which was better than his usual pissed-off expression. Isaac took a chance and bumped him with his shoulder. “Dude, that was awesome, Saint. You were great.”

And Laurent turned to him with an actual smile and said, “Thanks.”

Goddamn. He was so hot.

A cold voice interrupted Isaac’s admiration of his sort-of friend and fellow teammate.

“Laurent. I expect a word with you.”

Isaac’s entire body went rigid as he saw St. Savoy step out of the shadows toward his son and reach out for Laurent’s arm. And he reacted before he could think about it and stepped neatly in front of Laurent, even though St. Savoy, Sr. had just as many inches on Isaac as his son.

Fuck that shit. Isaac would show St. Savoy, Sr. what it meant to be
scrappy.
“We’ve got to catch the bus,” Isaac said, which wasn’t the most brilliant thing he could have come up with, but he was too keyed up by St. Savoy’s sudden appearance.

“I
will
speak to my son,” St. Savoy said, snidely and looked down his bulbous, stupid nose at Isaac.

“It’s fine,” Laurent muttered next to him.

“Seriously. We’ll be late. Don’t want to make Coach mad.” Because Isaac had never learned when to keep his mouth shut, he added, “We respect our coach enough to do what he says and follow the rules.”

Lamest jab ever, but it was something.

Laurent had inherited nothing from his unattractive father but his height and build, and St. Savoy, Sr. had eyes that were nowhere as rich a brown as his son. They were also cold and beady. And mean. Isaac hated him, because bullies pissed him off.

St. Savoy said something in French, and Laurent actually reached out and pushed Isaac aside—and not nicely. Isaac didn’t speak French, so he didn’t know what it was, or what Laurent said back to him. But he did know what it meant when Laurent said, “Leave it alone, Drake.” Return of the Prick, apparently.

There was only so much he could do. St. Savoy
was
Laurent’s father, and Laurent used that sneering, dickhead voice, but his eyes gave a different, far more desperate message.
Please leave it alone.

“Okay. But you better be on the bus. You don’t want to have to walk.” Isaac hated leaving him there, but he didn’t want to give St. Savoy, Sr. any more reason to be mad at his son.

“Laurent is staying at home tonight,” his father said. He gave Isaac a disgusted stare. “My son doesn’t need to—”

“Ah, Drake. St. Savoy. There you are.” He heard Coach Samarin’s voice, even and smooth, as he moved toward them. “Please get on the bus so we can go to the hotel.”

“Samarin, you can’t stop me from speaking with my own son,” St. Savoy, Sr. snapped.

Coach Samarin looked at Denis St. Savoy as if he were nothing but a bug on the bottom of his shoe. “The bus. Both of you. Now.”

Isaac took a step, but Laurent’s father reached out and grabbed his son’s arm hard enough to make Laurent wince.

When Misha saw St. Savoy grab Laurent and saw Laurent’s automatic response, Isaac knew things were dangerous. Misha muttered in Russian and then stepped forward and said, “You may see your son on his time, not mine. The bus, Laurent, Isaac.
Now.
”

He didn’t touch Laurent, but when St. Savoy let go of his arm, he deliberately put himself between them. Samarin was taller than Denis and about a thousand times more dangerous.

Laurent’s face was pale and his dark eyes wide as he looked between his father and his coach. Isaac waited not one second longer and nudged him toward the bus. He knew instinctively that Laurent didn’t want to be touched, but he also knew that he would physically drag Laurent away if necessary.

St. Savoy was clearly going to try and say something about it to Coach Samarin, but Samarin just turned his back and walked away. That enraged St. Savoy, who shouted something at his son in French, and whatever it was, it made Laurent inhale sharply next to Isaac.

Everyone was talking on the bus. A few people had seen the altercation, but Coach Samarin’s face made everyone pause. He looked infuriated—the exact opposite of how he should look after a shutout win over their rivals. But then he sat down next to Coach Ashford, the engine turned on, and the bus was on its way.

Isaac looked out the window and could just see Denis St. Savoy’s figure, alone in the parking lot.

He resisted the urge to wave. Or maybe flip the guy off.

Laurent sat next to Isaac and trembled.

“What did he say?” Isaac asked in a low voice. He was surprised that Laurent wanted to sit next to him, but glad they could talk without anyone overhearing. “Saint?”

As always the name seemed to reach through whatever dark fog held Laurent in its grip. He gazed at Isaac. “I’m not telling you.”

“Why? Dude, I know he’s a prick. You can say it to me.”

“No. I promised I wasn’t going to say that stuff to you anymore.”

Isaac made a face. “That bad, huh?”

Laurent slumped down in his seat. “I can’t do that again.”

“Talk to him? You don’t have to,” Isaac promised, though he had no idea how he was going to keep it.

“No. I mean. Play like that,” Laurent said, drawing in on himself. “It’s too…. He’ll make me come back.” He looked around, visibly panicked. “He’ll expect that, but I’ll do it, and he’ll hate it. He can’t stand when I’m good. He can’t stand when I’m not good. He can’t stand
me.
”

“Hey.” Isaac was worried. He expelled a breath and thought about what he could say. “He can’t make us trade you. We’re not going to. Okay?”

Laurent gave a wild, trapped laugh. “You don’t know anything, Drake. You think you do, but you don’t. You have no idea what he can do… what he’s done.”

“Well, I know Coach Samarin could beat him up,” Isaac said seriously.

Laurent stopped talking. He looked at Isaac. “He could get Coach Samarin fired. And that’s what he told me he was going to do. He hates him. Because he stood up for me.”

“I don’t think he can do that,” Isaac said, trying to be soothing. “On what grounds? That Coach Samarin told his player it was time to get on the bus?”

Laurent opened his mouth, but suddenly Hux loomed over the seat in front of them. He held some comics in one hand and a graphic novel in the other. “Hey. Saint. Your dad sucks balls. Here’s your comics.” He handed over the
Demon Detective
series.

“And I don’t know if you’ve read
Judge Dredd,
but it’s awesome. Here’s the first one. He’s like, a dude that doesn’t smile and never takes his mask off. Like you, kinda. I mean you take your mask off, but you know.”