11: Box-Out

YETI

We don't talk about it. I don't mention it. I don't touch upon the subject. I don't even go near it.

He finds me at practice the next day and picks a joke, I go along with it, unable to look him in the eyes. That night he posts something easy, just a picture of him stretched out on his couch with almost no light in the room spare that of what's coming in the window and the light from his phone on his face. Steph must've taken it. Or someone else, someone I don't know. It has a time tag, ten at night, placed strategically in the corner, not covering an inch of his legs. Settled in with the white bricks in his apartment.

There's a song that's nestled in the corner, when you click on the story it opens with hit me up anytime you want, I'm thinking like soon, I think I might slip away. And the voice sounds like his, just a little, just in the strain. I find it on Spotify after opening the story for the third time in one night.

.getawayfortheweekend. by Dead Poet Society

I google them after the fourth time I open his story, I'm not sure why I keep doing it, maybe it's because it's such a good photo, maybe because of the quirk in his lip in the blue light of his phone, maybe it's that his hair is tied up, maybe its his shoulders nestled down into the couch arm rest, maybe it's the light from the city, maybe its his hips or his legs or the vein you can see on his forearm or maybe it's the clean dishes in the rack or the pile of sticks in the corner of his room or the coffee mug on the table next to him despite it being ten at night when he posted it, now 1am when I'm googling things because of him.

Dead Poet Society, the band, not the movie, met in Boston at college and is now based there.

I reopen his account and scroll, ending up skittering to a stop when I find a photo of him with eye black around his eyes and across his nose, flash photography making his pupils red and his irises so so green on their black backdrop that I wonder if he was wearing something, contacts, to make them like that.

It's definitely a concert.

He's younger, probably around his rookie season. When I check the date it confirms that he was only nineteen. He was thinner, his cheeks hadn't slimmed down yet but maybe that's a product of the smile he's giving or the light.

Nobody's tagged and the caption is so inconclusive that I almost have to guess that's who he was seeing, or guess it wasn't, or guess anything. Maybe it was just the song he likes not the band.

I listen to the song again, curious about what he likes about it, curious about what it means.

I listen and I try not to listen to the similarities in their voices as the singer goes through the with your hands wrapped around my throat, feels right, and I know you're mine line again.

The story is gone when I wake up. Oddly enough. Like it was a figment of a dream, but the google searches are still open on my phone and the song was stopped halfway through so I doubt it was fake.

I don't know how I'm going to handle flying to Tampa next to him knowing how many times I opened his story last night.

***

Nico has a basketball. Which is terrifying.

"So we're here a day early, welcome to Tampa, I hope you guys hate the heat as much as I do. It's almost December and it's literally 80 degrees. This is not supposed to be a hockey city." She throws the ball up and catches it again. "Instead of an on-ice practice today, we're doing some team-building stuff. How many of you have played basketball?"

Greenie raises his hand, I shake mine. I sort of played.

"Just you two? Damn."

"Nico, basketball season is right smack in the middle of hockey season, nobody could play around their school teams." Fen offers, a sweet and stupid look on his face watching her.

She shrugs. "Well yeah, I know, but no pickup anything? Did you guys at least play pickup?"

"Yeah, everyone plays pickup," Greenie laughs. "Plebeians, I played varsity for two years."

Nico points at him. "Why in god's name did you play basketball?"

Greenie shrugs. "The high school team was basically just grinders, and the coach knew I was on rosters to get drafted, so he didn't want me playing on a team where all I'd be was a punching bag, so I bench warmed on basketball instead."

"Nice," she looks over at me with a frown, "and why you?"

"I played everything as a kid. I played summer basketball until I was sixteen so I was alright, but not great."

"Huh," she nods, then points between Greenie and I. "Pick teams, Yeti first because he's got less experience."

I look around. "Fen." Clear choice. All around athlete and 6'3 to boot, he'll be useful.

"Finnican." He could've been useful as well, 6'6 and well-built to say the least.

"Steph." Steph's good, one of the fastest on the team, passable hand-eye coordination, and a good vertical jump. He's a full out All American Boy with a New England spin so I'm hoping that means he's played at least a few coached years somewhere in his life.

"Rocket." Fuck. I have no reason to need Rocket, I have Steph for speed, me for height, Fen for wing. All I need is another wing and another base and Rocket doesn't meet that, he would be a second Steph.

It doesn't matter, my heart still sinks into my toes watching him waltz over to Greenie's side, giving Finnican a high-five over Greenie's head.

"Paxy." I sigh, watching Rocket start to converse with his half. Paxton is good, strong and quick with an American background which means he's probably played basketball in gym and for recreation. He'll make a good second wing.

"Keegs." Keegs is a good pick for Greenie, he would probably make a great point guard, but the second line defenseman is less than tall. He's not Greenie short, but Fen and I should have no problem keeping him from shooting.

I give Langley a long look, then decide he isn't worth it. "Packard." Packard is alright, he'll make a good backup guard.

We finish up rather fast. About twelve guys to a team, and then Fen and I set up shifts. I play with Packard, Paxy, Steph, and Ukkovskky. I'm a base, so's Packard, Steph and Ukko both play in wing positions, Steph getting to shake out his offensive feathers like he likes to do in games sometimes, and Paxy, who's actually pretty surprising with a basketball, is our point guard. He went from goalie to center just fine.

Fen has four others, he's playing point on their line which I figure might go well considering his athleticism, or badly, because when he's bad at things he likes to make it fun by getting cocky, but hey, at least then this will be funny. After that, we have two alternates. The two of them haven't ever played, both being from northern Russia where basketball isn't really a sport of preference.

"Hey!" Greenie shouts over at Nico. "How are we doing teams?"

She frowns, waving at all of us, "figure it out, I didn't bring pinnies on the plane unless you want to wear helmet pinnies like hair nets."

He looks to me and I shrug, "shirts and skins."

Greenie winces, "who's doing what?"

Fen pipes up from behind me, "this guy'll burn like toast so I vote you guys."

"Rude," I huff.

"Ditto," Greenie shrugs, already tossing his shirt off to the side. I watch the other team disassemble at my sake, breathing in too hard when Rocket gets shoved out of the pack by Hiro, laughing and shoving him in return. He's still tan from summer, still has the sailboat tattoo, hair on his lower stomach, except it's all in person but not in a locker room, under the sun which makes it shine golden bronze like some fucking statue.

All is well and good until Rocket figures out how to guard and subsequently, box out. Greenie must've told the whole team that it was the one thing to keep people away from rebounds, bend over, get low, arms out behind you, cage them in. I'm not good at it but he is.

Which is great, yeah, it's cool that he picks up skills fast, it's honorable, it's impressive.

But it involves a lot of body contact. A lot of me watching sweat drip down the valley his spine is leaving, a lot of my hands hitting him, a lot of soft fucking skin starting to go pink around his shoulders from the sun.

Rocket's bent over in an athletic position. I just shot, I'm straight up. So when he crashes backward into me, I have to take it. Which is hard because I don't have a layer of padding to hide in.

Then Rocket's body is just against mine, we're both trying to get the rebound. He's quick on his feet and a good rebounder, bouncing up well past where I thought he'd be able to jump and all that but he's against me, lower back to stomach, ass to groin, one wrist bumping into my hip.

ROCKET

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.

Greenie told us exactly what we needed to do, he told us the move, he told us who we were on, he told us that this was how we were going to win. Boxing out. It wasn't foreign and I know people do it in hockey but normally I'm not offense and normally I don't have to do it and normally I don't press my ass into other people.

It catches my by surprise as he moves forward, reaching for the ball over my head, using his extra three inches on me, pressing harder into me, making me trip, making me stumble backward.

I wheel around to face him and then we're just making rather shocked eye contact with each other. His eyes flit for a moment and I flush too fast.

He swats the ball out of the air above my head and slips away from me, leaving me stunned and without my mark.

I hear the shouts of a basket before I'm fully turned around, his feet hitting the ground again after a layup.

God, I should not be that attracted to him.

Nico lets out a whistle, stopping the play so she can set it up again. She's laughing, I'm not sure why, "quit killing everyone, Rex, you're rubbing in the height advantage."

He shrugs, big shoulders moving under his blue shirt.

He catches my eye again, but when he sees I'm looking back, he turns away.

***

and I know that this is dangerous

but fighting is doing no good

let's get away for the weekend now

baby, know that we could

.getawayfortheweekend. - dead poet society

***

that's it

-rabid