Chapter Text
Present Day, Nat’s Office
“First up is my buddy, Goody,” Shoresy started. Zig cackled at him. He hesitated. This was the hardest one to be casual about to begin with. Everyone would think Frankie was the hardest pill to swallow for him, but calling Goody was the thing that caused the roaring in his ears, and the ache in his chest. With Frankie, it was animosity. With Goody, it was fear of the unknown. They had left things so…unfinished.
Thank God, Nat pulled him out of it, bitching at him. Shoresy continued, trying to keep his voice level. “Yeah so, his name’s Brant Goodleaf…” his voice trailed off, words catching in his throat. “And, we call ‘em Goody…” Zig started cracking up. He couldn’t take it. He got up and turned away so they wouldn’t see him cry. He couldn’t let the girls see him like this. Not about Goody. He knew he should have started with somebody else.
“I’m getting fucked peppered here Nat, it’s like fucking batting practice!” he yelled. Nat’s soothing voice beckoned him back, promising not to cut him off again. He slumped in his chair, feigning casual.
“Okay, okay, fine. Tell me about Brent Goodleaf”
“BRANT,” Shoresy corrected, a little too quickly. Everyone rolled their eyes, but Shoresy continued, “Goody like chicken…” it was a cursory summary of a man of many hidden depths, but Shoresy was trying to focus on the present, and only Mig and Zig’s eye rolls. It wasn’t working.
Several years prior, Outside the Letterkenny Lockerroom
“Fucking Christ, Goody, it’s good to see you!” Shoresy and Goody slammed into each other, closer to a collision than a hug, just happy to be next to each other again on dry land, not across the faceoff dot.
“Unbelievable, man. How ya been?” Goody smiled into his neck while their hug went a beat too long. Goody smelled like arena shampoo and a little bit of musk. Shoresy’s stomach flipped.
After moving around juniors for a while, Shoresey to Letterkenny and Goody down south to Six Nations, they knew that it was all going to end. Goody wasn’t going to make the Show right away and had made his decision. It was lacrosse. It nearly tore Shoresy’s heart out to watch his best friend leave hockey, even though they hadn’t been on the same team for a bit. It was all going to end. Living in each other’s pockets, sharing hotel rooms on the road, sleeping on each other’s shoulders on busses across Ontario, texting all day on bus rides when on different teams, these bear hugs after games where they were in the same end of the province (always followed by dinner and a night out of pure debauchery with the boys). It was all about to end, and they hadn’t been ready for it yet. So it made this last reunion after the game that much sweeter. It felt fitting that Goody’s last game of semi-pro hockey would be against Shoresy’s team. Neither of their teams made the playoffs, so this was it for them both. The end of a season, but more importantly, the end of an era.
Usually, after a tough night, a bad loss, or just too many emotions, Shoresy would go skate laps until the arena staff kicked him out. Goody’s team dusted Letterkenny tonight, but tonight he wouldn’t work out until he was ready to puke, all of the stress and heaviness drained out of him. He knew tonight he would have to keep it together because it was his last shot with Goody. It’s not like they’d never see each other again, or text or call…but it wouldn’t be the same. Shoresy knew he had to cherish every single moment of his last night glued to his best friend, even if nothing happened. Just being together would have to be enough.
Nobody had ever understood Goody the way Shoresy had. Goody was quiet, a man of few words, but always making sure to make every syllable mean it. They were two halves of a whole. Shoresy, the extrovert, expert chirper, and ball of internal anxiety. Goody, the stoic one, always floating in the background, a sea of calm. Goody was the only person who could keep Shoresy from thinking he wasn’t good enough. That he wasn’t wanted. When you grew up in foster care, knowing the people who were supposed to be biologically programmed to want you gave you up, it’s hard to feel wanted (even if his foster dad was great, and he loved him like a real father).
Shoresy was who Goody relied on to keep him toeing the line between uninterested and relaxed, to make him care. Nothing ever shook Goody. He was neutral about almost everything. Shoresy was the one who taught Goody how to stand up for himself off the ice, and how to pump the guys up in the locker room. They needed each other, they completed each other. Only, Shoresy was never sure if Goody needed him in the same all-consuming way that he needed Goody. You could never tell with Goody. He wasn’t exactly an open book.
Present Day, Nat’s Office
Memories of moments past flashed through Shoresy’s mind in a blurring rush, nearly stealing the breath from him. Arm and arm walking down a nameless town square in a nameless Canadian Junior A town. Shoved up against each other in a booth at an overcrowded, sticky floor dive bar, looking for puck bunnies. Heads bent together on the bus, watching some dumb video to make both of them laugh. Stealing food off of each other’s plates so often that they eventually just pushed aside specific portions for each other when they ordered different things at restaurants. Crammed into the same double bed on road trips, all long limbs of teenage of early 20s hockey players who hadn’t fully filled out yet, hands on each other’s dicks, not really knowing or caring why it felt so wrong and so right at the same time. Then, falling asleep curled around each other in the other clean bed.
“...so yeah…Goody likes chicken…” he continued. Nat eyed him. When he mentioned lacrosse, the three women cringed. He crunched the corner of the duotang in his left hand, wishing Sanger would put his hand on Shoresy’s arm the way Goody used to, calming Shoresy the way a trainer calms a spooked horse. It was going to be a long fucking day.
…
They crammed into Sanger’s Jeep, truly crammed, since Frankie was the size a walrus. He got the front seat as a result, the fucker. That left Goody, Shoresy, Dolo, and Hitch to go four across in the back. Shoresy was quite literally in Goody’s lap. It felt the most normal to him, rather than digging his elbow into Dolo’s 6’5 frame accidentally. Goody could tell Shoresy was a ball of nervous energy. He could read people that way. He slid his hand down the length of Shorey’s back, just once, settling him immediately. Goody probably thought it was the idea of the guys being here, what a precarious situation they were in, and wanting it all to go well. That was only the half of it. That, Shoresy could handle. It was the idea of being able to feel the heat of Goody’s body through his hoodie and peacoat that had him jittery. It was a long ride home.
…
“Yeah so, it’s like I said obviously, there’s two beds…my bed and another bed. Then there’s the couch so, gunna have to double up,” Shoresy explained the situation to them, wishing he had asked Nat to just put one or two them up in a hotel. Forgone a few weeks of pay and reffed extra games to make up for it. It probably would have been worth it to save himself this agony. Goody hadn’t looked him in the eye yet.
“Pole to pole or hole to hole, b’ys?” Hitch laughed. Shoresy could have killed him. Of course, somebody had to bring it up. Shoresy leaned down into his spitter to hide his blush.
“Ya let’s make sure no one’s waking up to the other guy sleeping pole to hole or anything like that…” Shoresy finally clocked Goody turn toward him with a wry smile. He looked away when he noticed Shoresy looking. “Oh ya won’t be me,” Shoresy murmured in agreement with the others. “I’d never do anything like that.”
“Forget it,” Goody murmured, his eyes to the floor.
“Tit fucker!” Saved by the Bird. Frankie complimented Big Sexy randomly.
“Ya we’ve established that, Frankie,” fucking walrus could probably see the stress in Shoresy’s eyes. He had played on the same team a few times with Goody before Goody left hockey. Maybe they were buddies? Maybe Goody had mentioned Shoresy in passing? Maybe he knew ? Maybe Goody was like this with guys on all his teams? Or maybe Frankie just wasn’t as fucking dumb as he looked.
Dolo interjected in French, trying to gently insinuate that Frankie should have to take the couch. Dolo was the tallest, an inch or two above Frankie at 6’5, but Frankie was built like a mac truck. Seemed only fair.
“Oh yeah, Frankie on the couch because he’s such a fuckin’....potato.”
“ Quoi ?” Shoresy ignored Frankie’s retort. Clearly, Frankie was distracted, lost in thought.
“I’ll just jump in with Goody,” Shoresy making the executive decision. May as well get it over with. They were going to have to talk about it sooner rather than later, may as well be sooner.
“Settle down,” Goody muttered immediately. He could probably sense that Frankie was catching on.
Shoresy plowed on, “Ya cause like Dolo and Hitch are gunna be defense partners, so like makes sense that they’d bunk up,” They high-fived when Hitch brought up martoonies , so clearly that was a match made in heaven. At least something was going right. Goody’s eyes were back on the floor. Shoresy caught him swallowing hard out of the corner of his eye, wondering what words he was swallowing down. He brought up the ice cream, hoping it would be a universally approved topic away from this awkward one. Obviously, Shoresy was right.
“Sticks are unbelievable.” There was the Goody he knew, toothless smirk and all. He knew Shoresy had remembered that drumsticks were his childhood favorite, and it lit him up inside.
…
“Everything is so fucked, Good,” Shoresy moaned into Goody’s bare shoulder. “Why does it have to be this way?” They were sprawled naked and halfway under the covers in Shoresy’s bed at his apartment, one he for sure was not going to be able to afford on a senior hockey salary next year now that his junior eligibility had expired at age 20. Shoresy’s legs were tangled with Goody’s, a thin sheen of sweat still covering their upper bodies as they cooled down; the night air from the open window bristling softly beside them. He slung his arm over Goody’s chest dramatically.
“Life’snot fair, bud. Sucks.” Goody kissed Shorey’s forehead before he slid out from Shoresy’s grip and got up to go to the bathroom.
They had just had what was arguably the best sex of both of their lives so far, and probably ever again. They did this every few weeks. They would play each other’s teams, then go out with the boys, then fuck, and then say see ya later until next time. But there wasn’t a next time tonight, and Shoresy could already feel the minutes slipping away. The aching loss of Goody’s presence in his chest, even though Goody was ten feet away. It didn’t seem to be affecting Goody the same way it affected Shoresy. Goody didn’t seem to be upset about it at all. Maybe he did do this with other guys besides Shoresy. Maybe Shoresy wasn’t special to him after all.
The water to the shower turned on, and Shoresy couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up and took two long strides from the bedroom into the en-suite. Goody’s indifference, his clear need to wash this whole night, their whole…thing…away finally made Shoresy snap, “Do you even fucking care?!” Shoresy shouted at Goody’s toned back.
Goody dropped the towel he was holding onto the white tile floor, “What?” he said, a gobsmacked look of genuine confusion on his face. Shoresy never yelled at Goody, even on the ice.
“I said, Do. You. Even. Care?”
“Care?” Goody questioned. He was clearly deflecting…something. His bewilderment wasn’t going to pass Shorey’s probing look more than once.
“Do you care? About this…about US!?” Shoresy emphasized, impatiently.
“Of course I care about you, bud, you’re my best friend,” Goody half smiled, genuinely. That was when Shoresy knew. That was the moment he had been fearing for so many years. Goody didn’t understand. It didn’t mean the same thing to Goody as it did to him. That’s why Goody could leave hockey so easily. He was only leaving hockey, not leaving Shoresy.
Shoresy felt his heart fall like a rock in his stomach. He was nauseous for a second, but held it back. He couldn’t look Goody in the eyes, so when he spoke, it was to the floor, “Ya bud, me too. Just hate to see you leave hockey, ya know?” he lied. Well, it wasn’t a lie, but it certainly was not the entire truth.
“I know, man, me too, but The Show, ya know? How could I turn down playing pro to play Senior? Nobody ever expected me to make it anywhere. Just some kid from the rez’ who wasn’t ever going to amount to anything, ya know? Gotta take my shot, probably won’t get another one.”
Goody came toward Shoresy to hug him. They wrapped their arms around each other one last time. It was far too warm in the steamed-up bathroom with his face pressed into the crook of Goody’s neck. Shoresy never wanted to move. His voice became soft so that he didn’t cry, “Love you, Goody.”
“You too, buddy.” It wasn’t enough, but Shoresy let it be.
Later that night, Shoresy snuck into the arena. He was friends with one of the custodial crew and had convinced the guys to give him a key to the back door so he could practice alone when he needed to. It was almost two in the morning, but he couldn’t sleep. Not with the other side of his bed so cold already. He chucked his bag onto the bench and put his skates on, turning up the volume on the Bluetooth speaker as loud as it would go. He didn’t want to hear himself think. He didn’t want to feel anything except for the ache in his legs and the burning in his lungs after a bag skate. He clicked the playlist he only used when he was being extra hard on himself. “Terrible Love” by The National echoed throughout the empty arena.
“And I can't fall asleep,” he mournful voice called through the fast-paced melody. Shoresy concentrated on his legs. Stride. Stride.
“Without a little help,” Faster.
“It takes a while to settle down,” whipping around a corner, almost losing an edge.
“My shivered bones,” images of him and Goody flying along the ice together ran through his mind. He tried to shut them out. He skated harder, faster.
“Until the panic's out,” he blew a tire and ate shit. Fuck.
Sprawling along the ice next to the bench, he yanked himself up to his knees, the wind knocked out of him, holding his chest as if he had just been shot. The song built up to its peak, the lead singer practically wailing, all of the sorrow Shoresy felt finally breaking open. All of the years of feelings for his best friend he had been ignoring, spilling out onto the ice like somebody sliced open his stomach and his soul fell out.
He started to sob. “It's a terrible love and I'm walking in. It takes an ocean not to break.” Shoresy broke his stick as hard as he could over the edge of the boards, and then immediately puked into the trash can on the bench. When he looked up, feeling like the most pathetic motherfucker alive, he saw a familiar male figure standing at the edge of the tunnel in running clothes and sneakers, a look of pure shock on his face like somebody had unexpectedly smacked him. Goody.
…
Goody couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned in his hotel bed, antsy and frustrated. Something about the conversation he and Shoresy had before he left Shoresy’s had bothered him. It wasn’t sitting right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Finally, around midnight, he gave up and put on his running clothes. It was a surprisingly warm night in southern Canada for early spring, and he was going to take advantage. He trotted out of the hotel doors, a slow measured jog to start. After a few miles, he came up to the arena. There was one lone car in the lot. He would know that piece of shit black sedan anywhere. Shoresy.
Shoresy had a habit of skating until he puked after a bad game or when he couldn’t regulate whatever emotions he was having. Goody knew this. What he didn’t know was why Shoresy was doing this tonight. Sure, his friend had been sad to know this was the last time they’d see each other on the ice, but it couldn’t have affected Shoresy that much, could it? Goody shook it off, calling himself a self-centered idiot, but his curiosity got the best of him, so he slipped in through the propped loading dock door of the arena. He knew all of Shoresy’s tricks.
As soon as he opened the door, he could hear music blasting from somewhere. He checked the locker room first and found it empty, so he headed onto the ice. The music got louder the closer he got. Goody squinted at the lights and the sudden burst of sound at first, slowly walking down the tunnel and out toward the benches. When he got to the edge of the tunnel, he saw Shoresy collapse on the ice.
A flicker of instinct told him to run out and help his friend, but he was moving too slowly and was too far away, the burning ache of his post-game run started to settle into his muscles now that he was stationary. Shoresy pulled himself up to his knees, then to his feet. Goody finally clocked the lyrics of the song echoing through the empty area, “It's a terrible love and I'm walking in. It takes an ocean not to break.” Shoresy swept his stick up and brought it down onto the bench in one smooth motion, easily shattering it with the unyielding force. He dropped the remaining splinters of the shaft from his gloves and then puked violently into the nearby trashcan on the bench.
“It takes an ocean not to break.” It was clear to Goody in that moment that his best friend had broken. Goody realized in that moment, in the echo of an empty hockey arena, that he had broken Shoresy.
Panic rushed through him the same way it did when he knew he was injured. Move. Move. Move. Do something. He begged his body to move but it was frozen. His vision was clouding. He had to move. Towards Shoresy? Away from him, from this realization? He panicked. Instinct took over. It was too much. While Shoresy was catching his breath, head still in the garbage, Goody pulled his hood over his head, slipped out of the arena without a sound, and ran back into the warm Ontario night.
…
“Fuck.” Shoresy whispered to himself, but he knew Goody could read his lips. Shoresy grabbed the edges of the trashcan the way a drowning man grabs a life preserver. He puked again. When Shoresy pulled his head out of the bucket this time, he was alone again as the song faded out. Goody was gone.