Chapter 7: Team party
The cedar scent of his room felt different now. It was no longer just the smell of home, of worn gear and solitude. It carried the faint, lingering trace of Adam’s soap, a ghost in the air that made Hunter’s skin prickle. He stood in front of his cluttered trophy case, leaning heavily on his dresser for balance. The cracked full-length mirror reflected a version of himself he barely recognized: pale, shadows under his bright blue eyes, his fluffy brown hair still damp and messy.
He pulled on a pair of soft grey shorts, then a black tank top that stretched over his lean frame. Every movement was calculated, a negotiation with the screaming protest in his left knee. He sat on the edge of the bed to pull on black Nike socks, breathing through the jolts of pain. The bandage Adam had applied was still tight and professional. He thought about removing it, about reclaiming some tiny piece of autonomy from the careful, infuriating hands that had put it there. He left it on.
Down the hall, the floorboard outside Adam’s door creaked. Hunter froze, a sock half-on, listening. He heard the soft click of Adam’s door closing. A different kind of tension tightened his shoulders.
He finished dressing and grabbed his phone. No messages from his mom, Jane. Just a notification about team practice he’d already cancelled. He shoved it in his pocket.
The journey downstairs was a meticulous, humiliating siege. He gripped the banister with both hands, lowering himself one step at a time, his good leg doing all the work. The old wood groaned under his weight. Each thump of his right foot on the next step echoed through the quiet house.
He was only halfway down when the doorbell rang—two sharp, cheerful bursts that felt like an intrusion.
“It’s your fan club,” Adam said, his voice flat. He looked back at Hunter, a challenge in his green eyes. “You want me to get it?”
“I’ve got it,” Hunter grumbled, hobbling the last few feet across the foyer. He adjusted his posture, trying to straighten his spine, to wipe the pain from his face. He took a steadying breath and opened the door.
The late afternoon sunlight spilled in, framing four familiar, grinning faces.
“There he is!” Mike, the Lions’ hulking defenseman, boomed. He held a twenty-four carton of cheap beer aloft like a trophy. Beside him stood Tom and Steve, the second-line forwards, and Ashton, their quick-tongued goalie. They were all in team hoodies and jeans, smelling like fresh air and faint sweat.
“Heard you took a tumble, Cap,” Ashton said, his eyes already scanning past Hunter into the house. “Brought the medicine.”
“We were gonna just break in, but your mom’s flowers looked too nice to trample,” Tom added, shoving his hands in his pockets.
Hunter forced a laugh, the sound coming out rougher than he intended. “Yeah, well, come on in. She’s not here.”
He stepped aside, and the group shuffled past him into the foyer, their bulk making the space feel suddenly small. They nodded at Adam, who had leaned against the archway to the living room, arms crossed.
“Lockwood,” Mike said, the single word holding layers of on-ice history.
“O’Connell,” Adam replied, his tone equally impassive.
The guys made their way into the living room, collapsing onto the large sectional with the ease of long familiarity. The carton of beer landed with a thud on the oak coffee table, scattering a few of Jane’s interior design magazines.
Hunter followed, his gait painfully slow. He could feel Adam’s eyes on his back, watching every hesitant shift of weight. He lowered himself carefully into the well-worn armchair by the fireplace, propping his bad leg on the ottoman with a suppressed groan.
“So, give us the damage report,” Steve said, cracking open a can and handing it to Hunter. The beer was cold, condensation already beading on the aluminum.
Hunter took it, the chill a welcome distraction. “Torn MCL. Six to eight weeks, maybe more.”
A collective groan filled the room. “Shit, man,” Mike muttered.
“How’d it even happen?” Ashton asked, kicking his feet up on the table. “Looked like a clean hit from the stands.”
From his periphery, Hunter saw Adam shift against the archway. He hadn’t moved to sit. He was just… present. A spectator.
“It was clean,” Hunter said, his eyes fixed on the label he was picking at. “I landed like an idiot. Foot caught a rut. Just… dumb luck.”
“The worst kind,” Tom agreed.
Adam finally moved from the archway. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he crossed the room. He didn't look at Hunter as he lowered himself onto the far end of the same couch, leaving a deliberate cushion of space between them.
He plucked a beer from the carton, the crack-hiss of the tab loud in the momentary lull.
"I've got something to tell you all," Mike said, breathing in like he was about to take a hit. He set his can down on the table. "So today was supposed to be my last game, but I'm not moving countries anymore. My dad's transfer fell through." He shrugged, a slow smile spreading across his face. "So I'm staying."
The room erupted. Ashton whooped, and Steve launched a couch pillow at Mike's head. The sheer, uncomplicated good news was a buoyant force, lifting the weight of Hunter's injury, if only for a second.
"That's great, man," Hunter said, a real smile breaking through his own fog. He leaned forward slightly, extending his hand across the space between the chair and the couch.
Mike got up and took it, slapping his palm firmly in a solid, practiced clasp. "Means I get to watch you rehab that knee, Captain. Gonna be brutal."
"Can't wait," Hunter said, his smile turning wry. He leaned back and grabbed another cold can from the carton on the table. Without looking, he held it out in Adam's direction.
Adam took it. His fingers brushed Hunter's, a fraction of a second of contact that felt electric against the memory of the shower. He didn't say thanks. He just took the beer, his knuckles—the scabs from the fight stark against his skin—wrapping around the aluminum.
Mike turned on the Xbox, the screen flickering to life with a burst of color and sound. He navigated to Mario Kart, the familiar, frenetic music soon filling the room. Controllers were passed around, the dynamic shifting from a sick visit to a regular, lazy hangout.
"So what's the go with you two?" Tom asked casually, his eyes on the screen as he selected his character. The question landed in the middle of the room like a stray puck.
Hunter felt his stomach drop. "What?" he questioned, his voice tighter than he intended.
Tom glanced over, controller in hand. "We heard you're gonna be stepbrothers. Your mom and his dad, right?" He took a sip of his beer. "Small town. My aunt works at the courthouse where they got the marriage license."
The relief was so violent it left Hunter lightheaded. He let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding.
Adam and Hunter both felt relieved it wasn't something else. Their eyes met for a fleeting instant across the cushion that separated them, a silent, shared understanding passing between them.
"Oh, yeah," Adam said, his voice utterly calm. He took a long swig of his beer, his green eyes fixed on the television where cartoon karts lined up. "We will be."
The confirmation landed between them like a physical thing. Hunter swallowed, the beer suddenly bitter on his tongue. He picked up his controller to avoid looking at anyone.
“Alright, choose your fighters, you animals,” Mike announced, chuckling. The character selection screen glowed on the TV.
Hunter scrolled without hesitation. He selected Luigi, his all-time favorite, the green-clad underdog. It was a tiny, defiant comfort in a room that felt increasingly unstable.
Across the cushion, Adam’s thumb moved on his controller. He selected Mario, the red-clad rival, the default champion. It felt like a statement.
Mike, chuckling, picked Baby Luigi. Tom scrolled to Donkey Kong, Steve chose the brutish Wario, and Ashton, with a smirk, selected Yoshi.
The race began in a burst of pixelated color and tinny music. Hunter leaned into the familiar chaos, the controller vibrating in his hands. He took a sharp sip of his beer, the cold fizz a distraction.
“Oh, you’re going down, Lockwood!” Ashton yelled, already leaning forward.
“In your dreams,” Adam shot back, his focus intent on the screen.
They played, laughing and drinking, the competition fierce but friendly. Cans were crushed and replaced. Insults flew, ricocheting off years of shared history on and off the ice.
Hunter maneuvered Luigi around a hairpin turn, his knee throbbing in time with the frantic music. He stole first place from a blue shell’s chaos.
“That’s my Cap!” Mike whooped, slapping the couch.
Adam’s Mario was a relentless red shadow in Hunter’s peripheral vision, tailgating him on every straightaway, challenging every corner. It was just a game. It felt like everything.
A well-timed green shell from Adam knocked Hunter into third. Hunter gritted his teeth, his grip tightening on the controller.
“Payback,” Adam murmured, the word meant only for him.
Hunter didn’t glance over. He drank more beer, the alcohol starting to blur the sharpest edges of his pain and his confusion. The next race loaded. He selected Luigi again.
The final lap of the race was a mess of banana peels and lightning bolts. Adam’s Mario and Hunter’s Luigi were neck and neck, the digital engines screaming.
At the last second, Adam used a mushroom, his kart surging forward in a blur of pixelated speed. He crossed the finish line a fraction of a second before Hunter.
“Yes!” Adam barked, a real, unguarded triumph in his voice. He dropped his controller on the couch and stretched his arms over his head, his black shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of tan skin and taut muscle.
Hunter watched, his mouth dry. The memory of touching that skin, wet and hot under his hands in the shower steam, flashed behind his eyes. He looked away, reaching for another beer.
“Good game,” he said to the room, his voice flat.
The others groaned, teasing Adam for his lucky mushroom.
The easy energy of the game began to settle into the comfortable slump of post-competition, the blue glow of the television painting their tired faces.
Tom leaned forward, rummaging in the duffel bag at his feet. He pulled out a bottle of cheap vodka and a single, clean shot glass, setting them on the coffee table with a definitive clink.
“Alright, fun’s jut beginning,” Tom announced, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Let’s play Truth or Drink.”
He poured the clear liquid into the shot glass until it formed a precarious meniscus. “I’m sure everyone knows how to play, but I’ll explain anyways,” he said, his voice taking on a mock-official tone. “Someone asks someone a truth. If they say it, they don’t drink. If they don’t answer, they have to take a shot until they answer a truth. Simple.” He looked around the room, his eyes landing on Ashton. “We’ll start off easy. Ashton, who’s your least favourite goalie you’ve gone up against?”
Ashton snorted, not missing a beat. “Easy. Brian Flint, North Sharks.” He leaned back, smug. “Guy’s a sieve with an attitude.”
A few chuckles rose from the couch. Ashton then looked around the room, his gaze calculating. It swept past Mike, past Steve, and lingered on Hunter, before sliding to the figure at the other end of the sectional. A slow, mischievous smile touched his lips.
“My turn,” Ashton said, his voice light. He picked up the shot glass, swirling the vodka. He fixed his eyes on Adam.
Ashton’s grin was all teeth. “Lockwood, who’s your least favourite captain?”
The question hung there. It was safe, hockey territory, a softball. Adam didn’t even blink. “Noah Jacobs, Albine South,” he said, his voice a flat, bored recital of fact. He didn’t touch his beer.
Adam looked around the room, ready to ask. His green eyes, sharp and assessing, moved from Mike to Tom, then to Steve. They skipped over Hunter entirely, which felt like its own kind of statement. He finally landed on Mike, the biggest, least complicated target in the room.
“O’Connell,” Adam said, leaning forward to grab the vodka bottle. He refilled the shot glass with a slow, deliberate pour. “That fight in the parking lot after the semifinals last year.” He set the bottle down with a soft click. “Who started it? Truthfully.”
The air got heavier. Hunter remembered that night. The raw knuckles, the shouting, the way he’d had to pull Mike off a Tigers defenseman himself. It was pre-Adam’s captaincy, but only just.
Mike’s jovial expression solidified. He stared at the shot glass, the clear liquid catching the TV’s blue glow. His jaw worked. The truth was, he’d thrown the first punch. Admitting it in front of Lockwood, of all people, was a specific brand of humiliation.
“Fuck it,” Mike grumbled. He snatched the shot, tossed it back, and shuddered as it went down. He slammed the glass on the table.
The vodka hit made Mike’s eyes water. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, avoiding everyone’s gaze. An awkward quiet, thick as the late afternoon dust in the air, settled over the couch.
Adam’s expression didn’t change. He just watched, his green eyes cool and assessing in the television’s intermittent glow. He had called Mike’s bluff without breaking a sweat.
It was Steve’s turn.
Steve, always a follower, looked instinctively toward Adam for direction. The hierarchy in the room had subtly, undeniably, shifted. Adam gave a single, almost imperceptible tilt of his chin toward Mike. His message was clear: He drank. He’s open. Press him.
Steve cleared his throat, shifting on the cushion. “Uh, right. Okay, Mike.” He fumbled, his eyes darting from the vodka bottle to Mike’s stony face. “So, you didn’t answer Lockwood’s thing. So… I gotta ask you one.”
Mike just stared at him, a wall of simmering muscle.
Steve’s fingers tapped nervously against his knee. The question formed, clumsy and direct. “Alright. That fight. Why’d you really swing?”
Hunter’s chest tightened. He could feel the old aggression rippling off Mike, a familiar and dangerous energy. He shifted in the armchair, his knee giving a sharp twinge as if warning him.
Mike’s jaw jutted forward. The blue light from the paused Mario Kart screen flickered across his features, hardening them. “He said something.”
“What’d he say?” Steve pushed, emboldened by the liquid courage and Adam’s silent mandate.
The room held its breath. The hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen seemed suddenly loud. Mike’s fists clenched on his thighs, the knuckles white. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, graveled growl meant for their circle alone.
“He called my little sister a slut for wearing a Tigers jersey to school,” Mike said, the words ripped out of him. “A sixteen-year-old kid. So yeah, I hit him. I’d do it again.”
A different silence followed, heavy with understanding. This wasn’t hockey rivalry. This was something raw and familial, a reason they could all grasp in their bones. Ashton nodded slowly. Tom took a swig of beer.
Adam, from his end of the couch, showed no reaction. He simply picked up his own can and took a slow drink, his eyes unreadable.
Mike looked at Hunter, ready to ask him a question. His eyes, usually bright with easy humor, were dark and flat. “My turn, then.” He cleared his throat, the sound rough. “Truth or drink, Cap.”
Hunter felt the focus of the room pivot and settle on him, a tangible weight. He nodded, bracing himself.
Mike didn’t hesitate. His gaze was direct, unwavering. “That fight I just talked about. After we got pulled apart, you drove me home. You said something to me in the car.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You said, ‘Family’s the only thing that matters.’” He paused, letting the recalled words resonate. “So. Why’d you say that? What’s your family thing?”
The air vanished from Hunter’s lungs.
"Pass," Hunter said after a moment.
He leaned over, wincing at the pull in his knee, and grabbed the shot. He downed it in one sharp, burning gulp, the vodka scraping a path of internal fire down his throat. He looked down, placing the glass back on the table with a precise, controlled click.
Mike looked at Ashton because Hunter drank. A silent transaction passed between them, a shift in the game’s ecosystem. It was Ashton who got to ask him a question.
Ashton leaned forward, the vodka bottle glinting in the low light. “Alright, Cap. Truth or drink.” He didn’t smile. “What would you do if you couldn’t play hockey again?”
The question landed like a physical blow. Hunter’s stomach dropped, He stared at his hands, the silence stretching taut. “I’m not sure,” he finally said, the words scraped raw. “Probably another sport. Swimming.”
It was his turn now. Hunter looked around. The blue television light painted his friends in eerie stillness, their faces waiting. His gaze skipped over them, drawn to the end of the couch where Adam sat, utterly motionless, watching him back.
Hunter’s voice, when it came, was lower than he intended, cutting through the murmur. “Adam.”
The room’s energy shifted, focusing like a lens. Adam didn’t blink. He just waited, his fingers resting lightly on his beer can.
He felt his heartbeat in his bad knee, a hot, pulsing throb.
Adam gave a single, slow nod.
Hunter leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his thighs.
“That fight you picked for me at the arena with Noah,” Hunter began, his voice steady. “The one that got you suspended for two games.” He paused, letting the memory of thrown punches and chaos hang between them. “Why did you really start it?”
Adam’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered deep in his eyes, a fault line shifting. The guys on the couch were silent now, the game forgotten. This was history, but it felt suddenly present, charged.
Mike let out a low whistle. “Yeah, what was that about? Even for you, that was unhinged.”
Adam took the shot his throat working as he swallowed. He set it down on the coffee table with a soft, definitive click.
The silence after the shot glass hit the table was absolute. Adam’s refusal to answer was louder than any truth. It hung there, a grenade with the pin pulled, rolling between them on the stained oak.
He’d taken the out. Whatever the real reason was, he wasn’t sharing it with this room.
Hunter looked to Steve. It was his turn to ask Adam a question because he drank.
“Uh, okay.” Steve cleared his throat. He fumbled for a question, his eyes darting around as if the floral wallpaper held a script. “So. Adam.”
Adam turned his head slowly, those green eyes locking onto Steve with unnerving focus.