There was probably drama of a sort involved in the Heather Voss thing, but Gabe pointed out, "I blew it, and uh, I think she wanted to let me know on no uncertain terms what is up. I mean, it's probably complicated but you've been a good sport about all this and I'm running out of friends anyway" He seemed strangely relieved all the same -- but things were still somewhat strange there, but it didn't seem like it'd become a thing with hockey, and perhaps bore Carl out. "Shit happens, man. We'll just play through it and give things time to settle. People are actually ditching you over this?" "Kinda. Livingston's playing up his victim act on this," Gabe paused, "I mean, victimized by Ricki and me. I dunno." Gabe seemed unsure of the whole thing, and Jared gave him an incredulous look. "Yeah, some victim. I'll have to remember that next time he tries to run me over." "His family are pretty loaded and influential in politics. It's one of those things, they're trying to keep the thing with you out of it a bit. But you're right. Some victim." Gabe sounded pissed but didn't elaborate. "Watch your back around him, man. Have a team member around." "Yeah, you too. Heather probably took some of the heat off you, but I don't think that actually matters anymore." He managed to sound like a good sport there. It was why Jared put a hand on the dude's shoulder. "It'll blow over. We have a game this weekend, it ought to help." -- Lunch was weird, mostly because the hockey player table didn't used to see this much action and was now at the center of drama more and more. It felt like eating in a fishbowl, with everyone looking in, their every move scrutinized. Most of them were finding anything to talk about besides what everyone else was talking about. Jared and Gabe were right there, chewing on their food along with everyone else. It was, in a word, somewhat uncomfortable. And then Tasha showed up, "So, I see the fallout from the 4th of July has started in time for the Winter Formal," Tasha observed to Jared and Carl. "But you know that already," Carl pointed out. "Of course, cousin mine, but I was wondering how it changes the chemistry of the hockey team." Jared glanced back at her, "Shouldn't change anything. There's no feud here. I'm cool with the idea that Livingston assaulted me because of Ricki and Gabe, and that it wasn't the fault of either of them." "And Heather Voss? Gabe Montgomery? Ricki Trenton?" "You'd have to ask them what they think, I'm not speaking out of turn for them." "You don't give me anything, do you Jared?" "I don't write checks with my mouth that my ass can't cash." "You've been hanging around with Carl too much, you're starting to sound like him," Tasha told him. "That's a bad thing?" Carl asked around a mouthful of chicken, suddenly paying attention again when his name was mentioned. "Yes, fool, it is," Tasha told him point blank, "Like did you warn your friend about all the strings attached to Heather Voss?" "Huh?" "Yeah, that's what I thought Carl." She glanced back over to Jared, "Just watch yourself with her." "Watch yourself getting dat ass. Even for a white girl," Carl interjected. "You're a dog, Carl." Tasha said. "Yeah, but just let him do his thing. You don't like Heather," Carl pointed out, "So you're not unbiased." "And all you can think of is that booty," Tasha fired back. "Sure," Carl admitted, "But that's what animates me and surrounds me, my wellspring of confidence and willpower. Without booty, I am fumbling in the wilderness, purposeless." "You're also stupid, Carl," but Tasha was laughing, "But you can string words together, even if you try to keep that talent very, very hidden. You should save that sweet talk for your baby," she said, indicating Maureen. --- "So what'd Tasha mean, Carl?" Jared asked, after she was gone. "Nothing, just catty girl shit. You know how it is, the head cheerleader doesn't get to be head cheerleader without pissing some of the other girls off." "Guess so. Think Gabe will be okay?" "Yeah man, he's chasing Pretty Ricki around. I don't think she wants to be chased, though. But we have a focus problem here, Jared." Carl suddenly got pretty serious. "How so?" "We got tomorrow and then it's Friday and the game is on, we're all strung out about girls and Livingston and all this other bullshit. We need to pull it together, man. I do not want to be scattered all around the ice in front of a home crowd on Friday. Stakes are too high." "You want that victory pussy, don't you?" "Damn straight I do! And Gabe's starting to kind of slack off on the motivation department. I worry about the focus, man." "Maybe you oughta tell the guys this in general, Carl," Jared noted, though faintly annoyed. "Yeah, well I'm gonna ask the coach if I can," Carl said, "We gotta put this shit to rest and clear it outta our heads before we take it out there against Santa Clara. But you captained, what do you think?" "Think you're right, we gotta rally the troops." Wednesday's practice was intense, but that was to be expected. All the same, it seemed like half the time, Gabe was out of it, or at least, withdrawn and not leading. Carl wanted to say something, but Jared just shook his head. Thursday was spent quietly, thank goodness. He spent time at the cheerleader table, answering hockey questions like how icing and the offsides rule worked, and generally finding it uncomfortable to be part of the center of attention like that; then again, he was spoken for, since he was going to the Formal with the head cheerleader. Some of the other guys were wearing more toney clothing, shorts or slacks and even an oxford collar shirt or two, while Jared still rocked the jeans and t-shirt, albeit a t-shirt that did little to hide the side effect of working out and hard practice; football was for big dudes, but hockey was a sport for ripped guys. One of them asked a question, almost if prepped for it, "What I don't get is why you're not the captain? I mean, you've done it before and you're really good, right? Doesn't really seem fair." "Well, Gabe's been here longer, and I already did it at Malden with the Lancers." He couldn't remember the name of the cheerleader, but that was really sensitive territory to tread on with the team. It was unspoken tension. "But wouldn't you be better at it? Doesn't Buchanan deserve the best captain it can get?" He tried to change the subject, quickly, before that line got too loud. But there was at least a little time spent out of the orbit of Heather Voss; he managed to see Ms. Andrews during lunch after excusing himself; she was on the young side of adulthood, which made her close enough in age to get people, especially high school boys, looking appreciatively, though she tried to hide it in long skirts and loose tops; as opposed to Miss Vargas, the Spanish teacher, who pretty much made no bones about being hot and happily teased men in general. "Miss Andrews, I need a bit of advice," Jared started. "About English? Are you having...ah...difficulties with the assignment?" Apparently, Ms. Andrews saw much; and Jared almost blushed. "Well, actually not the assignment. I wanted advice. If I needed to talk to someone in the band about getting a big drum in the stands for the game tomorrow night, who would I talk to?" "Well, Greg Finn or Oscar Marquez might be persuadable...especially if you are polite, which I know you are. But why a drum?" "Well, if you show up at the game, you'll see what I have in mind." The next stop was Hector South in the A/V lab, still nursing some bruises of his own. "You're right, Landry, it's something we never thought of doing for the football games, and it'd probably annoy Livingston that we're doing this stuff for you guys. Of course, you asked nicely," South gave a bit of a smile and a shrug, "And in Buchanan the football team never asks nicely." "Well, the real point is that it'd pump up the crowd and the players. We want to get it together for the game. You're the AV guy here, can you do this? It'd be a huge favor." "Yeah, Jared, I'll do it if you can get me a couple hockey shirts." "No problem man, it's a deal." They shook. Friday night, the locker room in the community center that was 'home' for the Buchanan Bears. Coach Dubois was going over things, but toward the time when they were going to head onto the ice, he said, "Now, Carl has something he'd like to say to the whole team, and I want you all to listen up." Carl stood up, in the goalie's pads, thicker and bigger, with a helmet that had a picture of a snarling bear on it -- it'd look cheesy on anything but a hockey helmet. "Listen up real good. This is our first home game, and Santa Clara ain't gonna play around like the Bruins did. We know what's up, because the ones that didn't have any heart at all already quit the second week of practice if they didn't quit the first week. We won the last game and we won it good, but the past ain't nothing if we can't make good on the next game and the game after that. You wanna hold your heads high?" He was yelling, "Well, then you gotta earn that respect, man! We can't go out there worrying about the girls or football or the school, we gotta go out there and represent not only our people here, but ourselves. Winter Formal is coming up. We win this, and we swagger in there like kings. We lose this, and we're going to be eating it from the football guys like Livingston again. Well, I didn't put in all the hours here to get sloppy seconds. I want the victory pussy! But you only get the spoils if you the victors! Now get on your knees and let Kluge lead the prayer. But once you get up off it, it's time to go out there and cut through them like Genghis Fuckin' Khan! invading France and shit!" No one had the heart to tell Carl that Genghis Khan never invaded France, because the speech was pretty good. A prayer, simple and effective, and then face off on the ice. Greg Finn and Oscar Marquez started the drumbeats on the drums when the team came out, touched gloves with the other team and then the first shift took their positions. Boom-boom-boom, and the butt-end of the sticks in the box where the other players were went in tune with it. Soon, Bears fans were stomping as well. His mom was out there with her boyfriend, Rick, and Heather was near her, along with the other cheerleaders, dressed inappropriately for the cold of the rink. Moira, a veteran of many a game, seemed to find the whole thing terribly amusing, even as she got ready to yell her head off for her son. That was one of the things hockey moms were supposed to do, and she had a loud, piercing voice. Jared wasn't really paying much attention to that, because he was in a faceoff once again, and everything extraneous was gone in the moment. The puck dropped. The game started. Sometime when another shift was on ice, the Bears conceded one -- Carl just couldn't handle all the different guys flooding the box, and it came down to a shot finally getting in. It took a minute, as Carl started to move over toward the box, while Dubois yelled, "IT'S DONE! FOCUS ON THE NEXT ONE CARL!" "SPOILS OF VICTORY, CARL!" shouted Jared, even as Dubois slapped him on the back as he started to come over the box and onto the ice, replacing the shift that conceded a goal. Skates touched ice and suddenly, the next faceoff was on, with Gabe taking it this time. The drums started up once more. Gabe got the puck, passed it back and Jared had it. Jared put it down to Paul Kozlow and got it back a few seconds later as he maneuvered himself into a better position. Somewhere in the stands, Moira was yelling, "THAT'S MY SON! HE CAN SKATE!" while he glided over the ice, his legs pumping to keep him going at maximum efficiency and speed, even as he eyed the Sabertooth goal; he passed over to Gabe, even as he positioned himself to the next one and put his hand up, signalling him to pass it. [i]Please, Dear god, let Gabe nail this one perfectly.[/i] Gabe had a good position to shoot, but Jared could see the lane. It was a question of trust, despite all the shit going on, that Gabe would trust Jared to get the puck in. It seemed like the puck was about to be taken, but it barely cleared the other guy's stick and got into Jared's when he took the shot, hard as he could. "LANDRY SCORES!" Hector South made sure it worked; there was the roar of a bear heard on speakers, drowning out the airhorn siren of the goal, met with a roar of approval from the stands.