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The thing about Holts is: he’s cool.It’s not that he’s cool in the sense of being, like, hip. He is hip. But he’s also, like, at peace with himself. Like he’s so cool you could call him out on all the ways he’s a total dork, and he’d probably laugh at himself and go on feeling totally at home in his own skin. That’s the part Andre finds coolest.He says this to Nicke, one night at a bar. He’s drunk.“You’re drunk,” Nicke says, not even paying attention, which, ugh.“Ugh.” Andre sprawls across their booth seat and half onto Nicke. Like an octopus. Or a kraken, which sounds cooler. “I can’t take you anywhere,” Nicke says, unbothered.He’s more invested in his phone than Andre. Andre pretends to bite Nicke's shoulder. Because Andre is many, many things: fun, loyal, the unofficial younger brother of the Washington Capitals. But he’s not cool. Not like Holts. Who is. He explains this to Nicke again, since Nicke didn't understand him the first time.Nicke’s pale eyebrows rise, rise, rise. “Maybe don’t tell Braden you want inside his skin.”Andre screws up his face. “I don’t.”“No?”“It might get gooey in there.”Nicke rolls his eyes.—“He’s just so cool,” Andre tells Tom. He’s playing Fortnite with Tom on speaker phone, and also snacking on Kraft Mac-n-Cheese. Tom had shown Andre the existence of boxed pasta, but Andre alone had invented scooping it onto tortilla chips.“What do you know about cool?” Tom asks.“He sings and plays guitar.”“Yeah, with his eyes closed the whole time.”Does that make it less cool? Andre doesn’t think so.In the game, he sees another player extending an alliance. Little hearts pop onscreen. “Oh, awesome,” Andre says. “Some dude’s emoting at me.”“What, in Fortnite? Dude, you know he’s gonna shoot you the minute you turn your back.”“Will not.”“Will too.”“Will, son.” Andre giggles.The other player does shoot Andre in the back. “He shot you almost right away, didn’t he?” Tom asks.“No.” Andre crams another chip. “Holts has a cool hat. That's cool.”“You’re tragic, dude,” Tom says, but in a fond way. Andre basks.—It stops feeling good to be tragic when the Caps lose 6-1 to the Yotes.It’s one of those games.Andre knows he’s gonna spend a lot of time with the game tape and also relive every bad decision a million times before the video coach even takes a look. He finds a place alone on the plane, closes his eyes, and watches his mistakes loop behind his eyeballs. He sees himself losing pucks along the boards, taking stupid penalties, skating with the puck so long he runs out of time and space to make plays. He knows what the coaches will say. He knows because he repeats these same mistakes. Like, all the time. Not just inside his head. Sometimes, Andre wishes he was like Nicke, who sees every possible play all at once and before they happen, then bends the game to his will. Andre skates faster than Nicke, but that's about it. Other times, he longs to play more like Kuzy, who is as creative as he is dazzling. But Andre knows he's really in a funk when he longs to play like himself on a good day.It's all so much easier on a good day.“Hey,” Holts says. “You mind if I sit?”He's wearing stylish loafers with pants cropped short enough to show off his stylish loafers. He has a quilt and a computer tucked under his arm. Andre and Holts rarely sit together, but it's not like Andre can refuse Holts. You know. Anything. He scoots over, making room.Holts fusses with his seat, the blanket, some movie on his laptop. He offers Andre one earbud.Andre wants to ask. How Holts does it. How Holts shakes off bad things like they don't touch him. Holts got pulled after allowing four goals on eight shots, but everyone knows he'll play better the next game. Everyone knows he'll play awesome. Braden Holtby responds to setbacks with a vengeance. Andre Burakovsky … flounders. Andre lays his head on Holts' shoulder.Holts pulls the blanket over both of them.The movie's Anchorman. It's cool.—It becomes a thing.Holts develops some kind of sixth sense for when Andre's mad at himself, because he's always there with a blanket, a movie, and a shoulder to drool on. On the plane, on the bus. Holts puts on some dumb comedy. Andre drapes himself over Holts, feels how warm and strong he his under those expensive clothes, listens to his breathing. It's always steady, steady, steady.It's only on the road. Only when Andre feels like crap. He likes Holts, but not enough to wanna feel like that all the time. Then, one day, Andre scores two goals, and Holts is there with the blanket and movie anyway. —Andre doesn't like it. —
“It’s dumb.” Andre whines.
“Yeah.” Djooser says. He's a d-man of few words. “Ugh.” Andre flops on the carpet, thoroughly defeated. Wrestling with Djoos hadn't clarified anything for him. Telling him about Holts wasn't helping, either. Andre's still frustrated with Holts, and he still doesn't know why. Djooser sighs, put-upon, when Andre repeats that. Okay, fine, maybe Andre does kinda know. He was in a good mood after his goals, but Holts offered the same placid comfort as always. Like maybe Holts wasn't comforting Andre with all that. Like maybe Andre was in a movie club instead of … something else.“I don't know how he's so cool all the time.” Andre pouts.“Who? Nicke?” Andre snorts. “Nicke's a dad.”“Ovi, then?” Andre thinks about Ovi's everything. The clothes, the cars, the dogs. “Can a force of nature be cool?” “Can Holts?” Djooser counters. He smirks at Andre's wordless objection. “You're the only one who thinks he is, you know. He's been trying to Netflix and chill with you for months.”Andre blinks. “In front of everybody?” “Exactly. Not cool.” —Andre shows up on Holts' doorstep. Holts answers the door looking like a rockstar with country roots. Or maybe a hockey player recently up from a nap. His hair's ruffled. His beard needs a trim; a little too much is crawling down his neck. He's so, so far out of Andre's league, even with the neckbeard. Like, if Andre's a kraken, Holts is a spaceship. Lightyears beyond Andre's suction-armed reach. But Holts smiles when he sees Andre. “Andre. Wasn't expecting you, man. I was about to make lunch. You want anything?”Andre wants to climb Holts like a tree, and also wrestle him. Like, naked. He wants Holts to look at him with his expression turned up to full goalie intensity. He accepts lunch: steak salad with sweet potatoes. Holts sets Andre down at the table and plops down heaping portions. Offers him water or tea.Andre blurts: “Have all the movies been you trying to Netflix and chill?” “What, like on the plane in front of everybody?” Holts pushes a mason jar filled with water toward Andre. His voice sounds even, but his cheeks flare red.It's fascinating. Andre's fascinated. Also, very aware that Holts didn't say no. He sips his water and watches Holts go back to the fridge for—ah—salad dressing. Homemade, obviously, and stored in yet another mason jar.“Want me to help you with anything?” Andre asks.“Nah. Let me take care of you.” Holts' gaze darts toward Andre. His tone remains mild. His eyes, though. They're fucking intense.Something inside Andre snaps to attention. He preens. “That's a dangerous offer with me. I will, you know. Like, lots. More than you can believe.” Holts sets the dressing next to Andre's salad. He touches Andre's arm. “I know, Andre. I've met you. It's cool.”“Cool?”Holts shrugs. “I like feeling needed.”Andre climbs him like a tree.—Braden sings country music in the shower.He's kinda intense about chopping vegetables when he cooks. Like, he watches chefs on YouTube and buys expensive knives. Just for the chopping part. He cares—deeply—about pocket squares. He's not cool at all, but that's fine.Neither is Andre.
The End