One-timer: Shooting the puck immediately upon receiving it without stopping it first. A one-timer is an effective way to beat the goalie before he can slide from one side of the crease to another.
"Hey, man, if you don't want to do it, I will," he offered with a lazy shrug of his shoulders. The next thing out of his mouth was a grunt as the flat blade of Elliot's stick whacked him on the back of the head. Not hard. Just with enough force to prove a point. Murphy chuckled, rubbing a hand through his short, wavy hair at the point of contact. "Ow."
"You deserved it," Elliot grumbled, heading to retrieve the puck from its resting place inside the net. "And," he spun around quickly on his skates, pointing a finger at Murphy, "you'll do no such thing."
"Why? 'Cause you want to?"
"I didn't say that." Elliot scowled, tossing the puck by hand to Murphy as he skated toward one of the team benches.
"You didn't have to." Murphy followed suit as Elliot hitched a leg up and over the side wall, sliding over it into the box, skate blades landing lightly on the rubber-matted floor. "Besides," he continued, grabbing a bottle of water, "better me than the alternative."
"What alternative?" Not a spitting man by nature, Elliot took a mouthful of water from his own bottle, swishing the cold liquid around between his cheeks before discarding it to the floor because that's just what a person did when playing hockey. He squirted another mouthful of water through his open lips.
"I don't know." Murphy shrugged, gargled some water and spit it to the floor. Wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, he commented, "Maybe like that FBI agent she worked for in Oregon." He clapped an open palm between Elliot's shoulder blades when he choked on his latest drink. "See? Told you I'm better than the alternative."
Elliot glanced warily at his friend, setting his stick to rest against the boards, Murphy mimicking his action. "Porter? She wouldn't do that."
"I don't know, man." He let his voice trail off with a lift of one corner of his lips. "Word on the street is he was trying to get pretty chummy with her."
Elliot expressed his skepticism with an arched eyebrow. "Word on the street?" he repeated.
"Couple-a beat cops saw 'em talking on the street. Let's just say he didn't practice the art of idle hands."
The bristling in Elliot's posture was immediate. "Liv wouldn't get involved with someone she worked with."
"Well, for your sake, Stabler, let's hope that ain't the truth."
Elliot was silent for a few moments, stomping his skates on the floor to dislodge any remaining stuck-on clumps of shaved ice. He placed his water bottle on the ground between his widely-stanced legs and dropped his face to his hands, propping his elbows on his thighs, grinding the heels of his palms over his tightly-squeezed eyelids. "I am such a dickhead," he groaned.
Murphy clapped him on the back again, though lighter than he had before to get him to cough up water and, with a chuckle, said, "Well, I know that, man. No need to share it with the world, though."
Elliot pressed a bit harder on his eyes. "I'm serious, Murph. If someone were looking for a poster boy for men who have done shitty things to their wives, I wouldn't even have to audition. They'd goddamn seek me out."
Murphy bit his lower lip for a second. He pushed his elbow into his friend's arm. "Hey, look, Stabler, you don't have to be so hard on yourself." Then, because he was Aidan Murphy and he couldn't resist, he added, "That's my job."
"You're wrong," Elliot responded with a sigh.
"Ok, so yeah, trying to get back together with Kathy was a mist-…"
"That's what you're wrong about."
Murphy shook his head indignantly. "Oh, no no no. That I'm right about. It was definitely a…"
"Mistake, I know!" Elliot finished for him. "What I meant was," he paused to collect his thoughts, "you were wrong about me trying to get back together with her. I mean, what if…" he trailed off, head still downcast and resting in his hands.
"What if what?" Murphy prodded.
"What if…shit." He laughed mirthlessly, shaking his hand-supported head. "Jesus Christ, Murphy," he slid his arms back so that his forearms, not his elbows, rested on his thighs. His hands hung limply between his knees. "What if Kathy was the one night stand?" He cast a sidelong glance at Murphy, whose already narrow blue eyes were squinting a bit more as they appraised him. "I am such an asshole."
"Mmhmm," Murphy hummed, sounding much like an elderly British detective who'd just received another clue to the mystery of the day.
"Shit, Murph. It was never about getting back together with Kathy. It was…"
And that was as long as Murphy could wait without saying something. "Then what do you call telling her you wanted to 'come home'?" The final phrase he accentuated with a well-executed pair of air quotes.
"Fuck." Elliot's head dropped back to his hands, the heels of his palms driving furiously into his closed eyes. "I don't know," he groaned. "Christ."
"Okay, so here's a novel idea, Stabler: why don't you try telling Kathy you don't want to move home?"
"I don't know how to," came the mumbled admission.
"Well, you signed the divorce papers. That pretty much says it right there. Now you just have to grow the balls to back it up."
"I don't want to lose my family, Murph." Elliot gave his friend a quick defeated glance.
Murphy sighed, pursing his lips. "You're not gonna lose your family, man. The kids love you. They always will. This isn't your fault. It's not Kathy's fault, either. You know I love her—she's a great lady. But you two…it's just not gonna work out. I promise, though, you're not gonna lose your family." He paused, and from the sudden inhale Elliot took that was refusing to be exhaled, he knew his friend was waiting for the "but." "But…I can tell you exactly what you are gonna lose if you don't get your shit together…" he trailed off, not because he was unsure or afraid of saying what he planned to, but really just because he wanted to make Elliot ask.
Elliot, not because he was unsure or afraid of what Murphy had to say, but really just because he knew Murph wanted him to ask, didn't. He could feel Murphy's stare on him, blew out the breath he'd been holding, and turned to meet it.
Elliot blinked.
Murphy waited.
Murphy figured this was akin to the setup of some kind of riddle. If Irishmen are known for their lack of patience and two Irishmen get into a staring contest, who would break first: the one pretending he doesn't want to share his wisdom or the one pretending he doesn't want to hear it?
As it turned out, they broke at the same time, Elliot questioning "Alright, what am I gonna lose?" just as Murphy began to explain "Alright, I'll tell you what you're gonna lose." They stopped speaking almost simultaneously, silence taking over once more momentarily.
"Olivia," Murphy stated simply, breaking the imposing quiet. "Look, as it is, you don't have a whole lot of time to waste dislodging your head from your ass. I mean, at least she doesn't know you asked to move home," he added with a half-shrug. It took him only a fraction of a second to read the subtle glimmer of fear that colored Elliot's eyes and he smacked an open palm to his forehead. "Fuck me on ice and call me Nancy Kerrigan, you told her, didn't you?"
Elliot again deposited his face into his hands, mumbling a drawn-out "Shit" in the process.
"Damn. You've got even less time than I thought. You've got to learn to keep your trap shut."
Elliot pulled his hands away from his face, casting a narrow-eyed glare at his friend. "You're one to talk," he scoffed.
"This isn't about me. You're the one caught in this little triangle of…"
Elliot raised an eyebrow.
"…whatever it is. Since the time situation is a bit more critical than I'd thought, it's a good thing I told Sin to meet me here at the rink in a bit."
The other eyebrow shot up to join the first. "You did what?"
Murphy shrugged, entirely nonchalant. "I told Olivia to meet me here, that I'd teach her how to play hockey—take some of her stress out on a puck. Nothing better than a fuck to help relieve stress, I always say."
"You mean puck," Elliot corrected.
"Right. Puck." Murphy offered a lopsided grin. "'Course, she doesn't know you're here. She may decide to just practice her slapshot on your ass, since that's where your head is stuck."