I lift my chin, and he nods to the showers. I follow him.
Dash yells in, “KOK, everyone else is out of here. I told them we’d meet them at the bar?—”
“I’m not feeling like the bar tonight, Dash,” he grumbles.
I clear my throat, “Which is exactly why your ass is going.” He turns and looks at me, “A win’s a win, KOK; let’s go.”
He glares at Dash, knowing he is the one who brought me in on this.
Dash raises his hands in the air, as if to call, uncle, as he steps backward from the shower room.
“Just what I fucking needed,” I hear him snarl as I turn off the water.
“Gonna stick around,” I tell Dash, knowing something's up, but not asking what, since it's not my business unless someone makes it so. I don’t ask for that shit to land at my feet because it becomes my issue then. I have enough of my own.
“Thanks, Moretti,” Sterling says fucking with his phone. “Rides waiting.”
The rideto Icehouse is the usual mix of ego and leftover adrenaline.
Dash sits shotgun, still half-buzzed from the win, while Faulker and Killer are sprawled in the third row, KOK beside me with headphones on, which is smart because those two are loud as hell.
“Three weeks in and still undefeated,” Dash says, twisting around with a grin. “Feels pretty damn good, huh?”
“Feels like Coach D’s system’s working,” I say, voice even, forehead against the cool window, watching the city flash by in streaks of gold and gray. Wet streets, neon signs, steam rising from the grates.
“That’s part of it, man,” Faulker laughs. “But, you’re out swatting pucks like flies. That’s not a system, that’s sorcery.”
Killer snorts. “Yeah, the man justlooksat the puck, and it changes its mind. He’s got some kind of goalie voodoo going on.”
“It’s called skill,” I tell them. “You two should try it sometime. Maybe then Johnson wouldn’t be able to let them have every shot on him.”
“Fucker needs to go,” KOK mumbles.
“Damn right he does,” Faulker agrees.
Dash points at me. “Skill, superstition, whatever works. He’s pissed you’re on a streak again.”
“Let him be pissed.”
They all laugh and resume their scrolling. Killer’s texting, thumbs flying. Faulker’s replaying clips of his own shift like he’s analyzing tape. Me, I hate phones, but I’ll be in the doghouse if I miss a message. And there it is, A text from Ma — a blurry picture of her and Pop by the TV.Proud of you, ragazzo.
I smile despite myself. She never misses a game. Still treats me like her little boy, even after fifteen seasons and more bruises than I can count. I send back a heart, lock the phone, and pocket it before the guys can start in on me.
Dash twists in his seat again. “You coming out after Icehouse or pulling your usual vanishing act?”
“Depends on who’s there,” I tell him.
Faulker leans forward, grinning. “Translation: if they’re all starry-eyed, he’s out.”
I shoot him a look. “You’re one chirp away from carrying my gear next road trip.”
Killer snickers. “He’s not wrong, though. You’ve been in a mood since Montreal. Man needs a distraction. Preferably one that doesn’t involve film study or protein shakes.”
“I’m not in the mood,” I lie, sitting back.
Dash smirks. “Right. That’s why your frown lines are deeper.”
“It’s my resting in-season face.”
