That earns another round of laughter.
When we pull up outside Icehouse, the sign flickers blue over wet asphalt. Faulker whistles low. “Our church of champions.”
“More like confessional,” I mutter, pushing the door open.
“Smells like victory in here.”Dash rubs his hands together. “Or is that designer pussy I’m smelling?”
Kids got a way with words, that’s for sure.
The Icehouse is packed, shoulder to shoulder with familiar faces. The kind of night where you can’t tell if people are cheering for the team or looking for a chance to go home with a player. I spot the guys right away, huddled in the back corner around our usual booths. Same spot, same noise, same old same old.
I’m not really in the mood to be “on” tonight. I want to eat, drink a beer, and disappear before anyone tries to hook up. Hell, I turned down one of my favorites the other night.
I push past it and remind myself this isn’t just any bar — it’s our home turf. These are our people. The ones who pay to watch us beat the shit out of other teams on ice. They deserve at least a nod, no matter what mood I’m in.
As I make my way through the crowd, I shake hands, clap shoulders, and say thanks when people shoutgood gameornice save.Feels more like walking through a post-game locker room than a bar.
Off to the side, I catch sight of the colony — the regulars. Puck bunnies lined up like it’s open tryouts for who can ruin their mascara first.Not it.
Then I notice a few of the LA players made the trip too, which explains why the tension hums a little heavier than usual. Johnson’s front and center, all over Dingy like a loyal lapdog.
“You see Johnson?” Koa asks.
“Kid looks like he might go down on his knees for Dingy,” I shrug, since that’s no different than when the dick played for us.
Dash asks, “That tool still hate you?”
“Hell if I know. He stopped talking shit when The Times did a piece on me.”
“That’s one way to shut him up.” Dash grins.
“Damn right, it is,” I nod.
By the time we get back to the booth, I see that Dash hasn’t strayed toward the colony yet — which shocks the hell out of me. He’s usually halfway to a bad decision by now.
Koa notices too, “I’m good. Resume regular programming.”
“You sure, man?” He asks, and Koa nods. Dash winks, “I’ll bring you something pretty back. You can decide if you want to take it home as a souvenir win.”
“Get your ass back here, Dash. It’s toast time,” Bass yells from across the table.
“Raise a glass,” Smith shouts, and just like that, the bar quiets.
Stone’s the first to stand. “They came to play, we came to win, we left them questioning what the fuck hit them.”
Predictably, some LA jackass yells, “We’re right here, Stone, still standing. Get ready to take it in the ass in LA.”
Smith smirks, lifting his beer. “To us, the champions of the rink! They wanna shove it in our asses, well, they can suck my dick.”
The whole place explodes in laughter. A few of the LA boys bark back, but no one’s dumb enough to throw a punch, not yet anyway.
I nudge Koa. “You’re up, KOK.”
He smirks, grabbing his glass. “We crushed it tonight, there is no doubt. Now we drink and fuck till the lights go out.”
Dash snorts. “Way to keep it low profile tonight.”
“You got two, KOK — bring it home!” Faulker yells.
