“You can just call me Max, if you want,” he says, voice a little stronger. “Most of the team calls me Kuemper, but my friends all use Max.”
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face at that. I was insanely jealous of the “Carter Morgan, Max Kuemper, and Henri Vasel” trio when I first joined the team. Maybe this is Max’s way of inviting me in.
“Sure, Max. Thanks. Might be better for everyone to start calling me by my first name, too. Bas and Vas sounds like we’re a comedy duo or something.”
He laughs, looking more relaxed than he was moments ago.
Practice ends up being a fucking blast, when Coachsurprises us by bringing along Anthony Lawson. After running through some drills, we separate into teams and scrimmage. Everyone plays better, as though his mere presence on the ice provides us with more skill, and even Coach Mackenzie can’t pretend he’s not having a good time.
Micky seems to be the only one not basking in the glow of Anthony Lawson’s presence. After a particularly good save, Lawson congratulates him and Micky promptly lets in the next five shots, face growing steadily more red as play progresses. During a break, I skate over and snatch his water bottle off the top of his net, squirting a stream into my mouth.
“What’s up, Micky Mouse?”
He sighs, waiting for me to hand him the bottle before squeezing some down the back of his neck.
“I wish he wouldn’t watch me. It makes me nervous.”
“You wish the professional goaltender wouldn’t watch you goaltend during practice,” I clarify dryly. He grimaces. “Come on, buddy, you’re playing great. He’s just here to help. It’spractice, not the Frozen Four.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to embarrass Coach Mackenzie. Or the team. Or you.”
“Listen, I don’t need anyone’s help to embarrass myself. I do just fine on my own.”
Micky laughs, shoulders finally creeping away from where he’d had them hunched up to his ears. His smile is gone just as quickly as it was there, though, as his eyes widen and fix on something over my shoulder. I turn to see Anthony Lawson skating toward us.Cute,my brain supplies helpfully, because naturally this is the moment when my newly realized attraction to men decides to perk up and sniff the air.
“Hey there,” he greets us, sliding to a slow stop in front ofthe net. Micky moves a little closer to me, shoulders curled inward like he wishes he were smaller than his 6’5” frame.
“Hey, Coach Lawson.” I hold out a gloved hand for him to fist-bump.
“Hi,” Micky says, barely above a whisper. I can practically feel the anxiety radiating off of him, like he expects Lawson to dress him down for making a mistake in practice.
“I was slow on the regroup during that last play. My fault they had that scoring chance,” I say mildly, doing my best to take some of the heat off of Micky. Lawson’s dark eyes meet mine, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what I’m trying to do.
“No worries,” he says easily. “You guys are playing great—Vaughn is a good partner for you. I enjoyed watching you play forward, but you’re a D-man at heart.”
I’m not immune to the power of a compliment from a professional hockey player. My heart feels like it doubles in size at these words, and I smile proudly.
“So listen, I buttered up the head coach and was able to wrangle a little one-on-one time with you, McIntire. Is that cool?”
Micky looks like he’s never heard anything less cool in his life.
“Sure,” he mutters.
Lawson, who is obviously nobody’s fool, smiles in a gentle, conciliatory manner, and tucks his hands into his pockets.
“Have you ever heard of blind ball?” he asks. Micky looks at me and I shake my head. Lawson grins. “Help me flip the net around.”
Turning the net so it’s facing the boards, Lawson explains how Micky will set up in his goal the way he usually would.
“I’m going to grab some tennis balls, and throw them off the boards,” he explains. “You do your best to catch them, simple as that. No high stakes—just working on reflexes and getting out of your head a little bit.”
“Damn, I wish I could play,” I complain, right as Coach Mackenzie blows his whistle. Tapping Micky on the butt with my stick, I skate off, checking over my shoulder to see Lawson still chatting amiably at my friend.
“Micky is working with Coach Lawson?” Vas asks cheerfully as I skate to a stop next to him.
“Yeah. Poor guy is probably shitting his pants right now.”
“Goodness,” Vas says. “Coach Lawson is very nice, Micky does not have to shit his pants.”
