I jerk my head toward the end of the ice where the former Knight makes his grand entrance. “Neal is well into retirement. This should be a cakewalk.”
“Have you ever played against him?” Hayden asks.
“Not in a long time.” I tell myself that Neal Sanderson—three-time Stanley Cup champion, NHL Hall of Famer, and a bit of a hockey hero—probably doesn’t even remember how to lace up his skates.
The others gather around, but instead of being one big happy family, today, our teammates are our opposition. In place of the smile Liam has recently adopted, he snarls. Arms crossed in front of his chest, Robo forms a human wall and the others would make me shake in my skates if this were a game to seed the finals and not to raise funds for a good cause.
The Ho Ho Hockey charity game is for a health-and-homes kids’ charity and I’ll jingle all the way to help. Someday I’ll have my own pee-wee hockey team—once I meet the right woman—and we’ll carry on the tradition of helping children in need.
While Badaszek and assistant coach Vohn Brandt confer out of earshot, Liam gathers all of us together before we officially split into two opposing sides. “Time to up the stakes for the annual Christmas charity game bet. You know the rules—winners get glory, losers get humiliation.”
The tradition is simple but ruthless. The player who scores the most goals gets to name the price, and the one who falls just short pays it. Last year, Pierre had to dye his hair pink for a month after losing to Jack—by one goal.
Eyes gleaming with mischief and elf ears on display, Liam says, “You’re our big scorer, even with a busted face. If you put away more goals than anyone else, each of us will donate an extra ten grand to the children’s fundraiser.” That totals about a hundred thousand extra dollars.
Lips curving down, I nod. “Not too shabby. And if I don’t?” I ask, though I already know I will. I’ve had plenty of time to practice while injured. During secret late-night sessionssneaking to the community rink across state lines, I’ve kept sharp while remaining incognito—Coach would kill me if he knew.
Liam exchanges a look with the others. “If you don’t, well ... we’ll come up with something special.”
Their matching smirks make me uneasy, but I brush them off. “Deal,” I say, extending my hand.
A few of the guys snicker, and the ones who don’t stuff their Santa hats over their heads—the theme is green, with elf-ear hats on their helmets, against red elves with jaunty Santa-style hats. That’s my guys and me.
Meanwhile, the arena is decked out in festive flair and the crowd is scream-singing Christmas carols as we wait to take to the ice.
Grady juts his chin. “You sure you’re up for this?”
I’d expect nothing less than trash-talking from our defenseman, but usually, I’m not on the receiving end of it.
“I’ve had more than enough time lately. Made enough smoothies to open a juice bar, watched every episode of The Office—both the US and British versions—and I can play ‘Jingle Bells’ on piano now, along with pretty much every other Christmas tune.”
“Too bad you didn’t learn the violin, because then you could play a sad song when we crush you,” Redd snipes back while miming air-playing a miniature version of the instrument.
It’s all in good fun, but when we separate and go to our respective areas of the rink, Mikey asks, “And how has your dating life been since the karaoke incident?”
I groan. “A disaster. After the jawbreaker, I had the champagne cork incident at my brother’s engagement party.” I point to my right shoulder, where it hit me at a surprisingly high velocity.
“Oof,” Pierre says with concern.
“Then there was the cooking class where I slipped on spilled olive oil while trying to impress the cute chef, followed by the allergic reaction to oysters ...”
“Don’t forget the flying bouquet at your ex’s wedding,” Beau adds—his wife is a wedding planner and questioned my sanity.
“Wait, you went to your ex’s wedding?” Hayden interrupts.
“Long story. But it’s like Cupid had one too many sips of eggnog and doesn’t want me to find the future Mrs. Turley.”
Hayden mutters, “Stupid Cupid.”
The buzzer sounds, calling us to our positions. The fans go wild with roaring cheers and thunderous applause. From the line, I watch Neal Sanderson move with the grace of a man half his age, his gray-streaked hair visible beneath his helmet adorned with elf ears.
Even though a smile curls like Christmas ribbon on my lips, there’s a fair chance he’s going to make it his mission to see me lose the bet. But this is about more than that. If I play well enough, Coach will take me off the bench, which will be worth whatever the guys come up with for the loser.
“Head in the game, Fletch,” I whisper to myself, because I don’t plan to come in second place. Instead, I’ll return to my spot as a future legend.
The puck drops and I’m immediately in motion, sticking to Vohn’s order of play. It all comes back to me like riding a bicycle—or playing hockey like the professional athlete I am. Feeling the breeze in my lungs as I pump my legs across the ice, I offer an assist and operate as one with my teammates. This is among my top three happy places and I am in it to win it.
First period is a blur of bodies and sticks—Hayden sends a beautiful pass my way and I onetime it, but Liam makes an impossible save.
