Usually.
“So there I am, right?” I say, talking loudly enough to make sure the rookies at the far end of the table can hear me. “I’m eighteen years old and pretty sure I’m god’s gift to hockey at this point. I come out of the crease to play a puck behind the net, trying to be all smooth, like Marty Brodeur, except I catch an edge.”
“Oh no,” Charlie Reese-McLeod mutters into his glass of red wine. “I know this face. This is the ‘I ate shit’ face.”
I flash him a grin. “I go down like a sack of potatoes, and as I’m falling, the back of my mask gets caught in the net, but I don’t realize it, and the refs don’t see it. So I’m trying to get up, but I keep getting yanked back down. I probably get halfway to my feet about four times in five seconds, but I keep landing back on my ass, and I’m in such a panic I can’t figure out what the hell’s going on!”
Everyone chuckles as they picture a younger me flailing around on the ice like a fish flopping around out of water.
“So I’m totally confused, no idea what’s going on, but the play continues because the officials don’t know what’s happening. Meanwhile, the crowd’s screaming at me, and when I finally figure out I’m caught, it takes a couple more seconds to pull the mask off to get a whistle. When I finally make it to my feet, my damn mask is hanging off the back of the net like some kind of Christmas ornament.”
The table erupts in laughter, and I must be doing something right since I even earn a rare smile from Austin Coté as he dissects his rib eye.
I laugh with them before taking a sip from my scotch, which burns pleasantly on the way down.
Discreetly, I glance at my watch. If I can keep this up for another hour, I’ll be able to duck out without attracting too much attention. I’ll make some joke about being an old man who needs his rest, and then I can go back to the hotel, wherenobody expects me to be the court jester. Unfortunately, Coach Shaw decided this season that we all have to have a roommate on the road—something that hasn’t been the norm in the league for several years. My roommate is Tanner Sinclair, which makes things a little weird, since it means I’m rooming with the guy trying to take my job. But that’s the way it works as a pro goalie. The second you get the starting spot, someone’s coming up behind you, wanting to take it away.
Rooming with Sinclair has been fine so far, but I’m in such a weird place tonight that I’m dreading it. My chest is tight, like my rib cage has shrunk two sizes in the wash. I’m exhausted, and my face hurts from smiling.
I swirl the ice in my glass and lean back in my chair, trying to let the sound of the team enjoying themselves refuel me the way it usually does.
Rylan is sitting diagonally across from me, laughing at something Gino Santucci said, his face open and relaxed. Beside him, Jamie is chatting with Cole Darbyshire, our big, gentle-giant defenseman, but the connection between Rylan and Jamie is unmistakable. There’s something about the way their shoulders brush against each other, or how one will occasionally lean into the other for a brief second, as if they’re letting each other know they’re there. The way they are together screams intimacy, even though they rarely even speak to each other. It’s an unspoken connection, and for the first time, I’m hit with a wave of jealousy so strong it nearly takes my breath away.
Jesus Christ, what is that? I’m not interested in that kind of relationship. Never have been.
Suddenly, an image from my dream slams into my brain. The arch of Rylan’s back. The sweat. The way he groaned Jamie’s name.
My stomach churns, the expensive scotch suddenly tasting like acid.
I jerk my gaze away from them, staring intently at the bread basket in front of me like it holds the secrets to the universe.Stop. Rylan is your best friend. You are a thirty-four-year-old man, not a sexually confused teenager.
“You okay, Lou?”
I snap my head up. Gino is watching me, his dark eyebrows pulled together.
“All good,” I say, forcing my smile back up to full brightness. “Just thinking about dessert. Feels like a cheesecake kind of night.”
Gino snorts.
I need to look anywhere but at Rylan and Jamie. I scan the length of the long, dark wood table. It stretches into the shadows of the private room, lined with happy, relaxed faces. Most of the rookies have clustered together at the far end of the table, chatting amongst themselves as the conversations have split off.
Sinclair’s with them, but he’s not talking with anyone. Instead, he’s nursing a glass of water and staring at his plate of salmon like he’s analyzing its nutritional content. He appears to be removed from the chaos surrounding him. He’s not trying to entertain anyone. He’s just… existing.
Must be nice.
He looks up and catches me staring. His expression doesn’t change, but he holds my gaze for a second longer than necessary.
I paste the grin back on my face and raise my glass to him in a mock toast.
Tanner hesitates, then lifts his water glass an inch off the table in acknowledgment before replying to Kevin Marshall, who’s chattering away from beside him.
I give my head a tiny shake before launching into another story on autopilot. I am the life of the party.
Chapter 4
Tanner
The hotel room is dark, other than the amber glow from the bedside lamp on my side. It smells like generic hotel cleaner and the lingering, expensive spice of Louis’s cologne.
