He opens his mouth, but whatever he’s about to say dies on his tongue. His expression turns thoughtful. “You’ve got a point.”
I give him anI knowlook, then pick up the speed of my steps so I beat him to the stairs of the jet. I wave at Colleen as she stands with her assistant, snapping photos for the team’s social media. I pop my head out from my jacket to give her a bright smile. The people of the internet won’t know my balls have retreated up into my body from the icy breeze.
Once I’m on the jet, I find my usual spot in the row next to Blaine and Zach and shove my duffel bag into the overheadbin. Jackson is sitting in the window seat, tapping away on his phone.
“How are my two favorite Wilde spawn?” I ask, dropping down into the seat next to him.
He has two kids, Ryan and Isabela, and they’re my little buddies. Ryan is following in his dads’ footsteps, playing hockey. I tried to tell him he needed to be a goalie after he started to grow his hair like mine, but Jackson quickly shut that down. And Isabela is the coolest little girl ever. We made friendship bracelets for everyone last year, and she likes to braid my hair.
He chuckles. “You know they are the only two, right?”
“Eh, minor details.” I wave him off. “Are they good?”
“Yeah, they’re good. Hayden promised them a night of movies, pizza, and ice cream, so they didn’t really care I was leaving for the night.”
I let out a low whistle. “Damn, can I get in on that deal too?”
He laughs before his face softens. “You know you’re welcome at our house anytime.”
I do, but unless I’m explicitly invited on a particular date and time, I don’t like to just show up. What if he’s only being polite? What if they’re busy, then I become a burden because they won’t want to kick me out? I don’t want to be an inconvenience.
“Thanks,” I say with a smile and try to settle into my seat for the two-hour flight.
The arena in Montréal is bustling with energy when I take the ice for warmups the following night, and it fuels my own excitement for the game ahead.
Skating over to the crease, I scuff up the ice with my skates, then turn to face the posts. I give the right one a light tap beforedoing the same on the left, and then use my glove to pat the crossbar.
“Bonjour, ça va?” I can’t stop the giggle from bubbling in my throat. “I’m sorry I don’t know any more than that. But I was trying. I was awake most of the night trying to learn some French, but I’ve forgotten most of it already.” I frown and give the steel another loving pat. “Please don’t be mad at me. We can still be a solid team. We can connect on vibes, you know?”
I do this every time we play in Montréal. I can’t help but wonder if the posts think poorly of me because I can’t speak to them in their native language, but fuck, it’s so hard to get things to register in my brain sometimes.
“Everything alright, Olsen?”
I turn to face Jonathan Peyton. He’s the newly appointed captain of the Thunder after Ethan retired last season.
“Yeah, I was trying to have some bonding time with my posts, but…” I tap the side of my helmet with the knob of my stick. “Stupid brain.”
Something similar to irritation flickers in his eyes before he edges in closer and rests an arm on the crossbar. “First of all, your brain is not stupid, so quit being hard on yourself. And secondly? What do you want to say? Maybe I can translate.”
My eyes widen in surprise. “You know French?”
He wiggles his brows and smirks. “Apparently, the chicks dig a bit of French in the bedroom.”
I bark out a laugh. “So you decided to learn a language just so you could talk dirty to women?”
“What can I say? I’m great at sex.” He grins.
I snort. “You’re something,” I mumble before letting out a gasp as a thought strikes. “Wait. Is French Canadian different to French? What if they don’t understand you?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s that much different. It’s more like… pronunciation and slang?” He shrugs, andsomething settles inside me that he isn’t mocking me. I’ve had teammates in the past who have called me weird or a freak. “We’re in Montréal, and most of Montréal is Québécois.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I whisper.
“It means they speak French.” He winks, then wiggles his fingers in a give it to me gesture. “Now, tell me what you want to say.”
Glancing down at the posts, I’m aware my teammates are probably waiting to take practice shots on the net, and I’m taking up precious time by going through the motions of my silly rituals. I smooth my hand over the steel bar, then confess, “I don’t know. My mind has kinda gone blank now I’m on the spot.”
“That’s okay. I can handle it.” He leans in and taps the blade of his stick against the posts before patting the crossbar. “Soyez fort, ayez une défense solide, et soyez là pour Elliot.”
