“Yo, Carrington, open up for Daddy!” a deep voice thunders through the door, and I can’t help chuckling, still making a desperate inventory of my hallway.
“Just a sec!” I yell as my gaze finally connects with the familiar key ring next to my muddy running shoes—a small puck in black and silver that my teen sisters had custom-made for me when I was drafted by the Lions. Bending to pick them up, I grab my bag and go through the content. Compression shorts,check. Sports tape—Howies, not Ruban—check. Gatorade—the pink, not the blue—check,and a year’s supply ofReese’s Cups—check. Everything else is at the rink. Balancing on one foot, hastily putting on my other boot, I reach for the door and let Riley in.
“What the heck, man?” Riley takes in my dump of a hallway, a disapproving frown between his auburn brows. “Looks like someone dropped a bomb in here. A bomb of…trash.” The six-foot-six Canadian defenseman rubs at the back of his auburn hair, snow melting off his broad, coat-covered shoulders, drops of water glistening in his equally auburn beard. Riley Cameron, light as a feather and elegant as a Russian ballerina on the ice, resembles the love child of a Canadian lumberjack and a feral grizzly bear in real life. And most of the time, he behaves like he’s been raised by a pack of wolves. He can clean out your fridge if you give him thirty minutes alone in your kitchen and most encounters on the ice leave him standing and the opponent crumbling on the ground. Trusted teamies and self-proclaimed besties forever and ever, you rarely see me without Riley or vice versa. We’ve been attached at the hip for the past two years since we were both drafted at the same time. He’s as real and as solid as they come.
“Shut it,” I murmur, throwing a final glance around the room, cursing myself for not spending ten minutes last night going through my shit. But I was too wasted—and too discouraged—from the game. Our fourth loss in a row during an alreadyabysmal season. Yeah, the Lions aren’t exactly roaring now and even the mice are sniggering at our pitiful attempts at playing hockey.
“Bro, no wonder you can’t drag any tail back to your crib,” Riley shakes his head, pulling what appears to be a half-finished Snickers bar from his coat pocket, inspecting it briefly before stuffing it into his mouth. Riley is addicted toSnickersbut won’t touch a Reese’s ‘with a ten-foot pine trunk’which he never fails to let me know. I don’t get it. Both are peanut chocolate treats, but Riley doesn’t like the way that Reese’s stick to the roof of your mouth, whereas I argue that it prolongs the taste. These are the philosophical discussions that we have daily, proving that we’re both academic scholars disguised as pro hockey players and often idiots. Our teammates moan and groan when my fellow D-man and I start on our recurring—and dreaded—Snickers vs. Reese’srant.
“‘Tail will only land you eighteen years of child support,’”I mimic Coach Bassey’s deep voice, and a broad grin spreads across Riley’s face before he bro-knuckles me. “Sticks over chicks, man,” I continue, and Riley near-chokes on the remnants of his Snickers.
“Duuude,” he wheezes, shaking his head as he bends over in a laughing fit that I’m sure makes the entire building shake. Coming up for air a few seconds later, his eyes watery and his cheeks flushed. “Dicks in your case, man,” he corrects. Riley is the only one on the team that knows that I’m into guys instead of girls. Well, in theory, anyway, since my love life is non-existent. “Where’s McKinney?” he sobers, looking at the empty spot on the floor where our goalie’s gym bag is missing.
“Flew home to Ontario last night.” I shrug, my shoulders slumped. “I guess that’s why Coach called the meeting.”
“Whatcha mean? I thought it was just a dislocation?” Riley rubs at his beard, his light-blue eyes finding mine.
“Nope. More complicated, apparently. He’s out for the season, man. He’s not coming back anytime soon,” I sigh, rubbing at my forehead.
“Fuck! Man, that’s bad… That’s real bad. That means…” Riley trails off, rubbing his large hands across his face roughly, perhaps to shake himself out of this epic nightmare.
“Yeah, exactly,” I exhale in resignation. We both know what that fucking means. We’re stuck with our second goalie, Dale Buckhammer, and although he’s okay, he’s second goalie for a reason.It isn’t that Dale is bad or anything. He has the potential to be great even, but he hasn’t really managed to get his game together during practice, and once you sit out too many games… Yeah, not good. Still, McKinney didn’t exactly excel before his injury, either… None of us have if I’m being honest. To play this badly is a joint effort, and even though the sports reporters are harder on some of us than others, we take the heat as a team. Always as a team.
‘You’re playing like you’ve already lost,’were Coach’s departing words after last night’s horrid defeat against a team that’s usually a sure win. ‘What will it take for you boys to believe that the ice is yours? You earned your way here, now you gotta claim it. What will it take, Lions?’Yeah, that’s exactly it, isn’t it? We still play like a group of fucking pretenders, missing passes that we should be able to do in our sleep, our stamina crumbling in the 3rd period, often causing us to throw a lead.
“Well, that’s just perfect, ain’t it? This season’s already fucked…” Riley groans, the echo of his bear ancestors ringing through the small hallway.
“Yeah, I know…” I know. Of course, I do. Sure, there’s still an atom-sized chance that we can turn it around, but it will take a miracle of biblical proportions and not even Coach Bassey looks like he believes it anymore.Fuck.
“Awww, man, come here,” Riley winks, holding out his beefy arms. “Give Daddy some sugar,” he croons, and I instantly fail to bite back the grin breaking free from my mouth. Leaning against Riley’s broad chest, smelling of frost and fucking timber, I chuckle half-heartedly as I melt into his bear hug.
We’re an odd pair, the massive Canadian and the much smaller Pennsylvanian. It’s not that I’m teeny or anything; with my six-foot-three athletic build, I’m a decent-sized player. Still, I’ve always been on the smaller side for a D-man, but usually, people shut up the minute I start playing. I didn’t get my nickname for nothing.I’ve fucking earned it.
‘Carry On, Kid.’The three words have been Coach’s favorite sentence since my first year on the team. Whenever I was thrown against the ice by an opponent or slammed against the boards, the words would boom through the arena. ‘Carry the fuck on, Kid!’Whenever Coach Bassey’s words rang through the rink, they would somehow enter my bloodstream and take root. They would manifest before my very eyes and now—during my second year in the NHL—I’ve learned how to turn my smaller physique into an advantage. Sure, I still take a lot of hits and falls, but I’m getting better at predicting every move and turn on the ice—and I’m fucking quick at getting back on my feet within seconds.
‘That’s it, son. I see it now.’Coach’s eyes beamed with pride and admiration when he stood in front of me in the locker room after a particularly ruthless game that cost me a busted eyebrow but earned the team a win. ‘The lion came out tonight and it was a thing of fucking beauty, Carrington. A thing of fucking beauty.’Winking at me while I was untying my skates, he spoke the famous words that, from that day forward, have followed me everywhere. ‘Carry on, Kid.’If I’m not mistaken,Godhimself got all misty-eyed for a second or two until he went back to shoutingkeep it upsandone beer tonight, onlysat the other players, a mean-ass look on his face.
The press caught on quickly too, naming methe Comeback Kidbecause I apparently always have a fast comeback no matter how many times I’m slammed against the sideboards or thrown into the ice. After the NHL Network did a two-minute feature about me last year, I had my mom screaming on the phone for what felt like half an hour, repeating the broadcaster’s words back to me.‘I don’t know what your lucky number is, folks, but in Aurora, Colorado it’s number 5 these days. Luck seems to be sticking to the Mountain Lions’ D-man, Luke Carrington, like mud on a tire.’
“Dude, cut it out,” Riley finally pushes at my chest, nearly causing me to tumble over.
“What?” I grin stupidly, feigning innocence.
“You know what, fucker!” Riley laughs, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Stop grabbing my ass, man.”
“Just checking,” I wink, biting my bottom lip.
“Fuck you, Carrington,” Riley sucker punches my shoulder. It’s a standing joke on the team that the huge Canadian is so whipped by his long-term girlfriend, Katie, that it’s only a matter of time before she buys a strap-on. “Nothin’s coming nowhere near my ass.”
Shaking my head, Itsk-tsking,while pulling on my parka, followed by my navy beanie and bright teal scarf, both with the team emblem on them.
“Famous last words, bro. Famous last words,” I grin.
“Just shut it and get going already. We’re gonna be fucking late again. I don’t know why I even put up with your lazy ass, dude.”
“Stop bitching. You love my lazy ass.” I follow Riley out of the condo, slamming the door shut behind me, wiggling my butt. “We’re taking the truck, right?”
“Of course,” Riley nods just as my phone pings. Pulling it from my coat pocket, I wince when I read the message. “What?” Riley frowns.
