"East. You're up." Trey says, holding a cue, nodding toward the table where Luka's racking the balls.
I grab a beer from the bar and wander over. "You playing, Luka?"
He glances up, and there's something in his expression I can't quite read. "Yeah. You in?"
"Always."
We play a couple of games—nothing serious, just messing around, talking shit. Luka's good, but I'm on a streak tonight. I sink three in a row, then call the eight ball in the corner pocket and nail it.
"Damn, East. Save some luck for the rest of the season," JP says, laughing, his arm around his girlfriend Cammy, who’s Penelope Matthew’s, our GM’s, administrative assistant.
They’ve been together since last season. He’s already told most of us that he has a ring stashed and a plan to propose soon.
Luka's leaning against the wall, watching me with that same unreadable expression. "You're feeling confident tonight."
"I'm always after a win." I chalk my cue, grinning. "Why, you want another shot at me?"
"Sure."
Luka’s normally a pool shark—deadly aim, no mercy, the kind of guy who breaks and sinks three balls before I even chalk my cue.
But tonight? He’s playing like hot garbage. And I’m on fire.
I’ve had a few beers, so everything feels smooth and easy, every shot lining up like the table’s doing half the work. Luka scratches twice, mutters something in Russian, and the whole team heckles him.
He racks the next set, straightens, and says way too casually, “Let’s make it interesting.”
I lean on my cue, feeling cocky as hell. “Interesting how?”
“A bet.”
The chirping around us dies instantly. Nothing gets hockey players’ attention like the wordbet.
“What kind of bet?” I ask.
Bets are our team’s love language. We bet on everything—faceoff wins, locker room sprints, who can chug a Gatorade fastest. Last week, JP lost and had to show up to practice in pink heart boxers.
So yeah. I’m always up for a bet. Especially when I’m winning.
Luka’s face stays unreadable. “If I lose this game, I’ll go to your cousin’s wedding with you and marry the girl your mom is trying to set you up with.”
Luka’s one of the biggest players on the team: on and off the ice. I’d never actually hold him to marrying Anika, but watching him attempt to sweep her off her feet would be the kind of entertainment you can’t pay for.
I snort. “And if you win?”
His smirk is tiny, but it has me second-guessing if he knows something I don’t, only the brown liquid I’ve been gulping down is giving me a little more confidence than needed.
“If I win…” he says, “you marry my sister.”
The room erupts.
“Your sister?” Aleksi howls. “You don’t havea sister!”
“Bro, you were built in a petri dish in some Siberian hockey lab,” JP says. “You probably don’t even have a belly button.”
We all laugh, but we also all share a locker room, and we can all confirm that Luka “Popeye” Popovich has a belly button.
I’m laughing too, riding the wave of beer and ego. Luka has never talked about his family in Russia, let alone a sister. We’d know by now. “This is so stupid,” I say…because it is, “but fine. You’re on.”
