“How many minutes does Dalton have?”
So he had noticed that, too. I couldn’t understand why the coach wasn’t playing him more. He was the best winger the team had, yet he was putting him out on the 3rd line.
Andy looked downright pissed now as he glared down at the ice. When I heard him snapping at Deb, I decided to step in.
I walked to the bar in the corner and ordered him a Shirley Temple, then brought the disgustingly pink drink to my brother.
“No thanks,” he snapped without looking up.
I raised an eyebrow at Greg next to him. “Mind if I take your seat for a minute?”
“Better you than me,” he said cheerily, standing.
Andy grunted as I sat down. “Didn’t realize that was you,” he muttered.
“That wasn’t a nice way to talk to anyone,” I told him. “But I think you can be forgiven when this many millions of your money is self-destructing on the ice.” I held out the drink. “Here, I got you this.”
He took one look at the glass and cracked up. Andy never drank alcohol, preferring to stick to diet soda, which he might as well have injected by IV with how much he consumed. He’d hada few wild months in college, and I think they scared him, with our mom’s history of addiction. My brother exercised control in every area of his life, so I could see why the idea of becoming dependent on alcohol would have been terrifying to him.
Sometimes I liked to give him a hard time by offering him kid drinks, but only because he knew how proud I really was of his decision.
He took the Shirley Temple from me and downed it in one gulp, grimacing. “Jesus that’s sweet.”
“You didn’t actually have to drink it,” I pointed out.
“I paid for it,” he reminded me, grinning. “You think I got to where I am by wasting money?”
“I’ll remember that the next time you drop five hundo on a pair of sneakers.”
He flipped me off and we lapsed into silence, watching the action down on the ice. Well into the third period, we were now down by two.
“He’s not playing Dalton enough,” I mutter after a few minutes.
“I know,” Andy practically snarled. “Olsen is going to have a word with him.”
“Goalie looks pretty strong.”
“That kid is definitely a bright spot,” he agreed.
Down on the ice, Liam got control of the puck, flying past the blue line. His head snapped in every direction, looking for someone to pass to as the opposing defensemen closed in. There was no one, and Liam seemed to come to the same conclusion at the same moment as me, because he sent a blistering shot towards the net. But the angle wasn’t great and it ricocheted off the cross bar with a loud clang that could be heard even up here.
“The golden boy is on his game, at least,” Andy muttered, and I rolled my eyes. He’d always insisted on calling Liam that.
“He needs more wing support,” I said, and Andy nodded once before sighing.
“If nothing else, this game is demonstrating our weak spots.”
“And weak spots can be addressed,” I reminded him.
His gaze swept over the crowd, which was slowly starting to filter out. Not a good sign when the fans would rather avoid traffic than watch the last ten minutes of the game. I knew just what Andy was thinking—how many of these people had come just for curiosity’s sake? And how many would be eager to come back after this performance?
Down on the ice, Gabriel Dalton got control of the puck. Andy straightened, seeing the opening at the same time as Dalton. He deked around a defenseman then took off, his path to the net clear if he could just move fast enough.
At the last second, the tall rookie—Weaver—crashed towards the net.
“Stick on the ice!” Andy yelled. I was sure the coaches were screaming the same thing. But they needn’t have worried. When the pass came from Dalton, Weaver’s stick was in exactly the right place to tip the puck into the net.
From the way the owner’s box exploded, you’d have thought the Sting had just won the Stanley Cup. Down on the ice, the tall kid had a dazed-looking smile on his face while Dalton pounded his back in celebration and the red lamp behind the goal continued to flash.
