Something warm settles in my chest. Easton doesn't throw compliments around carelessly. When he says something, he means it.
"Speaking of young guys," Taylor jumps in, "Mitchell tried to fight that Chicago enforcer. Dumb kid's lucky he didn't get murdered."
"Mitchell's twenty-one and thinks he's invincible," Webb says. "We were all that stupid once."
"Some of us still are." Phil looks pointedly at Taylor
The conversation flows—game breakdown, playoff positioning, the usual chirping about Taylor's dating disasters and Webb's expanding family. Easton leans back, beer in hand, looking relaxed in a way he never does on game days.
"You know what the worst part about being a goalie is?" Easton says.
"The crippling anxiety?" Phil offers.
"The fact that you're all clinically insane?" Webb adds.
"No." Easton grins. "It's that I have to watch you idiots throw yourselves in front of hundred-mile-an-hour shots and pretend it's normal."
"That's called playing defense," I say.
"That's called a death wish," Easton shoots back. "I get paid to be crazy. What's your excuse?"
"We're protecting you," Taylor says. "You're welcome."
"You're giving me premature gray hair is what you're doing." Easton runs a hand through his hair. "Tank, that hit you threw in the second? My heart rate monitor thought I was having a cardiac event."
"You wear a heart rate monitor during games?" Phil asks.
"My therapist suggested it. Said it might help with the anxiety."
"And does it?"
"No. Just gives me data on exactly how stressed I am. Turns out it's very."
This is what I came for—not the beer or the wings, but this. The rhythm of men who've bled together enough times that the distinctions between friendship and family stopped mattering.
Easton's phone rings. He glances at it, silences it, then drains the rest of his beer. "Early practice tomorrow. I'm out."
"Disciplined," Phil says with mock reverence.
"Someone has to be." Easton stands, throws cash on the table. "See you guys at practice."
He claps my shoulder as he passes, solid and sure.
The door closes behind him. For a moment, there's just the comfortable noise of the bar—someone's terrible karaoke attempt atDon't Stop Believin', the crack of poolballs, the low murmur of a dozen other conversations happening around us.
Taylor signals for another round of wings. "So Phil, when's your kid's next game? I want to see this tutu situation in person."
"Saturday morning. Eight a.m."
"That's barbaric. Who schedules children's hockey for eight a.m.?"
"People who hate parents," Phil says. "But you're welcome to come suffer with me. Rachel would love the company."
"I'll be there," Webb says. "My wife's been on me about getting out of the house more anyway. Says I'm hovering."
"You are hovering," Phil confirms. "You texted me yesterday asking if it was normal for pregnant women to cry at insurance commercials."
"It was a very moving commercial about life insurance."
