“Well, the Revelers need someone to play against,” she’d said when I’d looked confused.
I mean…yeah. But why not play against other FPHL teams?
But then Nora had distracted me—her biggest talent, it seems—by handing me a binder.
“Everything you need to know is in here,” she’d said with her pretty smile and those big brown eyes shining.
All I could think was,she’s your girlfriend now.
No, my brain doesn’t put “fake” in front of girlfriend. I’m just all in on this dating Nora Delaune thing, it seems.
Which made her handing me abinderof things I need to know about my new team and flipping to the first section full of laminated pages, one for each player on the Revelers and the Rascals, and saying, “You can study up on everyone before practice” not really register until she’d left Astrid’s office and the little cloud of wildflower scented air and I-get-to-kiss-her-again thoughts cleared.
So, I’d gone through the pages.
All twenty-four players. Each team has only twelve players, significantly fewer than a typical pro team. Each of these teams has a mix of ages, hockey backgrounds, and each has one woman, which is cool. Ingrid Archer is the left wing for the Revelers, and Quinn Trahan is the center for the Rascals.
“We’re thrilled to have you,” Beckett says.
“Thanks. Sorry, I’m a little late.”
My nerves quiet a little, and I take in details. Like the fact that they are not actually practicing yet. Which I guess is a good thing. I didn’t miss anything. But no one seems actually dressed for hockey practice. They’ve all got skates on, but there are no pads, no shin guards, no helmets. There aren’t even sticks or pucks anywhere. They all look like they just showed up for a day of ice-skating.
Now I feel like a dumbass, and I’m not sure why. Other than the fact that I am clearly dressed for practice in full gear with a hockey stick in hand.
Are they hazing me? Possible. And that would be fair. They’ve all been together since I don’t even know when. Some of them have been playing together as teammates from the previous FPHL team. I am sure they’ve been practicing together all summer.
“So yeah, I know I’m late to join and catch up with everything. And most of you probably know about my injury. But I can assure you, I’ve been working out, and working hard on coming back. I promise I’m bringing my full game and will work as hard as everyone else,” I say.
Someone snorts, and I turn toward the dark-haired, muscled, tattooed man.
I recognize him right away. This is Lawson Landry.He played in the big leagues for a couple of years. He was cut from his team—something that almost never happens—after he beat the absolute shit out of one of his own teammates at a bar one night. I knew about that without reading his binder page. Everyone in hockey knew about that. He sent a teammate to the hospital. But the page had told me that his extended family is from this area and that he’d come back here to be close to them after his career imploded.
“Your fifty percent is better than anyone’s one-hundred percent down here. Nobody’s worried about that,” Lawson says.
“Hey,” someone grumbles.
“Real nice, Landry,” someone else says.
“Hey, he’s not the only Landry,” a big man with a full beard and long hair says, grinning. “Call him Outlaw so we don’t get mixed up.”
Outlaw was the nickname Lawson picked up during his relatively short stint with the pros and, according to stories, wasaccurate. The fact that he didn’t even last a full season with the Dallas Dragons makes me think most were.
“Oh sure, Zeke,” someone else says. “You and Lawson aresomuch alike.”
The big man laughs. “Just don’t want to risk it.” He claps Lawson—his cousin, I guess?—on the shoulder.
Lawson rolls his eyes.
“We appreciate what you’re saying, Alex,” Beckett jumps in, shooting Lawson a frown. “But yeah, none of us are worried about you catching up.”
“Well, it seems I missed practice,” I say, looking around the group.
“Oh, you thought you were coming tohockeypractice?” Zeke asks.
I nod. “Well, yeah.”
“Nah, this is a dance lesson,” Beckett says with a grin.
