Bonesy nodded toward the ice. “You get a load of Callahan yet?”
“Which one’s he?”
“Number seventy-seven. The tall one with the dark hair over there," he said, pointing out a guy who was hard to miss.
One of the tallest players on the ice, he'd been one of the few who moved through the drills with confidence, his skating smooth and powerful.
“Kid’s got wheels,” Bonesy observed. “Saw him doing one-on-ones yesterday, and he was flying.”
Bell’s expression turned instantly competitive. “Fast doesn’t mean shit if he can’t slot into the team.”
I bit back a grin and forced myself not to point out the irony of his statement.
To hear his husband, Ethan, tell it, Bell had been just like Callahan down there—all raw talent and lightning speed, though he'd had an attitude problem and was prone to showboating. Almost immediately, their coach had assigned Ethan as Bell's mentor and babysitter, hoping a steady veteran influence might help him channel all that natural ability into something morein line with the team's structure. It had worked, eventually. Though probably not in the way anyone expected.
“Someone feeling threatened?” I chirped, just to get a rise out of my captain.
He rolled his eyes. “I’m not threatened by some nineteen-year-old who hasn’t learned how to wipe his own ass yet.”
“I dunno, Cap,” Bonesy drawled. “You’re what, almost forty now?”
“I’m thirty, fuck you very much.” Bell flung his arm out and shoved Bonesy in the shoulder.
“You sure?” Bonesy eyed him. “You lookwayolder than that. Tired, too. You getting enough sleep?”
I snorted. Bell looked like he’d just stepped off a yacht in the Mediterranean—which, to be fair, he had. The tan he’d picked up in Greece only made his eyes more striking, and his blonde hair was pulled back from a face that had graced enough magazine covers and runways that actual models hated to see him coming. The man was two hundred pounds of pure muscle with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. If this was what “old and tired” looked like, sign me the fuck up.
“I will end you,” Bell threatened, though there wasn’t any actual heat behind his words.
“You can try, old man,” Bonesy cackled.
At thirty-four, Bonesy was the strongest guy on the team. He was also a fan favorite. And not just our fans, either. He was loved in every city we played in.
The problem with our team wasn’t talent—we had some. I mean, Bell was one of the best wingers in the league, and Bonesy could shut down just about anyone on defense. I, for all my issues, had my moments, too. Unfortunately, we didn’t have a goalie who could stop a beach ball at a picnic, and Bell couldn’t carry the offense alone. He needed linemates who could keep up with him and wouldn’t fold under pressure.
Callahan had the look of someone who might be able to do that.
“When Callahan takes your spot on the first line, can I have your parking space?” Bonesy asked, his voice pure faux innocence.
“Fuck off,” Bell said. “Nobody’s taking my spot.”
“That’s what they all say before they get replaced by someone younger and hotter.”
“Impossible. I’m already the hottest.”
I laughed, falling into the familiar rhythm of their chirping. This was what I’d missed most during the off-season—the easy back-and-forth with my teammates, the shit-talking that somehow doubled as affection.
A shout reached us from below, and in unison, Bell, Bonesy, and I turned back to watch Callahan take a pass and deke around two defenders before burying the puck top shelf.
“Okay. He’s not terrible,” Bell admitted grudgingly.
“‘Not terrible,’ he says.” Bonesy laughed. “Such high praise.”
Bell began to slow down, setting his bike into cool-down mode. “He’s still got a lot to prove.”
Bonesy’s watch beeped. He glanced down at it and swore. “Shit. I gotta bail. Promised the wife I’d pick Emmy up from gymnastics.” He hopped off and grabbed his towel. “If I’m late again, she’s gonna kill me.”
“Tell Carly hi for me.”
