Holding up my glass of water carefully, as the condensation is making it slippery, I prepare to toast my friend and teammate, Brock Lowrie, who is unequivocally the best defenseman on our hockey team, the Phoenix Bears.
I play right wing on our top line, and he and his defense partner are often paired with us. That’s how we’ve become such good buddies.
Right now we’re midway through lunch at a trendy downtown café, not far from where we play and practice at the Glacier Dome Complex.
Brock, nodding at my raised glass, puts his fork down, swipes a napkin over his mouth, and raises his own ice water to mine.
“To tonight,” I say. “May the hockey gods smile down upon us and grant us a win.”
Brock taps his glass to mine and replies with a solemn “You got that right, Shane. To the hockey gods, please hear our plea.”
Simultaneously, we down a couple of big gulps of icy cold water, which is absolutely refreshing on this sizzling, sunny day.
Though it’s only mid-May, it’s already hot as hell out here in Phoenix. And for some reason—I guess because we wanted some privacy and no one else was out here—we opted to sit out on the restaurant patio today.
At least there are a few strategically placed palm trees, providing some shade.
Hey, it’s the little things, right?
Brock, his fork moving quickly, gobbles up the last of his massive chef’s salad.
Pushing the bowl aside, he says, “Man, I hope our toast to the hockey gods works. We better win tonight.”
He’s not wrong.
This year, the Bears have had a great season. We made it to the playoffs, where we soared through the first round like champs, winning the series in four exciting, blockbuster games.
Yeah, it was a sweep.
This second round, though, has proven to be more challenging.
We’ve been playing the Colorado Avalanche, a damn good team themselves, and the series is currently tied.
We’re split at three games apiece, meaning whoever wins tonight moves on to the next round.
I just hope it’s us.
Otherwise, we’re done.
Blowing out an uneven, worried breath, I say, “Yeah, if we can’t pull this one off, we’ll be hitting the links on the golf courses around here instead of playing on the ice in the Glacier Dome.”
“Yeah, for sure,” Brock says.
I blow out a breath and declare, “Hell, I’m not ready for this all to end.”
“Neither am I,” my friend agrees.
The check comes, and because we forgot to ask our server to separate our orders, it’s all on one.
I grab it first and insist on paying.
“Oh, come on, Thoma,” Brock grumbles. He always resorts to my last name when he’s irritated. “You bought dinner last week when we went out with Lennox and Easton, and that was one big-ass bill. Let me pick this up.”
He does have a point. Lennox and Easton are my linemates, and the four of us went really big at an upscale steakhouse after the first game of this series.
We won that one and felt like celebrating.
“Oh, fine, okay.” I brush back a swath of my reddish-brown hair and reluctantly push the check over to him. “But the next one is on me.”
