“Lose? Pfft.” Deeley jerked a finger at DeShawn. “Count us in.”
DeShawn gave them a three-two-one-go countdown. Sandro tossed back one shot after another, the 7Up cooling his parched throat. He’d literally just arrived back in Burlington, Vermont—he’d come straight to the party without going home first—from a quick trip to his hometown of Tobermory, Ontario, for his niece’s birthday, and he’d limited his water intake on the drive so he didn’t have to stop to pee every thirty minutes.
The result was that he was thirsty . . . and hungry. Another reason not to down six shots of generic beer. On an empty stomach? He would’ve been hammered in no time.
He set down his final glass before anyone else, then pushed his chair back and rose. “That, gentlemen—” He bowed theatrically. “—is how it’s done.”
Shouts of “Rematch!” followed him into the kitchen, and he was laughing when he found one of his best friends hovering over a kitchen table fairly groaning under the weight of too much food. Sandro had played with Kasper Kowalski since the Trailblazers’ first season, oh, only sixteen years ago—God, that made him feel old.
But Kas had retired a few years ago, leaving Sandro as one of only two OG members of the Trailblazers. The second was Kas’s husband, who was no doubt around here somewhere.
“The birthday boy himself,” Sandro said. He offered Kas a dap and a bro-hug.
“Hey, man.” Kas grinned, creasing the lines at the corners of his mouth. “When’d you get in?”
“Just now,” Sandro told him, piling his plate high with chicken skewers, potatoes, roasted vegetables, and two different kinds of salads. There was bread too, as well as nachos and dip, several potato chip varieties, pasta salad, prepared sandwiches, and half a dozen different baked goods. A lot of the food had already been demolished since the party was now rolling into its second hour, yet there was still enough to feed two dozen former and current hungry hockey players and their partners and kids.
Sandro added some kind of root vegetable puree that looked a bit like mashed brains but smelled amazing to his plate, then bumped Kas’s elbow. “Happy birthday. How’s the party been so far?”
“Good. It’s nice to see everyone.”
Their friends were sprawled on the living room couch and clumped together in small groups at the makeshift bar in the dining room, chatting and exchanging laughs over beer cans—the good locally brewed stuff, not the shit the younger guys were drinking. A few people were even outside on the back patio, their grins wide under strings of lights chasing away the darkness, even though it was mid-November and Vermont had just seen its first snowfall of the season.
And then there were the kids, racing between adults’ legs and stealing cookies off the table when they weren’t chasing the cat.
“How was your niece’s . . .” Kas screwed up his face. “First Communion? Baptism?
“Birthday,” Sandro said, amused by him. “Do you not listen when I speak?”
“I listen.” Kas selected a chip from one of the bowls and gestured at Sandro with it. “Just, you have, like, a zillion family members who always seem to have something going on. Didn’t you go home for something last month too?”
“For my grandmother’s birthday,” Sandro said, then bit into a chicken skewer.
“Well, I appreciate you making the trip back in time for mine,” Kas told him.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
That was what one did for family, wasn’t it? Showed up. Made an effort. His parents had taught him that, and the Trailblazers were his family as surely as the one he’d been born into.
He bumped Kas’s elbow. “How’s it feel to be forty?”
Kas laughed. “My dad said it’s all downhill from here, but my health is good, Owen and I have a month-long trip abroad planned for this summer, our bathroom renovation is finally complete after about ten thousand years, and I’m headed somewhere warm for New Year’s with a couple of college buddies since the Trailblazers will be out of state, so . . . Honestly? Forty’s looking pretty good so far. Hell, I’ll take forty over twenty any day of the week.”
“What’s wrong with twenty?” Eli Parker, the Trailblazers’ fresh-faced call-up, crowded into Kas and stole a chip off his plate.
“You’re just a baby,” Kas told him.
“Hey. I’m twenty-five.”
“Like I said.” Kas toasted him with his beer. “Baby.”
“I’ll have you know that I was voted most likely to run a Fortune 500 company in high school. So I might be a baby compared to an old man like you.” Eli tapped the side of his head as he stepped away, laughing when Kas flipped him off. “But I’m a smart baby.”
“Watch out for—” Sandro said.
“Eli, wait—” Kas said.
But it was too late. Eli turned on his heel, crashing into Kas’s husband. Owen Cotton swore, the stack of dirty dishes piled a dozen high in his arms wobbling precariously. The cutlery stacked on top crashed to the floor, rattling loudly.
