1
RAFF
Three seasons on the worst team in the league either breaks you or makes you mean. I was somewhere in between.
I was in my apartment eating leftover pasta and watching footage of my team getting dismantled by the Riverton Rangers. There was a notebook beside me where I'd been tracking our defensive breakdowns, though why I bothered was beyond me. Our Glacier Saints had been at the bottom of the league table for two of the three seasons I'd been here, and the coaching staff rotated so often nobody could commit a system to memory.
My phone lit up with an unknown number. I almost let it go to voicemail but something told me to pick it up.
“Rafferty Lowery?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Hugh Kimura. I'm the general manager of the Frosthaven Cutters.”
Okay, that piqued my interest, and I muted the TV. My wolf who had been half-asleep asked why this guy was special because my pulse sped up.
Kimura had a calm voice, and I wondered how it would differ depending on whether he was delivering good or bad news.
And is this good or bad?my wolf wanted to know, but I shushed him because I had to concentrate.
He told me he’d been watching me and he liked my defensive instincts and my skating. “You play a physical game that’s hard to coach into players who don’t already have it.”
He continued by asking about my contract situation with the Glacier Saints, and I told him it was expiring.
But after telling my wolf I had to concentrate, my mind drifted off, imagining me playing for the Frosthaven Cutters.
"Good.”
What? What was good? Did I miss something?
“Great.” I wasn’t sure that was the correct response and wished I could take it back.
But Kimura charged ahead. “We'd like to offer you a spot on the roster. Full terms, competitive salary, and a real shot at ice time. I think you'd be an excellent fit here.”
I didn't respond because I had no voice. Someone had stolen it. But my wolf was nudging me to respond.
“Lowery? Are you there?”
“Here.” I cleared my throat. “Yes, I’m definitely right here and taking in every word.”
He chuckled. Maybe he was used to this response from potential players.
“I can give you two days to think on it. But I can’t wait any longer.”
I told him I'd let him know tomorrow, and when I hung up, the pasta had gone cold and the game footage was still paused on a frame of our goalie staring at the ice after letting in another goal.
I looked at the framed photograph on the coffee table. It was my brother at sixteen. He was wearing a jersey and grinning at the camera, knowing life was there for the taking.
“We got the call, Bodie.”
There was no answer. There never was, and yet I spoke to him all the time.
My brother died when we were eighteen. Our friend’s house where he was staying caught on fire and he was there alone. It was faulty wiring apparently. I could never figure out why his wolf hadn’t warned him and woken him up if he was asleep. But I’d never get that answer because of course his beast perished with him.
One day Bodie was beside me, and the next he was ash and memory. And the wolf that had run alongside mine since their first shift was gone. For both me and my beast, the loss was like a phantom limb that we never stopped reaching for or talking to.
Bodie was the one who'd planned our careers. We'd go pro together, play on the same line, and the Lowery twins would tear up the league. He'd say it like it was already decided while his feet were on the coffee table. I’d tell him he was delusional, and he’d just shrug and grin.
