I knew what it was like to be in Quinn’s shoes. To feel the constant pressure of keeping your spot so you weren’t sent back down to the AHL. I’d spent a few years in the AHL, honing my skills before landing a one-way contract to New York.
“What do you think about him?” I asked.
Gabe was a talented left winger and one of my closest friends on the Hawks. If I was known as a bear—grumpy and reserved—he was the NHL’s golden boy—charming, well-liked, at least off the ice. On the ice, he was known for his elite offensive play. He was not only reliable but high energy, often bringing a sort of golden retriever vibe to the team.
“He could be a huge asset on the ice but a potential liability off it.”
I shook my head. “You’ve been listening to theHot as Puckpodcast again, haven’t you?” I teased.
Gabe grabbed some plates, carrying them back over. “What makes you say that?”
I chuckled. “Because that’s almost exactly what they said on a recent episode. Would you really want your new teammates judging you based on the opinion of a rival player who clearly has an axe to grind?”
“Yeah. What is the story there?” Gabe asked, referring to the way one of the Hot as Puck podcast hosts, Levi, had referred to our new teammate.
“How would I know?”
“I just figured…” He lifted a shoulder. “Since Bryn is besties with Logan, she’d have the inside info.”
I laughed. “Logan might be one of Bryn’s closest friends, but I rarely ever see her.”
Logan lived in Minnesota and played for the PWHL. And she was always busy—training for her own season, playing hockey, running camps, or watching a game for the podcast.
“Maybe I’ll ask her.” He pulled out his phone.
“Do you want her to high-stick your balls?” I joked. But I wasn’t joking, not really. Logan was tough. “And how do you even have her number?”
“I don’t. I was going to DM her.”
I barked out a laugh. “Good luck with that, Goldie.”
“What?”
“DM her? Do you know how many DMs she probably gets a day? And you’re counting on the fact that she’ll actually check them.”
“She’ll respond,” he said with a certainty that was either enviable or delusional. I couldn’t quite decide.
“You are such an optimist. I guess they don’t call you the Golden Boy of the NHL for nothing.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Whatever. No one’s perfect.”
“You have one of the cleanest reputations in the league.”
“Well, that’s not that difficult, considering the competition.” He grinned.
I chuckled, thinking of some of our teammates who loved to party. Loved to fight—both on and off the ice.
“What about you?” he asked.
“What about me?” I gulped down some water.
“Going to try to beat your record for goose eggs?”
Last season, I’d played my best season ever since joining the NHL. I’d had more goose eggs than ever—games where the Hawks got a shutout and allowed zero goals against our net. And the fans liked to celebrate—by tossing plastic eggs on the ice like the ones the Easter Bunny had left for us as kids.
“That’s always the goal.”
He rubbed his hands together. “I can’t wait to see what the fans come up with this year.”
