“You were doing . . . something,” Tyler said. “I don’t remember, probably trying to guess who you’ll be traded to next season.”
The kid’s face fell. “You think I’m getting traded?”
“No, Janky, just no,” I stepped in before irreparable emotional damage could be inflicted. “As surprising as this may be, Ty was being a dick.”
“I was not!” Tyler snapped. “I was talking about guys who like dick. There’s a difference.”
Several guys groaned.
Murph laughed.
I shrugged. “Jacks would get a kick out of meeting you, Janky. He’s turned into quite the hockey fan this season.”
“Who’s Jacks?”
Something seized in my throat.
Why had I brought up Jacks? It was like his name flew out of my mouth without my permission. Then, as I was spiraling about bringing up some random dude’s name, my mind decided to spin about spinning in the first place.
Fuck me. What was all that?
“He’s a barback there. Fuckin’ stud linebacker at FSU a few years ago.” I realized I was sitting up straighter and talking a little faster, so I forced myself to slouch and slow my roll. “Cool guy. I bought his jersey back when he played.”
Tyler and Erik exchanged a glance.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Tyler said. “Just . . . you’ve mentioned this Jacks guy a few times.”
“Have I?”
“Once or twice. No. Definitely more than twice.” Erik’s tone was neutral.
“He’s cool. We talked football and shit.”
“Nobody said otherwise,” Murph said, watching me withan expression that reminded me of a nature documentary narrator observing prey about to be eaten. In fact, the whole team was watching now, and I felt the urge to slink under the table and never return to daylight. Then my rational brain slapped my silly brain for being so ridiculous when all I’d done was talk to a player about his sport.
“So when are we going?” Janky snapped me out of my double-spiral. “Sounds like I need these sliders in my life.”
Others, sounding more like needy stomachs than grown-ass men, groaned their agreement. Nothing unified hockey players like food.
“When we’re back. Next week, maybe. Whenever.”
“It’s a date,” Janky said.
“It’snota—” I stopped, catching Erik’s shit-eating grin. “Fuck off, Piglet.”
“Aww, a pet name. And here I thought we were being all casual,” Murph chimed in.
The others howled.
Murphy could do that, turn a simple conversation on its head and have the whole team in stitches without even trying. God, I hated—and loved—that little munchkin.
The conversation moved on, something about our upcoming Edmonton game and predictions forthe third period, but I found my mind wandering. I kept thinking about Barbacks, about the last time we’d been there. I couldn’t stop replaying the chaos of game night, Benji’s insane glitter drinks, and the way Jacks had lit up when I’d mentioned his Miami game.
For no goddamn reason, I wondered what he was doing right then.
“Shaw. Earth to Shaw.”
