“Lucky me,” I say as I roll my eyes at him and turn around to enter the garage. I pull out my crappy outside stick and a few black rubber balls before I hit the button to shut the door. Then, I set myself up halfway down the driveway, a good fifteen feet away from him, to start taking shots. “Are you ready?”
“I’m always ready,” Ander says, flipping his mask down and crouching into position. “Now, give me your best shot.”
Using the blade of my stick, I set one of the rubber balls up where I like it. Then, with no warning, I send a lightning-quick wrist shot right at him. He hits it back at me with the blocker on his right forearm and I stop it from rolling all the way down the long driveway into the street with my foot.
“Gotta be quicker than that to beat me,” Ander taunts and pounds his right fist into the glove on hisleft hand.
I take the challenge while he’s being cocky and send one right over his left shoulder.
“Hey!” he protests. “I wasn’t ready!”
“I thought you were always ready.” I use his words against him as I send another screamer in his direction.
He catches this one in his glove with ease, then grins and flings it back towards me. I stop it in the air with my stick and control it back to the ground before I immediately slap-shot it back in his direction. This time, the ball goes higher and wider than I’d like and sails over the net, slamming into the closed garage door, leaving a new dent.
“Whoops,” Ander laughs, turning to see the damage. It’s not that bad, and besides, the garage door is already covered in dents and black rubber marks from my missed shots slamming into it every chance Ander and I get.
He turns back around to face me and readies himself. This time, I slow things down and use his anticipation against him. I make a few fakes, acting like I’m about to send one at him. Then, just as he’s reaching to his left, expecting my latest fake-out to soar towards his glove, I crack my shot and aim it over his blocker. It swishes into the back of the net.
“Goal!” I scream out and run around the driveway, waving my stick in the air as I celebrate.
“Showoff,” Ander says, but even through his face mask I can see his grin as he rolls the balls all back towards me to shoot at him again.
Ryan
The Bouchards are nice, but they never stop. Or maybe they start too early. I don’t know. All I do know is that it’s six in the morning on a Saturday and Ander and Brandon are already outside my bedroom window having a shootout in the driveway. I was hoping to sleep in today after my first week of practices with my new team, in my new temporary home away from the life I’vealways known. Forget the fact that that life was eager to get rid of me.
It does sound like Ander and Brandon are having fun, though. I’m not surprised. All week at practice, Ander has been having the time of his life. He wears a permanent ear-to-ear grin and has already organized a team group chat and a few outings where he can show everyone around who’s new to Green Bay. He even drags Brandon, who the team has dubbed Baby Bouchard, everywhere with him like he’s a puppy he wants to show all his new friends.
Ander has quickly become the team’s best locker room guy. The heart of the Hodags. I’m only a little bit annoyed by his enthusiasm. A feeling I think I share with Brandon, who I catch rolling his eyes often at his brother when he’s not blushing from embarrassment at being called Baby Bouchard by all the older boys he looks up to.
But at least being here in Green Bay and away from home, I am starting to have some fun. A feeling I haven’t had in, well, pretty much ever. Even though I miss my sisters, having some distance from my family, my father in particular, is exactly what I need to revitalize my love for the game.
That’s not accurate. I love hockey. Hockey has always been my one true escape in life. It’s everything else that I was going through back in Dallas I wasn’t thrilled with. My parents and I have always had issues, but after I got caught by them making out with the only male figure skater in town who trains at our local ice rink, things between us became even more complicated. There was a collective sigh of relief when the Hodags selected me for their roster.
Needless to say, some space will do everyone some good.
Sighing and stretching, I get out of bed and start to get dressed into a set of Hodag warmups, accompanied by the sound of the Bouchard brothers bickering on the other side of my window.
A loud thunk startles me.
“Whoops,” I hear Ander say. My guess is Brandon hit the garage. That poor back building is dinged up more than the boards at our practice rink. It’s nice, though, that the Bouchards don’tseem to care. My parents would have lost their minds if I left even one dent or black rubber skid mark anywhere on the gleaming white siding of their pristine McMansion.
It’s interesting. For as much as my mom and dad invested in me playing hockey—though my suspicion is that they just wanted me out of the house—they’ve never been what I would call a hockey family. Not like the Bouchards. These four live, eat, sleep, and drink hockey. Every corner of their house is covered in gear. Memorabilia hangs on the walls. The sheets that I sleep on are decorated with tiny renderings of my new team’s mascot. This family is obsessed with hockey.
When the team’s front office called me with my housing assignment, I was informed that I was the luckiest new member of the Hodags for getting the Bouchards as my billet family. Momma B and Big Mike have been doing this for a decade, ever since both of their boys were old enough to put on skates. So far, they’ve had six of their former billets get drafted into the NHL. I know this because of course the Bouchards have pictures of them with all the players they’ve ever hosted displayed on their walls. Some of the faces are very recognizable.
I take a quick peek at the photos again as I exit my bedroom and make my way outside to the sound of Brandon celebrating scoring a goal. I hope I can live up to this family’s expectations.
Brandon
“Hey.” Ryan’s voice startles me. I skid my celebration to a stop. My stomach drops and embarrassment rises in me, causing my skin to feel hot.
“Hey,” I say back, feeling twice as embarrassed as I had felt celebratory a second ago.
“Finally!” Ander yells across the driveway. “Someone to really test my skills.”
“Hey!” It’s a protest this time. But who am I kidding. Obviously, Ryan’s shots will be harder to stop.
