“Now come on, you two, let’s get out there,” White says, and we follow our new captain out of the locker rooms and toward the ice. The second he skates onto the glassy surface, the team stops what they’re doing and turns their attention to him. Then the clapping starts. Reid and I join in, and White waves and bows like a performer saying his final farewell at the end of a show, and then turns, clapping with them as he gestures to Reid. The claps and hooting intensify, and Reid’s face blushes.
“Alright, that’s enough of that,” Reid says, and White shakes his head.
“I’m the captain, and I say you deserve at least another ten seconds,” he calls, and the guys cheer and clap, and then right on the ten-second mark, White stops and holds up a hand.
“That’s it, boys, let’s get back to it.”
They listen too, just like they would have listened to Reid, because White holds the same respect for every player out there. “You too, warm up those legs, you’ve got a show to put on tonight.”
“You got it, Cap,” I reply and start on my pre-game program.
I need to be ready if I’m going to pull off my trick play tonight. The trainers have been working with a few of the guys the past few weeks, and the coach agreed we could give it a shot tonight. He even told Reid that if he thinks he can pull off that sweeping net shot at some point, he should go for it. Maybe now he isn’t the one wearing the C and setting the example for the team, he’ll take a few more risks out here, because he’s still got so much more to offer this sport before he even starts thinking about retirement.
I spot David and Benji in the stands. Wow, they’re here early.
“Hey, Reid, check it out,” I say, nodding over to where they’re seated. When Reid turns his attention to them, they stand and turn around, pointing at the names on the backs of their jerseys. While David is wearing Reid’s number with “Raines” curved across the shoulder blades, Benji’s has my number and says “Hart.” They turn around with big smiles on their faces, pumping the air like they’re celebrating a win already.
“Traitor,” Reid laughs.
“I think it’s sweet,” I say, and Reid skates around me in a circle as I stretch.
“You’re sweet,” he says, and I cover my shoulder with my hand where the mic pack is sewn in.
“Are you forgetting I’m mic’d now?”
He shrugs. “Would it be the worst thing in the world if someone heard me?”
“No, but you just dropped the captain’s bombshell; maybe give it a few weeks before you go rogue again.”
“So you’re not opposed to people knowing?” he asks, and I check to see who might be close enough to overhear us.
“I still think we should wait,” I reason, and the irony of the situation isn’t lost on me. It was only a couple of months ago that Reid was rigid and stubborn, fixed on tradition and rules, and it was me who was flying in the face of all that. He gets dicked down a few times, hands over his C, and suddenly he’s the wild child of the NHL.
“We’ll talk about it later,” I say, turning in place to match his circles around me.
“Your place or mine?” he asks, pumping his brows suggestively.
“Yours, then mine. I promised the boys we’d have spaghetti after the game.”
He skids to a stop.
“Really?”
“Yep, you’re cooking.”
“Oh, how nice of you to volunteer my chef services.”
“You want Benji to cook?” I ask, and he shakes his head adamantly. “It’s okay, I’ll cook. There was no need to make threats of poisoning.”
“Wasn’t there?”
***
The last few weeks, the Foxes have played like a well-oiled machine. Reid and I read each other’s moves even better than Cosmo and I ever could, and we start actually winning. We celebrate every game at his place, usually under the cover of my epic playlist.
We’re up two to one against Boston, and Cosmo has been a cocky shit all game, speeding past me and calling out old moves we’d try in college games to try and throw me off.
I deke around him and make my run for the net, but I can feel him hot on my heels. I could get my shot off in time, but it would be safer to dump it back to White or pass to Reid. Fuck. The seconds pass slowly as my mind jumps from one choice to the next. If I were only playing for me, I’d take my chances on getting the shot off before Cosmo strips the puck, but it’s not just about me out here. I pass to Reid just before Cosmo’s stick comes down, but on my follow-through, my stick gets under Cosmo’s and flings his up. He turns away, but I can’t tell if it clocked him under the jaw on the way past.
