Page 92 of In Your Wake

“Sports podcasts are ‘uge right now. Most of them suck because everybody’s too clean. Too media-trained. But us? We’d be great at it.”

“For sure, because we’re famously stable individuals,” I reply sarcastically.

“We’ve got personality.”

“We’ve got too many concussions.”

“That probably ‘elps!” He laughs again. “Come on, man. We already ‘ave faces perfect for radio.”

I snort into my beer, thinking about his multiple scars and missing teeth. “You definitely do.”

“‘Ey, I’m fucking pretty.”

“You’re right. You’re stunning.”

For a second, I settle into how familiar this is. The jibes. The laughs. It’s so easy. Like being on the team bus after a win, everyone exhausted and talking shit, but being so fucking happy.

Then reality creeps back in, reminding me that I might not have that again. Not unless I accept Germany’s offer.

“I don’t know anything about podcasts,” I admit.

“But you know hockey.”

“That’s not enough, is it?”

“It is. We spent years in locker rooms. Fans eat that behind-the-scenes stuff up.” Logan lowers his voice dramatically. “You can finally tell the story about Jensen puking in his goalie mask.”

A reluctant laugh escapes me. “Absolutely not.”

“That story dies with us?”

“That story definitely dies with us.”

Logan sighs heavily. “Pussy.”

I shake my head, smiling. “Let’s say I considered it, I’m not exactly in a position to move to Montreal or wherever you’re planning on doing this.”

“Who said anything about moving? Calisse, Adams. It’s twenty-twenty-six, fucking grandpa. We can record from anywhere.”

“We can?”

“Ben, oui!” Logan answers. “You could do this from the moon if the Wi-Fi is good.”

My eyes drift toward the house, warm light glowing through the windows.

Anywhere. The word sinks into my heart, and suddenly, I feel possibilities blossoming.

“I’m telling you, man, this could be fun,” Logan goes on. “An episode a week. Hockey talk. Dumb stories. Some guests. Very low commitment. Besides, I ‘ave to take care of l’érablière full-time and I know you ‘ave your life over there. We’ll have a schedule, but nothing crazy.”

“Low commitment?” I repeat, asking myself if I do, in fact, have a life over here. “This sounds like more work than you’re letting on.”

“It is work. But fun work. It won’t feel like work.”

I rub my forehead, already exhausted by the idea. “I don’t know…”

“Mitch, you love hockey as much as me. If we do this, you don’t have to give it up. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t miss the game.”

“I told you I’m considering Germany, didn’t I?”