Page 6 of Him
“Loser gives the winner a blowjob,” he said just as I swung.
I missed the fucking puck. Actually missed it.
Wes cackled, skidding to a stop.
Jesus Christ, the guy was good at fucking with my head. “You’re hysterical.”
He stood there breathing hard from all that fast skating. “Think you can’t win? Shouldn’t matter what the prize is if you’re confident.”
My back felt sweaty all of a sudden. He had me in an impossible position, and he knew it. If I refused the challenge, he won. Yet if I accepted, he had me rattled before the first puck even flew my way.
I’d stood there like a moron, unsure what to do. “You and your mind games,” I muttered.
“Oh, Canning,” Wes had chuckled. “Hockey is ninety percent mind games. I’ve been trying to teach you that for six years.”
“Fine,” I’d said through clenched teeth. “You’re on.”
He’d hooted through his facemask. “You look terrified already. This is gonna be rich.”
He’s just fucking with you, I’d told myself. I could win a shootout. Then I’d turn the mind games back on him—I’d refuse the prize, of course. But then I could hold the fact that he owed me a BJ over his head. For years. It was as if a cartoon light bulb went off over my head. Two could do mind games. Why had I never realized this before?
I’d lined up one more puck and shot it with great force right past Wes’s arrogant smile. “This is going to be a piece of cake,” I said. “How about we have this shootout, wherein I kick your ass, right after lunch? Before the end-of-camp scrimmage?”
For the briefest moment his confidence slipped. I’m sure I saw it—the sudden flash of holy shit. “Perfect,” he said eventually.
“’Kay.” I scooped up the last puck off the ice and flipped it in my glove. Then I skated away whistling, as if I didn’t have a care in the world.
That had been the last day of our friendship.
And I never saw it coming.
At the front of the room, a new reel is playing, this one highlighting North Dakota’s offensive strategy. Coach is no longer thinking about Ryan Wesley.
But I am.
3
Wes
Boston’s skyline comes into view from my bus window well before I’m ready.
It’s a mere ninety minutes from Northern Mass to TD Garden. The Frozen Four is always played at a neutral rink, but if anyone has a home-ice advantage this year, it’s me. I’m from Boston, so playing in the Bruins’ arena is my childhood fantasy come to life.
Apparently it’s my jackwad of a father’s fantasy, too. Not only is he pumped up to invite all his asshole colleagues to my game, he can look like a hero on the cheap. He only has to spring for a limo, not a charter flight.
“You know what I like best about this plan?” Cassel asks from the seat next to me as he flips through the itinerary our team manager passed out.
“That this event is like the puck bunny world headquarters?”
He snorts. “Okay, sure. But I was just going to say that they’re putting us up at a nice hotel, not some sleazepit off the interstate.”
“True.” Although the hotel, whatever it is, won’t be nearly as grand as my family’s Beacon Hill mansion a few miles away. I’d never say that, though. I’m not a snob, because I know opulence doesn’t stamp out ignorance and unhappiness. Just ask my family.
We spend the next half hour snarled in traffic, because that’s just how it is in Boston. So it’s almost five o’clock by the time we’re finally unloading the bus.
“The gear stays!” our student manager shouts. “Take only your luggage!”
“We don’t have to schlep our gear?” Cassel yelps. “Baby, I’ve arrived. Get used to this treatment, Wes.” He elbows me. “Next year in Toronto you’ll probably have a personal assistant to carry your stick around for you.”
