Page 28 of Drop the Mitts

They were playing them over the weekend.

Tyler tossed a roll of tape to Vargo, who caught it midair and started wrapping his stick. “Feeling good out there.”

“Looking good out there,” Brett winked, tugging on his shin pads.

André read between the lines.Tyler: I’m ready to kick the shit out of Pucks Deep. Brett: I’m ready to watch.He grinned, shaking his head as Sean, already half-dressed, laced up a skate and looked up. “No dumb penalties, eh? No hero plays. We keep playing our system, wear them down shift by shift. We play heavier in the neutral zone and cut off their rush chances before they get momentum.”

A series of grunts echoed around the locker room, and warmth swelled in André ’s chest. He hadn’t always seen himself here. The Snowballs weren’t the NHL, weren’t even the AHL, but this team, this league? It meant everything to him.

André had been that kid on the fast track. Growing up in Montreal, hockey was religion. And he had it—the skill, the drive, the raw, untamed hunger that separated the good from the great. At sixteen, he went top ten in the QMJHL draft. By eighteen, he was lighting it up in juniors, leading the league in points for three straight months, playing with an edge that made people talk.

But André had a reputation. The scouts liked him, but they didn’t love him. Cocky. Hot-headed. Too much attitude, too much showmanship, too much damn personality for the front offices who wanted robots on skates.

Still, his numbers spoke for themselves and at nineteen, he got the call. Signed a three-year entry-level contract with the Bruins. Not a first-round pick, not a franchise golden boy, but a kid with talent who could carve out a spot if he worked hard enough.

He spent a year grinding in the AHL, showing up, putting in the work. Then it was one bad hit. One freak collision at centre ice, a knee bending the wrong way, a ligament tearing so fasthe barely had time to register the pain before he was on the ice, clutching it, knowing in his gut that something was gone.

He missed the rest of the season. Rehabbed. Fought like hell to come back, and when he did? The organization had moved on. Because in hockey, there’s always someone younger, just as fast, just as hungry, but without the injury history, rehab schedule, or risk.

Front offices didn’t bet on risks.

His contract expired, and there was no extension. No new offer. No more chances, just a door closing. He was twenty-two and already past tense. No one said it outright, but he knew what they were thinking. Another kid who almost made it.

But André wasn’t wired for that. He wasn’t wired to quit. He played wherever they’d let him. He bounced through minor pro leagues, overseas teams, random offers that barely covered rent but kept him on the ice.

And then, by some act of God, he landed a first-role contract with Les Diables Rouges de Lyon. He played there for three years, making triple what he made in the NHL and a name for himself in Europe.

And damn, did he light it up over there. Played three years, stacked points on points, took in revenue from marketing collabs and sponsorships, building the kind of financial security that most guys in his position never saw. He still had residuals coming in from ad campaigns he’d done during his time there.

André grinned thinking about Grace’s reaction to hearing the name Cade Bishop. He’d had half a mind to email her the pictures of him in Polo underwear lying in bed with model Melanie Tress. That image still sat thirty-feet tall on a billboard in Paris.

While everyone else was blowing their money on cars and bottle service, André was investing. Real estate. Startups. A couple of stupid crypto mistakes that actually paid off. When helanded in Calgary after his contract was up, he was set, especially with the exchange.

So he did what he wanted. Started Leclerc Custom Metalworks. He’d always liked working with his hands. Liked the feeling of creating something solid, something lasting. He took his dividends, found a couple of artists and fabricators who actually knew what they were doing, and set up a custom metalworking business catering to high-end clients.

It started with ornamental gates, luxury fixtures—things that rich assholes liked to flex about. But when a well-known architect in Geneva who’d been a fan during his time in Lyon commissioned a series of sculptural railings for a château, the business blew up.

Now he only took on the clients he wanted and trusted his team to run the contracts and shipping. Once he found the Snowballs, it was exactly the life he wanted. He got to play on a team in a league that wasn’t flashy, wasn’t rich, but the teams were fast, physical, and competitive.

This wasn’t just a beer league full of washed-up guys trying to relive their glory days. The Snowballs played to win. And this year? They were the best damn team in the league.

Sean finished taping his stick. “Everyone’s in for the tourney, yeah?”

Curtis raised a hand. “I’m good. Sorry I couldn’t commit ‘til yesterday.”

Sean waved him off. The rest of the guys nodded, and it was then that André noticed Country quietly packing his gear. His wide grin and stupid-ass jokes were glaringly absent.

André dropped his gear and walked over, slapping a hand on his shoulder. “You good, bud?”

Country looked up, looking like a startled rabbit. “Yeah. Sorry, just in my own world over here.”

“Focused. That’s hot.”

Country blew out a breath, not looking up as he packed his gear. “Super hot.”

André ’s grin dropped. The other guys went about their business, packing up, so André leaned in. “You want to talk about it?”

“Not especially.”

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