Page 5 of Empty Net

He huffs out a laugh. “See? Such a good boy, Foxy.”

That’s what they call me: the good boy, the Southern gentleman. I guess I am those things, but I’m not the perfect guy they seem to think I am. For instance, I suck at my job, so there’s that.

I hand off the bags to a caterer who has appeared at my side. Honestly, if you’d told me at the start of last season that our usually grumpy captain would be openly participating in a party where there’s a staff and no strippers, I’d have laughed right in your face. Guess a lot changes about a man when he’s fallen in love.

“Thanks,” I tell them. “And feel free to take a cookie. They’re white chocolate peppermint and are to die for.”

They smile up at me before bustling away.

“They aren’t going to try those, are they?”

Hutch gives me an incredulous look. “Uh, probably not. They’re working. Do you ever stop trying to take care of other people?”

“I can’t help it. It’s just part of who I am.” My parents raised me to always give before I take, and I’ve taken that to heart my entire life.

He shakes his head. “Damn Southern men and their infinite politeness.”

Some people, like my favorite forward, Lucas Lawson, say I’m too nice, and I guess those people wouldn’t be entirely wrong. But it’s hard not to be when it’s impressed upon you from the get-go.

Part of me wonders if that’s the issue with my game lately. Am I being too polite out there? Do I need to fight for my crease more? Do I need to stand my ground and ensure nobody gets in my blue paint?

I already know the answer, and it’s a resounding yes.

I straighten my cufflinks. “Need any help with last-minute touches?”

Hutch gives me another look, this one sayingYou just can’t help it, can you?“Son of a bitch, Fox. Go grab a drink or something before I make you do extra drills at practice tomorrow.”

It’s a total bluff. He can’t make me do shit, but just the idea of it has me moving toward the bar anyway.

“Vodka soda, please. No ice,” I request, and the bartender nods, getting to work on my drink as I rest against the bar, looking out at the space that’s been decorated to perfection.

Low lighting and fairy lights make it feel like we’re outside under the night sky instead of in a dark, closed-off ballroom. Several standing tables are scattered around, all draped in black linen with gold accents and a beautiful bouquet of white roses centered on each one. A photo booth is off to the side, and a deejay is set up across the room. There are not one, not two, butfourbars, one in each corner, like whoever put this togetherknew what they were getting into shoving so many hockey players into one room.

“Here you are, sir,” the bartender says, sliding a glass my way.

“Thank you kindly,” I tell them with a nod before lifting the glass to my lips and taking a sip as my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I pull it free to find a text from my mother. I stifle a groan and, against my better judgment, open the message.

Mama: Please tell me you’re not going to be alone on New Year’s Eve.

Another message comes in before I can respond.

Mama: That will absolutely break my heart.

That’s my mother for you, always worried about her children, no matter how old we get. It doesn’t matter that I’m thirty years old and live across the country—she’s still worried.

I let my thumbs fly over the screen.

Me: Got a team thing, so definitely won’t be alone.

Mama: Oh, thank gosh. I was ready to jump on a flight to come see you.

Me: You just saw me last week, and you’d never make it in time.

Mama: But I could try!

Mama: Call later?

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