Page 72 of On Ice

Mills snorts. “He’s not wrong, Torres.”

The guys at the table laugh and some of the tension eases.

“At least I hit the net sometimes,” Torres responds good-naturedly. “When’s the last time you scored, Mills? Last season?”

“Fuck off,” Mills says, smiling, but then he quickly shoots me an uneasy glance. “Oh, sorry about the language, Mr. Barone.”

“It’s fine.” I shrug. “Fuck is my favorite word.”

There’s some nervous laughter, and then an awkward silence once more falls over the group. Around us, people in the dining area are laughing and chatting, but our table looks like we’re holding a wake.

A player named Rory speaks. “You guys see Chicago picked up that defenseman from Montreal? Thompson’s gonna be out six weeks with that knee injury.”

“Damn, that sucks.” Deck shakes his head. “Thompson will be lucky if the owners don’t trade him. Those bastards love tokick a man when he’s down.” The second he stops talking, he glances at me and his face turns red. “Shit. Sorry. I… I don’t mean all owners are like that, of course.”

I incline my head. “I would hope not. I’m spending a lot of money on you guys trying to make you into champions.”

Another evenmoreawkward silence falls over our table.

Mills clears his throat. “Um… I heard it might rain tomorrow.”

“Oh, is that right? How nice,” Torres says, shifting nervously in his seat. He glances at his watch. “I should probably get going.”

Jackson nods. “Yeah, me too. The wife will be mad if I stay out too late.”

When everyone begins glancing at their watches and cell phones, Evan lets out an impatient sigh, scoots back his chair, and stands. “Hold up. Nobody is going home yet.” He meets my gaze. “Luca, do you mind if we have a word outside?”

“Outside?”

“Yes, please.” Evan’s tone is testy.

Since I’d much rather spend some time alone with Evan, I rise and address the table. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

They all nod, and a few of them mumble things like, “Of course” and “Take your time.”

Evan heads through the crowded restaurant, and I follow him outside. The sidewalk out front is deserted, which is a good thing because the moment we’re outside, he immediately ties into me. “You need to go,” he says harshly. “You’re ruining the vibe.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” He rakes a hand through his blond hair. “What were you thinking giving them hockey tips? You’re not supposed to do that.”

“They seemed to like it that I had ideas,” I say, scowling.

“On what planet would they want advice from the owner of the team? That’s the job of Coach and the assistant coaches. Not you. You’re a suit. You’re not a player.”

I frown. “I’ve played hockey.”

He looks momentarily thrown by that information, but he quickly recovers. “Even so, you’re not a member of our team. You have no business giving Jackson or Noah advice. Come on, Luca, that was completely out of line. You need to leave. You’re ruining the whole night.”

“Bullshit. The guys seem fine with me. You’re the only one with a problem.”

He laughs incredulously. “Are you serious? They’re just being polite. They’re talking about the weather now just to play it safe. The guys are terrified to speak in case they accidentally offend you somehow.”

“It’s not my fault they can’t take constructive criticism.”

“Well, it’s your fault you’re fucking up our night,” he sputters. “It’s only 7:00 p.m. and they’re all ready to go home? That’s unheard of.”

“Maybe they’re just tired.”

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