Page 6 of The Fake Husband Play
I shrug, breathless and buzzing. “Nah, just having fun, man.”
Iamhaving fun. More fun than I’ve had on ice since I first got called up to the pros last year. In Portland, I was the new guy out to prove himself, the rookie trying to find his place in a franchise desperate to reclaim its former glory. It was exhilarating, yeah, but also stressful as fuck.
Here, I get to be part of building something from scratch, something that’s brand new, with no preconceived ideas. Playing hockey in Louisiana just feels right. This is where I fell in love with the game. The second I stepped foot in the arena for the first time, all that love and fun came rushing back, and damn…I hope I never lose it again.
We run through more drills, and I catch myself glancing up at the stands between plays. It’s a habit I picked up as a kid—looking for Beanie in the bleachers at youth league games, making sure she was there to see me play. Back then, my mom was one of the only parents who showed up for every single game, rain or shine, changing her shifts at the long-term care facility to work nights if she had to, so she’d never miss a chance to cheer me on.
She’s so psyched to watch my first pro game back home. I’ve already secured her a box seat in one of the rooms with a buffet and all the Diet Root Beer my little mama can drink, because that woman?
She deserves nothing but the best.
That’s been a great part of being home, too, getting to spend Sundays with my mama…and her cooking. You can’t get Cajun food in Portland, at least nothing that tastes like the real thing.
After practice, I’m dripping sweat despite the chill in the arena and a little shaky, but it’s the good kind of exhaustion that comes from pushing hard for every play.
“So,” Capo mutters as he towels off his black curls, “we gonna talk about how that scrimmage looked like a clown car on ice for a minute there?”
“He’s not wrong,” Nix says, shaking his head. “Took us half the drill to stop crowding the same lane.”
“Early days,” I say, though I noticed it too, the way guys kept second-guessing instead of trusting the flow. “We’re still learning the system. And each other.”
“Systems can be learned,” Nix points out, echoing his steady, defenseman pragmatism. “Flexibility? That’s harder.”
Parker’s quiet for once, chewing on something behind his smirk. Finally, he shrugs. “Yeah. Doesn’t matter how good any of us are solo if we can’t figure out how to play jazz together.”
Blue just lifts a shoulder. “Can’t force chemistry.”
“Yeah,” I say, leaning back against the bench. “It’s like sex, either you’ve got rhythm from the jump or you don’t.”
Parker snorts. “Speak for yourself. I always bring the rhythm.”
“Please,” Nix says, rolling his eyes. “You couldn’t find a beat if it smacked you on the ass.”
“All this talk about jazz and dancing reminds me,” Nix says, pivoting with that trademark sly grin. “Where do the locals actually go on weekends? Thehot femalelocals, specifically. Because that club I hit on Bourbon Street last week was a dump with a cover band thatsounded like the lead singer was being tortured to death. Slowly. On stage.”
“Christ, man. What’s wrong with you?” Parker pulls a breath—likely to give Nix shit about hanging out on Bourbon Street after we told him it wasalltourist trap territory—but shuts his mouth again when Merwood appears in the doorway.
“Graves.” Coach’s eyebrows form a question mark that floats in the center of his wrinkled forehead. “A word.”
I follow him to his office, a cozy, dimly lit room with thick drapes covering the windows and heavy wooden furniture that gives off Hobbit vibes. But when he settles behind his desk, there’s nothing warm or welcoming about the look he shoots my way.
“You grew up here,” he says without preamble.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good kid or troublemaker? The internet didn’t have much to say about you before you joined Portland’s feeder team.”
The question catches me off guard, but only for a second. After all, I don’t have anything to hide. Every fist fight I started in high school kept me and the people I loved safe. I don’t regret a single one of them, which makes it easy to shrug and smile. “Depends who you ask, I guess. My mama wasn’t too happy about all the street signs I stole on weekends, but I never got caught.”
Merwood grunts. “Your mama still lives here?”
“Yes, sir. She’s got a cute little place in the historic district. She’s turning it into something really special. Beanie’s got a knack for decorating.”
“Beanie?”
“Nickname,” I explain. “Everyone’s got one inNOLA. Mom got hers for being the tiniest, feistiest nurse in her graduating class. They said she was like a Mexican jumping bean, only Cajun.”
“Good. Feisty is good.” He leans back in his chair, studying me with the intensity of someone trying to read fine print. “Seems like only the strong survive down here. This city’s been through a lot. Isstillgoing through a lot. A new team like this isn’t just about hockey. It’s about hope for the future, about giving people something to be proud of. Something to believe in.”
