Page 4 of Breakaway Goals
“But you like me!” Hayes said brightly.
“Of course that was what you took from that sentence.” Morgan hesitated. “And I’mnotsmug.” But he could be. Maybe it was more deserved than Braun’s smugness, but it was annoying that Hayes, who’d seemed barely able to utter a whole fucking sentence in Morgan’s presence before now, had decided to call him on it.
“Are you kidding me? You’re Morgan Reynolds.” Hayes said it all hushed and reverent.
“We’re not back to this again, are we?” Morgan asked with a groan punctuating his question.
“No, I mean, it’s not like that, it’s just . . .you’ve got the shit to back you up, if you want to be smug. But then so does Braun, frankly.”
“Don’t say that,” Morgan muttered. He didn’t want Hayes to think Braun was good, even if that was objectively true.
“I mean, he saved an absolutelysickshot I took last year in the playoffs, so yeah, he’s good. He’s one of the reasons I’m here.”
Morgan took a long drink of his black coffee. “Come on. Don’t pretend. You leaped at the chance.”
“I . . .” Hayes made a frustrated noise. “Okay. Fine. Yes.”
“We’re all a little starstruck.” Morgan wasn’t, but then he’d been doing this too long to worry about other people. Other than Braun, that was.
“Not you,” Hayes scoffed.
“Okay, not me,” Morgan conceded.
Hayes went back to picking at the sleeve on his coffee cup. “I just want you to know . . .I’ve never bought into the wholenext one, thing. That’s not what I consider this, even if other people do.”
Morgan told himself that he liked this kid—could he still call him a kid when he was in his mid-twenties?Probably—even when he was being really fucking stupid.
“Are you serious with this?”
“Uh yes? Yes. Yes, definitely.” Hayes punctuated this with a sharp nod of his head, like he’d just finally decided.
“Your lack of ego’s not gonna do you any favors. You’re really fucking good, kid.”
Hayes looked happy, then at the end bristled, unexpectedly. “I’m not a kid. I’m twenty-five.”
“Okay. You’re really fucking good, grown ass man.”
“You’re not funny,” Hayes said, but he was choking back a laugh.
“No, of course not,” Morgan deadpanned.
“I just meant . . .I’m not here to push that bullshit narrative.” Hayes wouldn’t look at him, those piercing green eyes glued to the wood tabletop. “That’s not why I’m here. I just want to play hockey.”
Morgan decided that this was the best time to change the subject. If Hayes didn’t want to look at his own skills frankly andrealize just how unbelievable they were, that was his problem. “I guess the most important question iscanyou play wing?”
Hayes looked surprised. “Yeah. Of course.”
“It’s not that straightforward.”
“Sure it is. It’s fine, I’ve got this.” At least Hayessoundedconfident. “At practice, you’ll see.”
“Here’s what I was thinking,” Morgan said, going on to describe what he envisioned for their offense, generally, and for their line specifically.
Hayes cocked his head, and Morgan wasn’t surprised when he asked one good question after another, poking and prodding at the plan, because even though he downplayed his abilities, Morgan had seen enough through the years, against each other and more, to know how good Hayes was. It even got to the point where Morgan got up, grabbed some paper and a pen from the counter, and drew it up so they could dissect it further.
“Canada’s always good, and so’s Sweden,” Morgan said, leaning back after he’d finished his coffee. “And we can’t count Finland out, even if they’re shorthanded because of injuries. This isn’t going to be a gimme.”
“I never thought it would be,” Hayes said earnestly.
