Page 5 of Call the Shots
“Don’t tell me you tolerate the guy.” I lifted my brows at his silence. “Wow, you’re the only two people who like each other. Start the friendship bracelet train. Tag me in, Captain. I’ll be sure to hop on.”
He snorted, unperturbed. “Fuck you.”
I shook my head. “None of this matters as long as we can win games.”
“Itdoesmatter.” He broke away from studying the rink, turning his attention to me. “If we’re not a real team, we’re done. You know that.”
“Not if we can win.”
“Just because you hated your last team doesn’t mean it’s not important?—”
“Thanks, captain for eleven minutes.”
The animosity wasn’t new. Sportscasters called our rivalry the Alaskan/Canadian Brawl—or theAK Seeyuh Braaaaawl!Denali was actually from Alaska, I only lived in Canada for the first seven years of my life, but the name stuck because the two of us made the games worth watching.
Never did I ever think I’d playwithDenali Maddox.
“Are you ready for worse news?” he finally asked.
“What could possibly be worse than this?”
Denali whipped out his phone and dialed a number. It rang a few times, and I caught sight of the name on his phone—Coach Vernon, the Marrs hockey coach. He didn’t pick up the phone. His voicemail did.
I stared. “Is that the Beach Boys?”
“It’s the Muppets cover ofKokomo. He claimed a family emergency but I’m pretty sure he’s in the Bahamas with a bunch of blonde coeds.”
“We don’t have a hockey coach?” I demanded.
“Not even the assistants. They’re saying without him, they won’t show.”
I ground my molars. “What thefuck,Denali?”
“Yep.”
Someone new stepped on the ice, a tall guy in purple gear, our official Gladiator look. He went without his face mask, and his baby cheeks made him instantly recognizable.
I elbowed Denali. “Caleb Montoya?”
“Elijah calls him Kid’s Toy. He’s the youngest player on the roster, seventeen.”
“I thought he was going to the NHL?”
“Since the accident…” Denali cleared his throat. “He can’t…hit.”
“What? Hit what?” At his uncomfortable silence, I tipped my chin to the kid. “Denali, hitwhat?”
“Other players. He’s worried about hurting somebody.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“Then he can’t playhockey.”
“Watch him. You know how good he is.” We kept our eyes trained on Montoya as he soared across the ice. “He’s a little rough around the edges—but eager.” A couple of figure skaters walked along the rink waving at Montoya. He waved back. “Look how he’s leaning?—”
Still waving, Montoya slammed into the low wall of the rink and flew, crashing into the bench. It crumpled, and a big cloud of dust burst up.No way that’s built to code.
