Page 27 of The Best Parts of Him
He was kidding, but Dabbs texted back a photo of Castle and Cosmo—one all-white with tufts of russet at the ears and the other all russet—sitting on an armchair with a Christmas tree in the background. They both wore Santa hats and the photo was labeled as December.
Ryland:
Wait, seriously???
Dabbs:
We did a Dogs of the Vermont Trailblazers calendar last year with the intention of donating the proceeds to a local rescue. We only printed the minimum amount, thinking they wouldn’t be hugely popular, but they sold out within an hour of them being put on display in the merch store at the arena.
Ryland:
Tell Castle and Cosmo they look handsome in their Santa hats.
Dabbs:
They said woof woof. That’s dog-speak for “Obviously.”
Laughing, Ryland was about to respond when Miles returned. “Are we doing show-and-tell, or what? Everyone’s in the locker room.”
“Shit, sorry.” Ryland scurried after him. “All right, everyone. Drumroll, please.”
The guys assembled in the locker room drum rolled on whatever surface was closest to them—the wall, a bench, their own thighs.
“Hewitt.” Ryland gestured at their goalie. “The floor is yours.”
Hewitt took the stage—or the middle of the locker room, as it were—toting what appeared to be a music case that was half as tall as he was.
“You brought a giant dildo to show-and-tell?” St. Graves asked, earning himself a mix of laughter and groans and one loud, “Gross.”
“This, you douchebags,” Hewitt said, “is a trombone. My siblings and I are all classically trained musicians, although my sister is the only one who ever did anything with it.”
“What are you going to play for us?” Lang asked from where he sat in front of his stall. “Beethoven? Vivaldi? Mozart?”
“I thought I’d try something a little more upbeat. And if I can have you all dancing inside of a minute, I want you to take that dildo comment back.”
St. Graves snorted. “In your dreams.”
Hewitt put the instrument to his lips and began to play . . .
The cancan.
And sure enough, in only a few seconds, guys were doing the cancan dance, and those who weren’t were bopping their hips.
Hewitt closed the song with a flourish, earning himself cheers so loud it made Ryland’s ears hurt.
St. Graves held out a hand, and Hewitt gave it a dap. “Yeah, all right, I take the dildo comment back.”
“Dude,” Burke said. “I’ll bring my guitar one day and we can jam out.”
“I’ll bring my trumpet,” Singleton added. “We can have a competition to see who does the cancan better.”
Lang raised a hand. “We get to cast the final vote, right?”
The night devolved from there, guys already making bets on which instrument would win. Hewitt drew Burke and Singleton into conversation, asking how long they’d been playing.
Ryland stood aside and watched it happen, his chest expanding with hope. This was what he’d wanted. Simple connection between human beings that would bring them closer together. Show-and-tell wouldn’t fix the Pilots’ cliquey problem—Ryland was aware he was playing the long game.
But it was a step in the right direction.
