Page 30 of The Best Parts of Him
Sandbaker backed away, raising both hands, and chose a different seat clear on the other side of the table.
“Don’t scare the new kid,” Dabbs said mildly.
Hughes shoved the final bite of his sandwich in his mouth. “Everyone knows the empty seat next to me is always reserved for one person.”
“Yeah.” Dabbs chuckled. “Everyone except for that person.”
Speak of the devil. Colter “CC” Clarke scrambled into the room a minute before the team meeting was due to start and looked around for an empty chair.
Hughes gave the one next to him a kick in his direction.
“Thanks.” CC gave him an absent smile as he sat. “I got caught in a family group call, and I was late leaving.”
“Everything okay?” Hughes asked.
“Yeah, they just wouldn’t stop yapping. I swear, the concept of time is lost on them. I tell them I have somewhere to be at four, and they think I need to leave at four.” CC’s laugh was both fond and exasperated. “Gotta love ’em. Oh, thank god. Food.” He grabbed one of everything except for the protein bar, unwrapped a tuna sandwich, and took a hefty bite.
Hughes passed him a stack of napkins and opened his Gatorade for him. When CC smiled at him again, there wasn’t a hint of absentmindedness to it. Just affection and starry eyes that Dabbs wasn’t sure CC recognized for what it was.
“All right, settle down, everyone.” Coach Madolora stood at the front of the room. Somewhere in his fifties, Coach had played hockey in his day, though he’d never made it to the NHL. He was a big guy with a receding hairline and a skinny mustache. Bellamy had once told Dabbs that he thought Madolora looked like an organized crime boss.
Dabbs had never thought so, but ever since Bellamy had pointed it out, Dabbs couldn’t unsee it.
“You know the drill.” Roman Kinsey, former team captain of the Vermont Trailblazers and current director of player of engagement, held out a bowl filled with folded pieces of paper. “Who wants to go first?”
Zanetti raised a hand. “I’ll bite.”
Roman held the bowl out. Zanetti blindly pulled out one of the pieces of paper and unfolded it. “Bellamy Jordan.”
Bellamy waggled his eyebrows at him.
“That’s easy.” Zanetti tossed the paper onto the table. “Bellamy gave me a lift here today while my car’s in the shop.”
A chorus of “Awww” spread around the room.
Zanetti held up both middle fingers. “Fuck you all. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t have driven through a puddle and splashed me if you’d seen me on the sidewalk.”
Everyone laughed, then it was Bellamy’s turn to select a name out of the bowl and to say something nice about that person.
This went on for five rounds, as it did at every team meeting. It was a tradition Roman had started in his team-captain days. A positive way to start meetings that always generated laughs.
Dabbs tried to pay attention, he really did. But Christ—his eyes kept slipping closed no matter how hard he tried to concentrate. He eventually resorted to scratching the inside of his elbow to help keep himself awake.
The pain in his side intensified. It felt like there was a rock lodged in his side, and he made a mental note to pick up antacids on the way home. He missed virtually the entire meeting, too busy trying to keep himself awake and breathe through the pain.
They got home in time to catch the first period of the Columbus versus Minnesota game. Bellamy had invited Zanetti over to watch with them, and he pulled out chips and dip as though they hadn’t just eaten at their meeting.
Dabbs sat on one corner of the couch, legs propped on the coffee table, and watched Ryland win a face-off. He was fluid on the ice, and fast on his feet too. He looked like every other player on his team in his maroon, white, and blue uniform, yet somehow, Dabbs could tell right away when he stepped onto the ice for his shifts.
Castle and Cosmo hopped onto the couch between Dabbs and Bellamy. Castle snuggled up to him, but Cosmo watched the action on the television as though he understood what was going on. Dabbs took a photo of him, making sure to angle it so that the TV was visible in the background, and sent it to Ryland.
Dabbs:
Apparently, Cosmo’s a Columbus fan. Or maybe it’s Minnesota? Hard to tell with his poker face.
Ryland wouldn’t see it until later, but hopefully he’d get a kick out of it.
And why Dabbs was sending him random messages to make him laugh was anybody’s guess. It had all started with his drunk dial during the summer, and now he and Ryland exchanged almost daily texts.
