Page 9 of False Play
I shot him a glare but chose to stay silent. Despite my frustration, I had a lot of respect for Donovan—not just because he was our captain, but because he had this wisdom about him. He was only thirty-five years old, but he was the older brother of the group. Always steady and watching out for us. Which was very much needed, because most of us were a bunch of overgrown children.
“What the hell am I going to do, Donovan?” I groaned.
“At least you get to spend more time with your favorite girl.” He grinned.
I frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Please. You’re obsessed with Kennedy. Do you think I haven’t noticed?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Oh, yeah? Then why are you always tagging along to whatever photo op Kennedy is in charge of? To be a team player?” He snorted a disbelieving laugh.
Damn. Was I that fucking transparent?
“Whatever,” I mumbled.
He shot me a knowing smirk. “Listen, I know this is probably the last thing you want to do, but we’re going to Tim’s for celebratory drinks. You should come.”
Tim’s was one of our go-to bars to eat and hang out. It was the only place where there was a lot of crowd control, and we could go in and relax without worrying about crazy fans orpaparazzi. The owner—whose name was,you guessed it, Tim—always kicked them out in a heartbeat. He was a veryfuck-around-and-find-outtype of man. We loved the old, grumpy guy.
I knew it wasn’t a good idea to go out. But damn it, we had won our first home game of the season and it deserved to be celebrated.
I was also in some serious need to blow off some steam.
So against my better judgment, I replied, “Fuck it. I’m in.”
FOUR
HENRY
GANG-UP-ON-ANDERSON DAY.
An hour later,I walked into Tim’s with Donovan. The bar was busier than usual, but I recognized most faces since it was a normal hangout spot for the front office people as well. “Mr. Brightside” by The Killers played from the red jukebox, and all the tables were occupied with low chatter and laughs.
I loved this place. It had an ’80s feel to it, with low lighting and a few fluorescent signs of beer brands and rock band posters. The floor was a dark wooden color, and it didn’t matter how much they cleaned, the stickiness from all the beer that had fallen on these floors never went away. In the back of the room, there were a few green pool tables, and antique faux stained-glass lamps hung over them. The bar area was the typical wooden long table with red stools, and behind the bar, there were crystal shelves with all sorts of cheap alcohol.
I took a sharp inhale and let the smell of cheap beer and greasy food infiltrate my nostrils.
Oh, how I loved the smell of home, sweet home.
“Over here, guys,” Hayes, our left winger, shouted as he waved to catch our attention.
We headed to the other side of the bar, where Hayes was sitting at a high-top table with our left defenseman, Levi Parker; our right defenseman, Elijah Morgan; and our goalie, Nicolas Owens.
The whole team was pretty close, but I considered these guys my brothers.
“I’m surprised you’re here,” Hayes quipped at me as he raised one of his dark-blond eyebrows.
Wesley Hayes and I had been friends since we were kids, and by some luck of the universe, the Detroit Panthers had traded him two years ago. Hayes, Donovan, and I played on the same line, and we’d always connected on the ice easily. It made me happy knowing we got to play the game we had loved since we were kids together. When I moved out of Canada with my mom and my sister to a little town in Oklahoma, I was happy we were finally away fromhim, but it hurt leaving all my friends behind. I was glad I had the opportunity to meet a man like Hayes, and better yet, I was also lucky enough to call him my best friend.
We patted each other on the back as I laughed. “Dude, I’m in desperate need of a beer.” I turned around and lifted two of my fingers to catch the attention of Aly—Tim’s daughter and one of the bartenders—and ask her for our usuals. She acknowledged me with a thumbs-up and quickly got back to work.
I wasn’t kidding when I said we spent a ridiculous amount of time in this bar.
“What did Coach say?” Owens asked, taking a sip of his water.
The guy refused to drink during the season, and even when we were off, he still didn’t drink much. I was surprised he made an appearance at all. Nicolas Owens was the typical quiet and grumpy goalie. We always tried to draw him out of his shell and force him to spend time with us. While he’d probably tell youhe hated hanging out with us, I knew it was a lie. He loved us in his own, weird way.
