Page 33 of Game Winner
He returns with warm washcloths. We clean up and then he climbs onto the center of the mattress, settling between Tyler and me.
I slide my arm around him and reach across him to hold Ty’s hand.
I’ve never had a New Year’s Eve like this. I’ve never known two men like them. And all I can think about is how I want more.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SOREN
The sounds of sticks slapping pucks and skates carving through ice are the same with the Metros as they are with the Slash. With my eyes closed, I wouldn’t be able to tell who was who. But with them open, there’s no mistake. The men wearing dark purple Metros practice jerseys are very different from my usual teammates in bright Slash yellow.
I bat away a puck Sage sends my way and smirk at my friend. “Still can’t get one past me.”
“Ha ha. We’ll see about that.” He loops in front of the net to collect his puck and grins. “It’s great having you here. I miss playing together.”
“Me too.” Their backup goalie has the flu, so I’m with the team for at least this road trip. Here in Buffalo this afternoon for the Saturday matinee that will air on the hockey network, Toronto on Monday, and Montreal on Tuesday. But possibly longer.
The guys work on drills in front of me, and I fend off puck after puck. A few get by, one from Maxim, another from Jonas, and one from Sage who whoops like he single-handedly won the championship.
My Uncle Nils, one of the Metros assistant coaches, looks on. He may not be the goaltending coach, but I know I’ll get some advice when practice wraps. He’s awesome like that. Ever since I was a kid, he’d take the time to talk, explain, and advise with more patience than any coach I’ve ever had.
In front of me on defense, Remy and Rhys chirp at Maxim and Jonas and chat about concert tickets Rhys managed to score as a present for Sage.
In the few years I’ve been with the Slash, I’ve been called up to the Metros five times due to one of the team’s goalies being sick or injured. Each time, I do my best to impress the team and the fans and show that I belong in the NAPH. I know the team monitors what happens with the Slash, but playing against the top leagues players is different than playing against the guys in the PHL. Most of those guys are younger and still developing. Not so with the NAPH.
So much is different between the two leagues. The NAPH has chartered planes instead of buses, better food on road trips, teams stay at nicer hotels, and the paychecks—though they can vary widely—are much bigger than the range PHL players make.
Sage, Remy, and Morgan can more than afford to get their own places now, but I’m happy they haven’t. I don’t know if Phil and Gio would open up the house to new roommates if they go, but no one could replace these guys.
Jonas cuts around Rhys and fires a shot. I drop into a butterfly and cover the puck. Then glance behind me to make sure it didn’t slip by somehow.
He stops just inside the crease, sending a spray of snow over Rhys’s legs. “You’re good, Soren. You have it.”
Laughing, Rhys shoves his shoulder, pushing Jonas so no part of his skate remains in the blue area. “Get away from my goalie.”
“Nah, Jonas is fine.” Standing, I clear the puck away, sending it to Remy.
Jonas and I got to know each other pretty well when he recuperated at our house last season while I healed from a torn hamstring and he dealt with a broken foot and high ankle sprain. The rest of our respective teammates were on road trips, so we watched movies, ate takeout, and bitched about being injured and missing time away from the game we love.
Being friends with Rhys, Quinn, Jonas, and Maxim, and of course, Sage, Remy, and Morgan, makes joining the Metros, however temporary it may be, easier. I’ve picked up a lot from things they’ve said in conversations around our dinner table, and have studied video clips with the guys, and paid attention to any scrap of knowledge dropped my way.
This is where I want to be. But I miss seeing Ty across the ice. His skating speed is so much faster now, and I think he’ll be playing for the Metros soon.
Coach Grant gathers us all for a final chat, walking through things on the whiteboard. When he dismisses us, I skate toward Uncle Nils. “Any thoughts?”
He plays with the zipper on his jacket, drawn up close to his chin. “Several.”
“Shit.” I glance at the net. “I thought I had a pretty good practice.”
“I didn’t say they were negative thoughts, did I?” He bumps his shoulder into mine as we exit the rink.
I huff a laugh. “No.”
He and my dad share similar features and coloring, and when he smiles he looks more like him. They have the same crinkles around their eyes and the same expression lines. He gives me a gentle shove toward the locker room. “Get changed. I want wings.”
He’s not the only one. Sitting side by side, Sage and Morgan debate where we should go for the wings, with Quinn weighing in. Rhys calls out his opinion, Maxim does the same, and Jonas suggests someplace different, probably to mess with Maxim.
I dress, happy to be surrounded by the comforting chaos that is my friend group. “Nils wants to get some too. We can go to a different place. None of you want to eat with one of the coaches.”
