Page 157 of Hockey Bois
*
“You sure you’re up for this?” Nick asked and stole another look at the passenger seat.
“It’s a picnic,” Brady said as he shifted the aluminum tray on his lap. It was mac and cheese, probably still hot since Nick had rushed to make it before they’d left, but Nick couldn’t help reading Brady’s movements as nervous fidgeting. “I think I can handle a picnic.”
Nick nodded. Right. Picnics were friendly group events and no reason to have panic attacks. His family wasn’t super overbearing, so there was no reason toexpectanything bad to happen. They’d be politely curious but more likely to start an argument with each other about volleyball or capture the flag than pay them any mind. Still, he worried.
“You think you’re up for some not-so-friendly-but-with-the-illusion-of-friendly games?” he said to cover up his own nerves.
From his seat, Brady snorted, and Nick imagined an eye roll to go along with it. “I played in like a million sports leagues as a kid before I did hockey. I know all about games that people say are just for fun but take way too seriously. I had a cousin who threw his little-league soccer participation trophy in the Allegheny because he was pissed his team didn’t win some tournament. He was like six when that happened.”
“That’s intense. We don’t do the trophy part, but my cousins definitely get riled up about games. Luckily there’s nothing on the line but bragging rights, and we tend to peter out around five when the beer and food comes out.”
“My kind of picnic.”
“Good, because they might make us play on separate teams. I hope you’re ready for me to trash talk you about how terrible not only you but your entire city plays all sports.”
“What’s the point of trash talk that’s objectively false? If we’re having a championship-off between cities, I want to point out that you’d be reaching to compete even if you combine your whole stateandDC’s wins.”
“Good. Keep that up. You’re going to fit in so well.”
The rest of the drive was spent listing different people who’d be at the picnic; he spent very little effort on relatives in attendance, instead focusing on everyone else who’d been coming for years, and Nick’s best guesses about which new guests might attend this year. The more Nick went through the list, the more he relaxed. It was actually higher than his estimate of a hundred people, so there was no reason to think bringing one more would draw a lot of attention. His cousins would probably save it for the group text after the fact. He could handle Mykala’s and Jess’s barrage of questions just fine so long as they didn’t subject Brady to it. Hell, maybe they’d hound Jenna and Terry for details instead of him.
*
When they arrived, Nick’s dad came out to greet them.
“You better get down to the backyard quick. They’ve got the volleyball net up and they’re already pickin’ teams. If you don’t get there for sign-ups, they’ll make you ref.” He took the mac and cheese from Brady and smiled, offering his free hand. “I’m Nick’s dad, by the way. Bobby Porter.”
Nick’s chest swelled with embarrassment.
Brady accepted his hand and shook it, mindful of the mac and cheese likely to topple over if he shook too hard. “Brady.”
“You that Pittsburgh boy Nick plays hockey with?” his dad asked with a twinkle in his eye. He nodded to Brady’s hat with his chin—the birthday one that he rarely wore backward so he could show off the number—and forced a scowl. “You wouldn’t be a Pens fan by any chance, would you?”
“Yes, sir,” Brady said solemnly. “’fraid so.”
“No accounting for taste, I suppose. Get on back there; I know you’ll wanna play.”
Nick thanked his dad and nudged Brady toward the back of the house, leading him on a worn rock pathway that was overgrown with moss.That went well, he thought. Though honestly, his dad would be the easy one. Sports and hockey were both his dad’s and Brady’s strong suits, and even if they hated the teams involved, they would likely bond over games.
“You know how to play volleyball?” Nick asked as they rounded the house. The backyard was more a large grass field connecting the properties of his parents, his grandpa’s house, and his Uncle Rick’s (aka Jenna’s dad’s) place. On one of the flatter sections, there was a crowd gathered around a volleyball net that leaned dangerously to one side.
“Uh, ball goes over the net. Don’t let it hit the ground?” Brady offered. “Spike? Serve? Those are volleyball words, right?”
“That’s about the gist of it.”
*
Long before the championship round of the volleyball competition, Brady and Nick were eliminated. They’d gotten further than they’d expected, winning two whole official games. Neither was upset to admit defeat, despite getting completely blown out almost single-handedly by Jess.
They headed up to the main festivities with Terry, who claimed he was only at the tournament to cheer them on. They’d likely hear all about whoever won once dinner started.
The area was already filled with people, those who were either uninterested in the games or, like them, already kicked out of it. Most were helping set up the potluck. Nick’s parents were by the grill. His grandpa was mixing ten gallons of lemonade. Jenna and one of her cousins from her mom’s side were guarding the desserts from the children in attendance, though their form of guarding seemed to be loudly saying “shoo” when any parents were looking and then sneaking them cookies when they weren’t.
It seemed a little too family-oriented, so Nick nudged Brady toward the farther tables where it was mostly neighbors and his parents’ friends.
“Nick, sweetie! I haven’t seen you in ages!”
