Page 72 of Hockey Bois
“So soon?” Nick grumbled. “I wanted to change.”
“Tough titties,” Gail said. “Happy hour. Three-dollar pitchers. Three dollars, Nicki. I’m not paying full price ’cuz of your delicate sensibilities.”
“It would be a good idea to get food sooner than later,” Benns said. “Recovery after all the hard work we put in today will be key to doing well tomorrow. So, please moderate your drinking, eat some protein and carbs, and get some sleep.”
Nick wouldn’t say hepoutedabout the lost opportunity, but there was a definite slump to his shoulders.
“You in a rush?” Brady teased, his voice right in Nick’s ear, so close he must have noticed how the hairs on the back of Nick’s neck stood up. It was too low for anyone else to hear, so there was no mistaking it; this was forhim. He clapped Nick on the back as he wiggled past him to get to his gear bag. “Plenty of time, Nicki. Plenty of time.”
There was definite intent in Brady’s eyes. He still hadn’t said a word aboutwhathe had planned, but he looked at Nick hungrily and gave him his full attention.
Oh. Okay then.
This was real. Shit shit shit shit. Yes, obviously yes, but also oh fuck, oh crap, he wasnotready for this to go from fantasy to reality.
Nick might have had an out-of-body experience. He didn’t recall changing out of his gear or the drive to the bar or even finding Donno and Guy amiably ordering four pitchers of beer.
There was a beer in front of him, half-empty, by the time Brady hopped onto the chair next to him and slid an arm around Nick’s shoulder. Brady pulled him close in an almost hug, barely more than a quick squeeze, and then he pulled away.
“How many beers we aiming for before Benns gets here and shuts us down?” Brady asked, then helped himself to the rest of Nick’s drink. His Adam’s apple bobbed with each gulp, and the whole time the fucker made eye contact with Nick over the rim of the glass. Nick was a goner. No need to worry about getting back to the hotel. He’d die right here in the bar.
“He’s not coming,” Guy said with a mischievous smile. “So I think it’s up to us Alternative Captains to oversee the evening.”
Brady laughed and poured Guy some more beer; Guy laughed. “Guess we’ll be here late, huh?”
The team drank and talked and ate. They finished off their first pitchers and got some more, and the whole time, Nick felt like his skin could barely contain him. Every time Brady shot him a glance or unnecessarily bumped into him, it felt like he was about to explode. Every time Brady’s attention wandered for five, ten, twenty minutes, it was like he was going to implode.
Just when he thought he couldn’t last another moment, when he was about to head out and hope Brady would follow him—
“BEEJ!”
Everyone at the table turned in unison toward the loud voice.
Brady froze, beer stuck in midair as he processed the name, the location, the voice. Nick frowned in confusion as he saw the pieces click together for Brady.
“Holy shit,” he said with a wide smile. “Amelia Landry.”
A tall woman with long, neatly braided hair pushed through the crowded bar and opened her arms expectantly. Brady stood—he was maybe two inches taller than her—and accepted the hug.
“Hey, Aimes,” he said affectionately, like he was talking to a little sister or favorite cousin. “You here for the tourney?”
“Fuck yeah I am, though I didn’t see your dumb ass all day. Saw your name on a score sheet somewhere, figured I’d have to find you and give you shit for playing D4 and only scoring three goals.”
Brady gave her the finger.
Young Greg gasped out loud. “What’s gotten into him?!” he said, concerned parent and awed teammate both.
“You know I can’t cut D1,” Brady said.
She crossed her arms across her chest. “The ankle ain’t broke anymore, Beej.”
“Maybe I like getting on the scoreboard more than once every full moon.”
“You’ve gotten soft in your old age.”
“I’m three months younger than you.”
They broke into simultaneous drunken laughter at that.
