Page 9 of That Thing You Brew
“Dex the Halls! Dex the Halls!”
Jason glared at me through the cage of his mask as the fans chanted his new holiday nickname. I grinned as I leaned against the tunnel wall nearest to him. We were waiting for our cue to take the ice for warmups. I was trying my best not to smirk.
That would be unkind.
But someone needed to fill in for the team’s prankster, Zaki Marsch, while he was out with the flu. Why not me?
Jason was a serious guy. I was serious, too, but he was next-level. The dude graduated from Harvard. Both our dads played in the league, and we had similar work ethics. But sometimes he forgot to have fun.
Someone had to remind him of that.
I took on the role willingly.
“Ha!” Bryce Chambers, aka ChaCha, my defensive partner for tonight, joined me at the wall and held out his gloved fist. “Knuckies?”
We bumped our knuckles together as Jason continued to glare.
“Better be careful, Dex,” Bryce warned. “Your face might freeze like that.”
I snickered. “It’d be an improvement, for sure,” I joked.
Did I also mention that good-natured chirping at my own teammates was one of my favorite pastimes?
“Nice one, Swanny.” Bryce held up his fist for another tap, and I obliged.
I usually played alongside Zaki. He kept to the net and allowed me to play more offensively. Bryce and I had practiced together yesterday, taking turns staying close to the crease and alternating on the offense. As defensemen, it was our job to block and deflect pucks headed for the net, to protect our goal—and our goalie—at any cost. Scoring when the opportunity arose was our secondary goal, so while I had every intention of shooting at the opposing net tonight, covering our goal effectively with ChaCha was my priority.
“Go time.” Our captain, Dean Hathaway, stepped behind Jason, who was already walking the few feet to the ice. Bryce and I waited while the starting offensive line followed him out. We stepped in line behind Dean, our center; left winger CJ Rockdale; and right winger and assistant captain Emile Moreau.
Bryce and I were starting tonight. Plagued with injuries this season, New Orleans didn’t have a prayer of making the playoffs. We should beat them easily, so Coach decided not to start our best defensive pair, Brendan Trotter and Trask Emerson. I knew those guys well, having played with them on the Volts, and they both still lived in Palmer City, too.
One of my favorite parts of stepping onto the ice was knocking the stacked pucks off the ledge. With my (lack of) seniority, there were rarely any left by the time I took the ice. But tonight, there were three, and I beat Bryce to them.
“I left them for you!” he shouted.
“Sweet of you, man!” We skated fast, forming a circle on the home side of the ice, flying as our blades sliced through what we fondly dubbed winter’s dance floor and taking shots at Jason.
Emile sent a puck sailing toward me from the other side of the ice, a perfect pass. I snapped it, sending it straight over Jason’s left shoulder. It hit the back of the net, and I dropped to one knee, holding my stick in the air as I glided toward the boards to wave to the Wags and kids who had come out tonight.
“Nice wrister, Swanny!” I smiled and skated toward the high-pitched squeal of Trask’s stepdaughter, Ryleigh. She loved to insult us with her A-game chirping, so a compliment from her was high praise and couldn’t go unrecognized.
You don’t want to mess with almost-eight-year-old girls. I speak from experience.
“Thanks, Ry.” I nodded at Trask’s wife, Kami, who was hugging their two-year-old son to her chest, facing out toward the rink. She smiled and adjusted his noise-canceling headphones.
“You’re welcome.” Ryleigh grinned wickedly. “You’realmostas good as my brother with a mini stick.”
And there it was.Ouch.
She crossed her arms over her chest and challenged me with a slight raise of one eyebrow. I held in a laugh and responded soberly. “Guess I need more practice, huh?”
She nodded. “You’re slow. I hope you had your lucky coffee today.”
I assured her I did, but the expression on her face told me she still wasn’t impressed.
Trask glided up next to me. “These fans giving you trouble?” he drawled. He and Kami were from South Carolina and still had their accents.
“The worst!” I mock-complained. “This little lady says her brother is better with his mini stick.”
