Page 15 of Love of the Game
But not before Drake.
Pretty sure he saw me, but he didn’t react at all to my presence. Rather, he continued skating and puck handling, with occasional shots at the net. I went through my warming up routine, stretching out hips and legs and limbering up—all while watching Drake.
His skating was effortless.
I mean, we all were good at skating. You didn’t make it to the pro leagues without having decent wheels, but Drake—his skating was just beautiful. The angles, the way he shifted, how fluid transitions were. The edgework. And the way he stick-handled through it all, as if the puck was magnetically attracted to his blade.
Stunning.
So different from practice yesterday and the game last night.
Without even looking at me, Drake backhanded a pass right to my tape and I stickhandled the puck before sending it back to him. He watched me now, and there was that smile that he’d only hinted at before.
His next pass bounced off my stick, and I had to skate to get it. Not because it was a bad pass or anything—but because I’d been staring at him and hadn’t bothered to catch it.
That got me a laugh from him that stopped my breath. I corralled the puck, then passed it back. We did that a few more times before he switched gears, got this glint in his eyes, and came straight at me.
Oh, we were playing this game then, huh? I was reasonably good at stripping pucks away from charging forwards—even if I was one myself—ever since my dad had taught me how.
Reasonably good was no match for Drake, though. He danced around me like I was one of the practice dummies, despite my trying to shove the puck off his stick. I ended up turned all the fuck around, because I could not even hope to keep up with his movements—so I saw him go bar down into the net that was behind me.
“Yo,” boomed a loud voice from the gate at them bench, then Clancy was banging his goalie stick against the boards. “Now that’s more like it, Dragon! Bring some fire.”
Again, Drake laughed, a high and happy sound, and my knees wanted to buckle from the emotions in my soul. Lust—yes. I was very, very human, after all, and he was gorgeous. But also, relief. Because there was the Drake Williams I’d seen when I watched Pittsburgh Lions games.
The rest of the team filed out into the ice andstarted warming up, so I headed to the bench for some water and hopped up to sit on the boards. Mac, in track suit and jawing on some gum, skated over. “Kid undressed you.”
Fucking hell, did I wish that had been literal. I found Drake in the crowd, talking to Alfie. “He’s better than me by far.”
Mac grunted and watched the players skating. “I’m starting him on the third line. See how he handles that.”
“He’ll be on the first line before the halfway mark, next game,” I said. “You’ll see. He’ll earn it, too.”
Mac smacked my shin with his stick. “Get your lazy ass on the ice, Jonny.”
I did as told. A couple minutes later, Mac blew the whistle and started practice.
This time Drake was wholly engaged in every part of practice, working as hard as the rest of us. Listening to the coaches and asking questions both of the coaches and the players. I knew they tried to keep the systems between here and the Lions similar, but there were some differences—we were at different levels, after all.
Drake also engaged with everyone on the ice. Asking for names, apologizing for his shitty attitude yesterday, all that. It went a long, long way to smoothing over the bad taste he’d left in the team’s collective mouth.
Bruno Doran—Bruda, one of our alternate captains this season—gently shoulder-checked me. “You know, you’re staring at him.”
I turned and raised an eyebrow. “So? What’s wrong with admiring the flora and fauna of the rink?”
He snorted. “There’s already a betting pool going about you and him.”
Of course there was. I wasn’t the most subtle when it came to my infatuations, and well, I’d already said he’d beenat the bar. “Oh good. Maybe Smitty will win this time. With the kid on the way, he could use the extra cash.”
Bruda cackled, then sobered. “Smitty thinks he’s too young for you.”
I turned. “Smitty’s calling me old? He’s in histhirties! I’m not there yet. Not like you.”
There was a smile hidden in the brown beard of his. “Tell me that in a month, asshole.”
I’d turn thirty in January. Alittleover a month from now. I pushed Bruda away from me. “Drill time, old man.”
As I waited for my turn for a penalty-killing drill, I thought about what Bruda had said about Smitty’s concern. I knew the age difference between Drake and myself. Seven years. According to his player profile on the NAPH web site, he’d turn twenty-three a few days after Christmas, and my birthday was just after New Year’s. A bit of a gap, sure. But not that huge, I didn’t think.
