I roll my eyes. “She’s not moving in, but don’t you remember? That was one of Book’s conditions. She has to have a room here in case she ever wants it. I think Book said the room next to the den is hers, and he left some boxes in there for her if she wants them. As for Liza?—”
Mickey cuts me off. “Are we just gonna skip over the part where you’re totally screwed because you not-so-secretly lust after Booker’s sister and she loves to turn you down?”
“She doesn’t turn me down,” I hedge.
“The last time you asked her out she told you to chew rocks and choke on them,” Mickey supplies unhelpfully.
She really did say that, though. “I think she’s been hanging out with Claire a little too much. Those two are a bad combination.” I love that my buddy Pete found his happily ever after. Hell, I’m the one who got those two together in the first place. Claire Fowler is the undisputed queen of insults, though, and I think she’s taken a protégé.
“Anyway,” I continue, pouring coffee in a travel mug, “Liza said she’ll be here in the morning. We should probably let her pick her own room, huh? Or maybe she couldtake the one across from Fallon’s? That way she runs less of a risk of seeing us strolling around naked.”
Mickey scoffs. “She’s the assistant equipment manager. She sees a whole fucking lot in that locker room, I bet. And besides, moving her down here isn’t gonna change the view. I walk around naked all the time.”
It’s true, but I can’t really yell at him for it, since I’m also guilty.
My phone buzzes with a reminder, so I snap a lid on my coffee cup and turn to my friend. “You ready to head to the Wolf’s Den for the first official team meeting of the season?”
Mickey smiles. “Hell, yes. This year’s gonna be fire. I can feel it.”
I hope he’s right. But then I remember that Mickey has kind of a bad history when it comes to fire.
The locker room is quieter than usual, but that’s probably because Santos isn’t here to release his signature howl. And Rosco’s ear-splitting whistle isn’t gonna quiet this place down when it does start to get rowdy. Van’s still around, but he’s officially a member of the coaching staff, so it’s not quite the same. Still, I’m fucking glad he’s part of our team. The man understands the game of hockey like no one else does.
I toss my bag into my locker and shake the melancholy thoughts from my mind. Some philosopher once said that thinking negative thoughts will only breed negativity. I’m not sure who it was, though I probably should know the answer since I’m majoring in Philosophy. But who needs to remember stuff when the internet exists, you know?
I’m joking. Mostly.
Coach Baylor’s office door opens, and JT walks out, looking a little shell-shocked, which is surprising. Yeah, things got a little rough last year when JT and Coach’s niece got together but kept their relationship—and their impending parenthood—a secret.
Things are better now, though. Just a couple weeks ago, we were all at Coach’s house to celebrate Will and Booker going to the pros, and things seemed great between Coach and our goalie. Hell, Baby Calla’s only a few months old and she has Coach wrapped around her tiny little finger.
“Daddy!” Mickey hollers his new pet name for JT before tackling him in a bear hug. Mick has to fight to keep every pound on his lean frame, but he’s bulked up this summer, and it’s made a difference because JT has to take a step back to keep from falling over.
“Dude,” JT says, unable to keep a laugh from escaping, “We’ve talked about this. You’ve gotta come up with a better nickname.”
“Because it’s sexual? Wow, bestie. Didn’t know you were such a prude.” Mickey seems genuinely crushed.
“Because I’m not your dad. And because Calla’s gonna start calling me that in a year or so, and that’s just weird.”
Mickey considers this, but I decide to add my two cents, because I’m helpful like that. “Here’s the thing, Norris. All due respect to Calla. I love that little princess, but in all fairness, Mickey called dibs on the nickname. If your daughter wants to call you Daddy, she should have said something sooner.”
He blinks at me in the way most of my teammates do. They can never tell if I’m serious or fucking with them. The answer is simple: it’s both.
“She can’t talk yet, Ollie. She’s only four months old,” JT says.
I shrug and do some quick calculations. “And Mickey’sonly two-hundred-and-fifty-seven months old. What’s your point?”
“My point is that my grown-ass best friend—who happens to be older than I am—should find another nickname for me instead of Daddy.”
I nod slowly. “Would you consider Papa?”
JT shakes his head as Mickey leaps in the air. “You’re a fuckin genius, Olls.”
“Always glad to help,” I answer, and it’s true. After leaving Coach’s office a few minutes ago, JT looked shocked, but now he’s smiling and laughing. Never underestimate the power of a well-timed joke.
Van and Coach Novotny stride into the room and gather toward the front. While I’ve been messing with JT, most of the rest of the team has assembled. We’re missing a lot of guys with big skates to fill, and I’m not sure what that means for our chances of a repeat at the national title. Hell, half our team is underclassmen at this point, so we might spend our spring telling stories about our glory days instead of reliving them.
We’ve got a new goalie, straight out of high school, by the name of Mason Tenerovich. I’ve seen him around because JT’s taken him under his wing. It’s like he knows he’s on borrowed time, so he figures he might as well help out the player who’ll defend the net after he’s been called up to play for Portland. That’s the kind of guy JT is, which is probably why the team elected him Alternate Captain. He’d have the top spot, no doubt, except he’s a goalie, so he’s limited in how often he can leave the crease in the game. But he’s earned that A, no question.
