When the Boston Brawlers' team plane touched down in Tennessee late last night, a light snowfall had just begun to powder the earth. The snow would continue to fall and pile up overnight. When the Brawlers woke up in their downtown Nashville hotel, the city streets outside their window were blanketed under a foot of snow.
At 11:00 AM, the Brawlers held their hour-long morning skate, a game-day ritual to stretch their legs. After showers and a few short media interviews, a group of players gathered around Lance's locker to discuss another game-day ritual: lunch.
“I know a place we can go,” Lance said.
Quinton Brooks, the team's surly defenseman, snorted. “Why should we listen to you?”
“Because it's almost my birthday.”
“Celebrating your Quinceañera, are you?”
“No, it's ten years too late for that. I'm turning 25,” Lance said without missing a beat.
Brooks harrumphed. “Well I'll be damned. Boy wonder can do math.”
Brooks joined Lance for lunch anyway. So did team captain Shea; Lance's best friend and now brother-in-law, Radar; goalie Ilya Zarkov; and young, quiet forward, Josh Stone.
The players trudged cautiously through Nashville's treacherous, snow-packed sidewalks. The air was punishingly cold and dry, and a brutal winter wind whipped through the streets and nipped at their pink flesh.
Ilya's Russian accent was always a little thicker when he shouted. “Where are you taking us, anyway?”
“I forget what it's called—”
“Butwhereis it?” Ilya asked.
“Somewhere around here. I think.”
The group groaned.
“Relax, guys. We're close, and I'll know it when I see it.”
“Lance, you better not be taking us on a wild-goose chase,” Brooks griped, “because if I slip on this fucking sidewalk and break something—”
“Don't worry, Brooksy,” Lance cut in with his devilish grin, “it wouldn't be the first time we've seen you bust your ass on the ice!”
Brooks took a swipe at Lance, who deftly ducked the giant's paw just in the nick of time. “Easy,Brooksy, easy!”
While the group continued their march through the snow, Radar peeked at his phone. “Uh, Lance?”
“What's up, bud?”
Radar's brow arched comically high. “What the hell is this crap you've been posting on Instagram all day?”
Lance rolled his eyes. He hadn't yet told his teammates about yesterday's conference call with Kip Sterling, nor had he bothered to check whatSterling Imagewas doing with his social media accounts.
“Good question. Lemme see that.”
Lance groaned as he swiped through his latest pictures. Cute cats … good dogs … memes that had run their course back when Lance was still tearing up the Junior hockey league … evenmorecats …
“Good lord,” Lance grumbled. “This is bad.”
Radar laughed. “You should read the comments. Your followers think you've lost your mind.”
“Did you get hacked or something?” Ilya joked. “Was it my people who did it to you? TheRussians?”
He sighed. “Long story short, ownership isn't happy with what I've been posting on Instagram. I had to hand over control of my social media accounts to this PR firm.”
The boys were suddenly ruffled and outraged.“What?” “Why?” “They can't do that!”
