Rozanov turned and beamed at Ryan like he was delighted to see him. “Price! Thank god you are here. This goblin is bothering me.”
Ryan pressed his lips together. Goblin was an amusingly accurate description of Dallas Kent.
“Eat my nuts, Rozanov!” Kent snarled.
Rozanov made a face. “No fucking thank you.”
Behind him, Ryan heard Wyatt bark out a laugh. Ryan turned and shook his head at him.
“Sorry!” Wyatt held up his giant glove. “Sorry. I shouldn’t laugh.”
Both Rozanov and Kent had skated off to their benches, so Ryan said, “Don’t encourage Rozanov.”
“I think I might love him.”
Ryan had no beef with Rozanov. He’d played with him in Boston—had won the Stanley Cup with him, in fact—and while they hadn’t exactly been friends, Rozanov had always been nice enough to him. He was the opposite of Ryan in almost every way—flashy, and confident to the point of being obnoxious—but Ryan respected him.
Despite Rozanov and Kent sniping at each other throughout, the game was pretty relaxing for Ryan. Fun, even. Ottawa didn’t really have a proper enforcer, so he’d known it was unlikely he’d be getting into any actual fights. He spent most of the game pulling Ottawa players away from Toronto players after the whistle, and chatting with Wyatt.
And, oddly, Rozanov.
“How’s Toronto?” Rozanov asked him during a break in the second period.
“Not bad.”
“Sucks that you have to play with Kent, though.”
Ryan didn’t reply to that. “How’s Ottawa?”
“Not as bad as I thought it would be.”
Ryan didn’t think Ottawa suited Rozanov at all. He’d been as surprised as everyone else when Ottawa had announced Rozanov’s signing in July. Ilya Rozanov was flashy and loud, with his European sports car collection and his reputation as a ladies’ man. Ryan would have expected him to go somewhere like New York or L.A. or maybe Florida, since a player as talented as Rozanov could choose who he signed with. Ottawa was a seemingly random and baffling choice.
In the third period, something incredible happened: Ryan scored a goal. He’d had the puck at the blue line and, not seeing any better options, had just fired the puck at the net, hoping someone would get a rebound opportunity out of it. But the Ottawa goalie had missed it, and it had ended up streaking over his shoulder and hitting the back of the net.
“Holy shit, Price,” Rozanov chirped as Ryan skated past the Ottawa bench. “I didn’t know you could do that!”
Ryan bit his lip, but he couldn’t stop the goofy grin that took over his face. He’d scored only a handful of goals during his NHL career, so each one was pretty exciting. When he reached his own bench he was met by a chorus of “Attaboy, Pricey!” and “Nice one, Pricey!” He knew, as he sat on the bench, that there would be a close-up of his face on the televised broadcast right now. He tried to look cool.
The game ended with Toronto winning 5–2, and the team just had time to shower and put on their suits before they needed to board a plane to Montreal. Ryan was not a fan of days that involved two flights and a game, but it was probably better to get the flight over with now than to spend a night worrying about it. He didn’t understand why teams needed to fly from Ottawa to Montreal anyway. It was such a short drive.
He was exhausted, mentally and physically, by the time he fell on his bed in his Montreal hotel room. Unlike Ottawa, Montreal had a very good team, thanks in part to their star player, Shane Hollander, having an outstanding start to his season. Ryan would have to get as much rest as possible before the game tomorrow night.
But there was a text message on his phone.
From Fabian.
You scored a goal!
Ryan checked, and then double-checked, to makesurethe message was from Fabian. Because it didn’t make any sense that he had watched the game. Then Ryan texted back,You watched the game?
Fabian: I was at a bar to see a friend’s band and the game was on.
Ryan: And you watched it?
Fabian: Not closely. But I saw a blue jersey with “Price” on the back so I watched for a bit.
Ryan smiled and replied with,How did I look?
