“I know it’s going to take a second for you to adjust,” he says, opening the lid again and putting his full attention into the burgers on the grill. “But you’re my best friend, and you’re a good brother to Sloane. When you think it through, you’re going to realize why it’s best for me to be home with her after the baby is born.”
I have to work to keep from clenching my jaw. It’s not my fault they decidednowwas the perfect time to get pregnant, but I’m going to suffer. The team is going to suffer. But it’s not going to be worth it to say any of that to my sister. She’s emotional on a regular basis, let alone pregnant.
There’s more that we could say. I could tell Cal that he’s never going to convince me, and he could hold firm that he knows I’ll change my mind. We’ve been friends long enough that we both know, without saying, that it’s better to just move on.
“These look good,” he says, pulling the burgers off the grill and closing the lid once more, turning to me with a grin. “I’ll come back for the dogs after we run these out.”
I hold the door for him, and wonder what in the world the team is going to do without its right winger for an entire year.
***
“Cal!”
I holler his name, but he’s already passing me the puck, sensing that I’m open without me having to communicate anything. It’s the beauty of how we work together on the ice.
Receiving the puck without losing an ounce of my speed, I skate hard toward the goal, eyes set on it, eyes on the goalie’s form as he stares me down. I imagine the bead of sweat on his forehead, his heart racing as he prepares himself to try and block this shot.
I imagine the fans in the stands, watching as I rocket it past him and into the goal, imagine the feeling of the puck against my stick when I draw it back and slap it in. I can practically hear the buzzer sounding, loud and stark, signaling our point ahead.
And then, at the last second, without turning my head in his direction, I dump the puck into Cal’s lap, and he slides it into the goal without fanfare.
The horn blares and we collide into one another, laughing and clapping each other on the back. That puts us one point ahead of the Maple Leafs, and with only a minute left in play, it’s not likely that they’re going to be able to tie it up, let alone pull ahead.
Not that it really matters—this is just a pre-season game. But it still feels good to score. To win.
“Holy shit!” Maverick says, slamming into us, his helmet already off as he thrusts his hand through his dark hair. “I hadnoidea you were gonna pass it, McKenzie.”
“That’s the idea,” Cal says, laughing. He holds his hand out to me. We do our shake—a complicated maneuver of high fives and knuckles, then the celebration is over and it’s time to get back to the game—which should be a piece of cake.
Except the Maple Leafs manage to catch us off guard, throwing us into a disadvantaged power play, so we’re playing on our heels the rest of the game. They get a couple of good shots off on the goal, and we’re lucky none of them go in.
By the time the game is over, we’re thoroughly exhausted, but skating off the rink with pride. This was going to be our hardest pre-season game, and the fact that we beat them says great things about the rest of the season.
I’m still riding the high of the win until I come out of the locker room and see Wren standing with Coach Vic, talking to him quietly. A sour taste blooms in my mouth. Under her arm is a sheath of notes, and despite the fact that I would kill to read them, I pretend not to notice her at all.
Walking straight past them, I stop to give Sloane a hug and take a picture with one of our interns.
If I’m going to catch Wren Beaumont off guard, she can’t know I’m coming.
Wren
“I’ve seen it a million times before—in fact, I’m pretty sure it’s like, the oldest sports mistake in the book,” I say, raising my eyebrows and glancing around the table.
Luca McKenzie is growling, and Uncle Vic is pinching his brow, looking at me with a troubled expression. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I stick my hand in angrily, silence it, go back to staring daggers at the man sitting across from me.
Petulant and handsome, his golden hair pushed back from his face from all the times he’s thrust his hand into it already today.
“Well, that’s not the case,” Luca says, shaking his head. “You’re wrong.”
“I’mnotwrong,” I challenge, leaning forward and placing a hand on the table.
The confidence comes from knowing what I saw out there on the ice during that first pre-season game—Luca McKenzie, celebrating the win before the game was really finished. A common mistake. Not one I expected him to make.
“Observed with precisely fifty-seven seconds left in the game,” I say, reading from my notes, flicking my eyes up just to catch the note of annoyance on his face. “Luca McKenzie passes to Callum Hendricks, who scores. Excessive celebration, psychological disbursement. Leads to a false satisfaction and subsequent lowering of effort from the rest of the team. Maple Leafs capitalize on this attitude, but are not able to convert that to a point.”
“Oh, did you also write about the unicorn on the ice with precisely fifteen seconds left in the first period?”
Uncle Vic holds his hand up to me, and I realize I’ve started to stand up out of my seat, and Luca has, too. He has size on me, but I’m betting his pressure points will work the same as everyone else’s—and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to get his ass on the ground.
