I’m tracking the puck. It’s fast, but I’m in the perfect spot to get this fucking goal for my boyfriend. Uh, I mean Coach. He knows my slapshot is nearly indestructible. Too fast to see it flying toward the goal so long as I get a clear shot.
As soon as that puck hits Stacey’s stick, it’s flying back to me like a bullet. I wind up andwham!It sails through every hole in their defense and then banks off the crossbar into the net. The crowd erupts. The rest of our team hops over the boards, skating toward us and we collide in an explosion of celebratory chaos.
“They’ve won it! They’ve won! Looks like we’re getting a Kelowna, Boston final round,” the announcer shouts over the pandemonium.
Buried in a pile of hockey players, all I can do is look across the ice to see my man beaming with awe and pride in my direction. Teammate after teammate meets me with congratulatory helmet knocks, but my focus is on him.
Finally, he skates over and I’m a fluster of nerves as if it’s the first time he’s ever looked at me. My stomach flips and my tired body washes with tingles. “Good job, Leslie,” he says.
I want to kiss him so bad but settle for giving him a big dopey smile instead.
* * *
We were supposed to have a social, but Coach warned us that he can’t allow it with us so deep into the playoffs. After that game, we’d all earned a couple of beers and so he okayed it with the warning that if we went over, he’d skin us all alive. Naturally, we head to Rodney’s Oyster Bar.
The whole team ventures out. We’re body weary, but wound up, and the air crackles with the charged energy of our win. We order pitchers of Granville Island Lager, a shit-ton of wings, oysters, and nachos. We relive our best plays of the night and boast about how we’ll sweep Boston, especially after our two whole days of rest.
I keep checking the door for Merc with plans of pouncing him as soon as he walks in. He had to head back to the condo where he could have a quiet chat with his family and then he’s joining us for the beer and cheat food. I try not to worry that he’s taking longer than I expected. There’s probably a lot to discuss. He’s been organizing the adoption, which has shockingly been smooth sailing on the legal side of things—if time-consuming—but hard emotionally because Mr. Meyer is struggling with it. It’s a sticky situation and since his dad is still alive, adoption wasn’t totally necessary, but the Meyer family took a vote, and they wanted the kid to be clear about who their parent is. It has been confusing for some of his other siblings to navigate as they grew up and that influenced their vote.
He checks in with Sandy relentlessly. He’s got the whole crew looking after her and the baby. That kid’s gonna be well-loved and well-looked after.
Merc’s also been arranging his half-brother’s stay with him in Vancouver. He’s stuck paying for his plane ticket as well as his accommodations. What that man does for his family … Jeez.
I don’t know how I smell the cologne with all the other scents of the restaurant for competition. Maybe because it’ll be forever burned into my olfactory glands.
Tom Ford Oud Wood. Rhett’s cologne.
I nearly choke on my beer. It’s Rhett in the flesh. He looks good, not a hair out of place, his black slacks with perfect creases crisply ironed down the front of each leg, and a Burberry scarf wrapped around his neck. It’s been a chilly start to the spring and some nights still require long jackets, boots, and scarves.
He’s also as large as ever and I swear he’s increased in size even since I last saw him in Boston. Was that really at the beginning of the season? He carries with him that signature Rhett energy that sings of succulent fortitude and fearlessness. There’s no denying that he’s extraordinary.
“Congratulations, gentlemen,” he says to our table.
“Hey, buddy,” Dash says, standing to give him a bro-hug hello. Dirk does the same. Casey and Stacey give semi-polite nods and Rhett’s lucky to get that from them. The whole thing is fucking awkward though. Thankfully, he turns to me with no intention to linger and catch up with the crew.
“Jack, we need to talk.” Others might miss it, but underneath all that perfect, emotional strain whittles down his sharp edges. He’s not doing well. I can’t help the responsibility that tugs at me even though I know I’m not responsible.
“Yeah, man.”
We move to the only semi-quiet place on the other side of the restaurant and sit across from each other. I’ve brought my pint of beer, sensing this is a conversation that requires beer.
His face is serious stone, and his hand reaches for mine, pulling back just before we touch as if he’s just remembered he’s doing something he’s not supposed to do. My heart squeezes. He needs some comfort and he’s not taking it. He’s like Mercy that way. They might share some similarities. I have a type.
I grip his hand to say that he still has a friend in me no matter where our roads take us.
“Sorry the Eagles didn’t make a cup run this year,” I say. His team is out, otherwise he wouldn’t be here now.
“You win some and lose some. But that’s not important right now. I have something pressing to tell you. I don’t want to rain on your cup run with bad news, but I thought it best to come as soon I found out and I wanted you to hear it from me in person.”
My stomach churns in anticipation. I take a large swig of my beer.
“I found out why you haven’t been drafted.”
The words are heavy on his tongue. He’s afraid to tell me. Afraid he’ll lose me forever.
“W-Why?”
“My father.”
