Around and Around We Go (Vermont Trailblazers #2)

Chapter 1

chapter one

“Yo, Zanetti!”

Sandro Zanetti paused in the entranceway of his best friend and former teammate’s house, where the birthday party for a second close friend and former teammate was well and truly underway.

Music came from somewhere, laughing children chased a cat up the stairs, and the buzz of multiple conversations overlapped one another.

“Helloooooo. Zanetti. Over here.”

And there, in the living room to the left of the entranceway, were a handful of his younger teammates sitting around a card table, each with six shot glasses filled with what was probably beer, but could’ve been whiskey.

Sandro met the gaze of each man. “Do I even want to know what you’re doing?”

“Shots competition.” Deeley patted the chair on his right, the skin of his normally fair-colored cheeks flushed with either drink or excitement—or both. “Join us. We tried to bribe Cotton into participating, but he just laughed in our faces. You can take his place.”

Sandro sat and sniffed one of the glasses. Ugh. Cheap beer. With their NHL salaries, these guys could afford better, even on Deeley’s entry-level contract.

Sandro pushed all six of his shot glasses to the center of the table. “Someone get me new ones with water or pop.” That got him some good-natured protests, but he waved them away. “Yeah, yeah. Grumble about it all you want, but someone needs to be sober enough to drive you knuckleheads home later.”

“Yes, Dad,” someone muttered sarcastically before six new shot glasses were placed in front of him, these containing a fizzy clear liquid. Sprite or 7Up, no doubt.

“What does the winner get?” Sandro asked.

“Well,” Deeley said, drawing out the word. “We thought the winner could skip tomorrow morning’s practice.”

“And why are you all looking at me like I can make that happen?”

“You’re the oldest guy on the team.” Deeley patted his shoulder. “You have clout with Coach Madolora.”

Sandro scoffed. “Not that kind of clout.” At thirty-eight years old, Sandro was an old-timer. He was aging out of hockey, and everything hurt—pretty much all the time—but until his body failed him, he’d milk his career for all it was worth.

Besides, what would he do with himself without the game? Without the training and the practices and the locker room shit-talking and the days-long road trips?

Who was he outside of hockey?

Thankfully, that wasn’t something he needed to start thinking about yet.

“Winner gets whatever cash I’ve got in my wallet,” he said, omitting the fact that all he had were a few dollar bills. “Assuming I don’t win.”

“What do you want if you do win?” Matty Coates, their goalie, asked. At six foot three and with shoulders as wide as a bus, he took up half the space at the table.

Sandro winked at him. “The pleasure of knowing that this oldest guy on the team can still kick all your asses even fresh off a twelve-hour drive.”

“Right.” Matty Coates—who, for whatever reason, always went by his first and last names—crossed his arms over his chest, his dark arm hair contrasting with his ivory skin tone. “How was your trip home for your grandma’s birthday?”

“Niece’s birthday,” Sandro corrected. “Grandma’s birthday was last month.”

Matty Coates waved a hand. “Whatever, man. I can’t keep track. You’re always there for something.”

“Are you sure you don’t have a secret lover?” Deeley made a kissy face. “I think the secret lover is the real reason you go home so often.”

“Nah.” Matty Coates shook his head. “Zanetti doesn’t do relationships.”

Sandro’s entire body went cold.

“Why is that, anyway?” Matty Coates asked—rich, coming from him, considering he’d been in an on-again, off-again relationship for going on three or four years now.

“Did someone break your heart?” DeShawn James, a soft-spoken nineteen-year-old rookie from Tennessee with skin the color of rich umber, looked at Sandro sagely from where he perched on the arm of the couch. “I get it, man. Tough to put yourself out there after that.”

“Jesus Christ.” Sandro rolled his eyes and forced a laugh—DeShawn was more right than he knew. “Do you guys want to grill me about my love life, or do you want to lose at this shots competition?”

“Lose? Pfft.” Deeley jerked a finger at DeShawn. “Count us in.”

DeShawn gave them a three-two-one-go countdown.

Sandro tossed back one shot after another, the 7Up cooling his parched throat.

He’d literally just arrived back in Burlington, Vermont—he’d come straight to the party without going home first—from a quick trip to his hometown of Tobermory, Ontario, for his niece’s birthday, and he’d limited his water intake on the drive so he didn’t have to stop to pee every thirty minutes.

The result was that he was thirsty . . . and hungry. Another reason not to down six shots of generic beer. On an empty stomach? He would’ve been hammered in no time.

He set down his final glass before anyone else, then pushed his chair back and rose. “That, gentlemen—” He bowed theatrically. “—is how it’s done.”

Shouts of “Rematch!” followed him into the kitchen, and he was laughing when he found one of his best friends hovering over a kitchen table fairly groaning under the weight of too much food.

Sandro had played with Kasper Kowalski since the Trailblazers’ first season, oh, only sixteen years ago—God, that made him feel old.

But Kas had retired a few years ago, leaving Sandro as one of only two OG members of the Trailblazers. The second was Kas’s husband, who was no doubt around here somewhere.

“The birthday boy himself,” Sandro said. He offered Kas a dap and a bro-hug.

“Hey, man.” Kas grinned, creasing the lines at the corners of his mouth. “When’d you get in?”

“Just now,” Sandro told him, piling his plate high with chicken skewers, potatoes, roasted vegetables, and two different kinds of salads.

There was bread too, as well as nachos and dip, several potato chip varieties, pasta salad, prepared sandwiches, and half a dozen different baked goods.

A lot of the food had already been demolished since the party was now rolling into its second hour, yet there was still enough to feed two dozen former and current hungry hockey players and their partners and kids.

Sandro added some kind of root vegetable puree that looked a bit like mashed brains but smelled amazing to his plate, then bumped Kas’s elbow. “Happy birthday. How’s the party been so far?”

“Good. It’s nice to see everyone.”

Their friends were sprawled on the living room couch and clumped together in small groups at the makeshift bar in the dining room, chatting and exchanging laughs over beer cans—the good locally brewed stuff, not the shit the younger guys were drinking.

A few people were even outside on the back patio, their grins wide under strings of lights chasing away the darkness, even though it was mid-November and Vermont had just seen its first snowfall of the season.

And then there were the kids, racing between adults’ legs and stealing cookies off the table when they weren’t chasing the cat.

“How was your niece’s . . .” Kas screwed up his face. “First Communion? Baptism?

“Birthday,” Sandro said, amused by him. “Do you not listen when I speak?”

“I listen.” Kas selected a chip from one of the bowls and gestured at Sandro with it. “Just, you have, like, a zillion family members who always seem to have something going on. Didn’t you go home for something last month too?”

“For my grandmother’s birthday,” Sandro said, then bit into a chicken skewer.

“Well, I appreciate you making the trip back in time for mine,” Kas told him.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

That was what one did for family, wasn’t it? Showed up. Made an effort. His parents had taught him that, and the Trailblazers were his family as surely as the one he’d been born into.

He bumped Kas’s elbow. “How’s it feel to be forty?”

Kas laughed. “My dad said it’s all downhill from here, but my health is good, Owen and I have a month-long trip abroad planned for this summer, our bathroom renovation is finally complete after about ten thousand years, and I’m headed somewhere warm for New Year’s with a couple of college buddies since the Trailblazers will be out of state, so .

. . Honestly? Forty’s looking pretty good so far.

Hell, I’ll take forty over twenty any day of the week. ”

“What’s wrong with twenty?” Eli Parker, the Trailblazers’ fresh-faced call-up, crowded into Kas and stole a chip off his plate.

“You’re just a baby,” Kas told him.

“Hey. I’m twenty-five.”

“Like I said.” Kas toasted him with his beer. “Baby.”

“I’ll have you know that I was voted most likely to run a Fortune 500 company in high school. So I might be a baby compared to an old man like you.” Eli tapped the side of his head as he stepped away, laughing when Kas flipped him off. “But I’m a smart baby.”

“Watch out for—” Sandro said.

“Eli, wait—” Kas said.

But it was too late. Eli turned on his heel, crashing into Kas’s husband. Owen Cotton swore, the stack of dirty dishes piled a dozen high in his arms wobbling precariously. The cutlery stacked on top crashed to the floor, rattling loudly.

“Shit, fuck, sorry.” Eli braced the dishes, gripping the tower on both sides as they tiptoed toward the sink. Of course, the cat got underfoot, nearly sending them sprawling, and Cotton cursed again.

“Who said he was a smart baby?” Kas murmured.

Sandro couldn’t help but laugh. Smart but clumsy.

“Hey.” Roman Kinsey—the host of tonight’s birthday party—inserted himself between them. He set his beer on the table and grabbed a breadstick out of the bread basket, waving it in Cotton’s direction. “What happened over there?”

“Eli happened,” Sandro said.

“And your cat,” Kas added.

Roman bit off the end of the breadstick. “Why doesn’t either of those things surprise me?” He clapped Sandro on the shoulder. “Glad you could make it.”

“I said I’d be here,” Sandro said around a mouthful of food.