Chapter 5 #2
Vasily laughed, playing with the cap from his now empty Gatorade bottle. “It was, and it wasn’t. The trip—that was just the last straw.”
We all leaned in.
“So what was behind it?” Nix asked. “What the hell did he do?”
“Mostly shooting off his stupid mouth,” Vasily muttered. “I don’t know how much of it made it into the broadcast, but he just…” Rolling his eyes, he gestured like someone talking and talking. “It was all stupid chirps, but he was trying to get under everyone’s skin. Crossing the line, you know?”
Hoskins scowled. “What a dick.”
“He was,” Vasily agreed. “Even the refs told him to knock it off, but he just kept right on yapping. After he tripped Jorgensen—well.” Vasily shrugged innocently. “He clearly wanted his ass handed to him, so I obliged.”
That had all of us laughing, and he snickered too.
“It was a hell of a fight,” Brown said. “Did he really cut your hand with his tooth?”
Nodding, Vasily sat up a bit. He made a fist and turned it, gesturing at his middle knuckle. Sure enough, there was a silvery gouge across the bone.
“So who lost that one?” Hoskins asked. “His tooth or your hand?”
Vasily quirked his lips, then wobbled his hand in the air. “I broke his tooth, but I also had to spend that intermission getting the cut cleaned out so it wouldn’t get infected.” He shuddered, sitting back in his chair. “I should’ve beat his ass a second time just for that.”
My teammates and I laughed.
“Oh, that’s the worst.” Nix grimaced. “I caught some asshole’s tooth back in major juniors, and the shit they use to clean out that cut…” He chafed his arms and shuddered.
Hoskins snorted. “How the hell are you guys getting bitten so much?”
“They’re not biting!” Nix said. “But when you punch someone in the mouth, sometimes you catch a tooth.” He narrowed his eyes. “Not that a goalie would know anything about fighting .”
Hoskins punched him in the arm.
“Ow!” Nix scowled, rubbing his arm. “Dick.”
“Then don’t talk shit,” Hoskins muttered.
That earned him the finger. Then we were all off on a lively tangent about how it was a crime that none of the leagues—from the NAPH on down to the peewees—would let goalies fight.
Not with each other, and not with skaters.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, goalies didn’t learn to fight like we did, so there was more of a risk of injury, blah, blah, blah.
Still. We’d all been robbed of some glorious fights, especially last season when Seattle’s own Jan Stetina had been ready to cross the red line and beat the hell out of Miami’s goalie.
The refs had stopped him before he’d even made it into the neutral zone, and the fans in attendance were probably still booing over it.
“I would’ve paid to watch him throw down,” Hoskins said. “Yanni would have laid that fucker out.”
“I can’t believe they wouldn’t let him,” I muttered. “It would’ve been hilarious.”
“He’s still mad about it, too,” Vasily laughed. “Condit likes to ask him about it just to get him fired up. It’s fucking hilarious.”
I could see that. I’d played with Yanni’s younger brother, Marek Stetina, in Vegas, and he’d told us plenty of stories about needling his brother. The fact that Yanni’s teammates had also learned how to push his buttons—yeah, that tracked.
Right then, Coach strolled into the lounge and gave us a puzzled look. “Are you boys still here?”
As one, we all checked our phones.
“Oh, shit.” Brown pushed his chair back and rose. As he headed for the door, he was typing on his screen as he told us, “Gotta go, guys. My wife is going to kill me.”
Hoskins muttered something I didn’t catch, and he was hot on Brown’s heels. Nix wasn’t far behind. Coach just chuckled, refilled his coffee, and left.
Vasily and I got up too, but we weren’t in quite as much of a hurry as our teammates. Though when I realized I was alone with him—fuck, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to bolt for the door or plant my feet and see how this played out.
How what plays out, dumbass? Don’t be stupid.
Vasily pocketed his phone and sighed. “I should go.”
“Yeah. Me too.” I didn’t even ask myself why I was so disappointed. I knew damn well why. As we started for the door, I swallowed hard and tried to ignore the scrum of butterflies in my stomach. “Ready for your first game with us?”
Vasily’s smile did nothing to calm those butterflies. “I miss playing. Haven’t played a game in months.” He nodded sharply. “I was ready long before the doctors said I was.”
I chuckled. “Isn’t every hockey player ready? If we’re conscious, we’re ready.”
“Shame about those asshole doctors who won’t let us.”
“I know, right? Dicks.”
We both laughed and headed down the hallway toward the parking lot. Outside, he stopped by a silver Porsche.
“I’ll see you tonight.” He flashed that disarming smile again. “Let’s win this one.”
“Let’s win all of them.”
He quirked his lips, then gave a little nod. “I like the way you think. Let’s do it.”
We exchanged smiles, and I hurried toward my car before I could think too hard about why my stomach was fluttering. I was stupid, that was why. Good lord.
In my car, I started the engine but didn’t pull out of my space yet. I watched Vasily’s Porsche roll out of the lot, and as soon as he was out of sight, I exhaled hard. I still didn’t move, though.
I held the wheel in both hands and stared out the windshield. Vasily was ready for this game. No one could possibly doubt that.
Was I ready, though?
Ready to play hockey alongside him? Ready to pretend he wasn’t distraction on ice, and maybe not lose an edge because I was checking him out again?
I guess we’d find out tonight.