Chapter 43
Bryce flew in from Pittsburgh last night to record today’s episode of Hit Behind the Net . So now we’re posted up at Elliot’s house; the energy in the room could only be described as caffeine filled. Bryce and Elliot are running through a case of Red Bull like they are a sponsor. Elliot’s pacing around, doing his usual pre-show routine of fixating over the equipment. Bryce, on the other hand, is leaning back in his chair, messing on his phone, while his leg bounces a million miles a minute. And somehow, he still looks calm.
I’m feeling somewhere in between the two of them. The podcast has been a welcome distraction but still keeps me connected to the game I love. But today, I feel more confident, maybe it’s because each day I feel more like myself. Or maybe it's the atmosphere of the three of us being here in person. Who knows, but it feels like we’re on next level antics.
Elliot finally stops his pacing and sits his ass down next to me. Bryce looks up, gives me a nod, and says, "You ready, Samuels?"
I give him a grin, feeling that adrenaline kick in. "Absolutely."
"So, Samuels," Bryce says, tapping his fingers on the table. "How about you start us off with the intro today.”
I roll my eyes, "Man, I thought you actually wanted people to listen to this podcast."
"You know damn well I do," Bryce shoots back, laughing.
I hesitate for a second, then take a deep breath. But fuck it, right? These guys are my brothers, and I’m feeling good today. What's the worst that can happen? They never invite me back, and the podcast tanks. But Bryce hits record, and before I know it, my mouth is moving, and the words are coming out.
"Welcome back to Hit Behind the Net , everyone. I’m Oren Samuels, joined by Bryce Cole and Elliot St. Germain. And let me tell you, we might seem like professionals, but we really are just three idiots talking about hockey." I laugh, lean back in my chair, and keep going. "We’re talking top four playoff contenders today. We’ve got some heavy hitters to break down. What are your thoughts, my dudes?"
Elliot doesn’t waste a second. "New Jersey’s been an absolute powerhouse all season. You’d have to be insane not to have them as a lock. Especially after not winning the cup last year. They are hungry for it."
"Agreed," Bryce says, nodding. "They’ve got depth, coaching is solid, and let’s not forget they’ve got the hottest goalie in the league right now. No way they don’t make the finals."
I chime in, my voice casual but loaded with opinion. "Yeah, New Jersey’s solid. But let’s not sleep on the New Orleans Gators. They’ve got some serious strength, and their top line is lethal once it gets going."
Elliot grins. "Sure, O, but you think that’s enough to take down the Reapers? C’mon, eh, bud."
I shrug, smirking. "The Gators can shimmy-shake past the Reapers, easy. New Orleans can easily exploit New Jersey's weak-ass defense. First off, all of their best defensemen are injured, and second, the Gators are fast. They’ll catch them sleeping."
Bryce jumps in with a quick laugh. "You’re delusional if you think New Orleans is outskating New Jersey. Even injured."
"We’ll see," I say, shaking my head. "Mark my words—New Orleans is going all the way."
Elliot jumps in, his voice confident as he shakes his head at me. "Look, I’ve been saying this all season. This is coming from experience, New Jersey’s my pick to make it to the Cup."
Bryce nods. "Hard to argue with that. But what about the Los Angeles Gladiators? Oren, have you been watching them closely?"
I lean forward, my thoughts spinning with everything I’ve seen this season. "I’ll be honest, while I was playing, the only thing I did was watch game tape, so my opinions right now only come from playing against them. Gladiator’s got something special, no doubt. Their offense is lethal, and their defense?” I pause for a second before I let it fly. "Their defense is tighter than a nun’s cunt."
Bryce nearly chokes on his drink, and Elliot’s head drops down onto the table with a loud thud. The room falls silent for a split second before I catch myself. "Oops… That’s definitely on the no-no list, isn’t it?"
Bryce recovers first, laughing hard. "Oh, man, we’re getting a fine or something for that one."
Elliot shakes his head, grinning. "You can’t say that, man. I can already see the complaint emails coming in."
"All I’m saying is, LA’s defense is damn near impenetrable. They’re in it for the win, and they’ve got playoff experience, which is huge.” I lean into the mic, chuckling, and wink at Elliot, making him chuckle. “But yeah, let’s pretend I didn’t say that."
We laugh it off, the room still buzzing from the slip-up. Then, Bryce gets serious for a moment. "Alright, alright, so we’ve covered everyone else in this debate. What about the Yetis out of Vancouver?"
I nod. "Vancouver’s sneaky good. They’ve got a deep roster, and they’ve been playing with a chip on their shoulder. That can be dangerous.”
"So,” Elliot leans back, his arms crossed. “Who’s battling out in the finals to take home the Stanley Cup? What’s the call?"
There’s a pause as we all think it over. Then, Bryce speaks first. "I’m going New Jersey versus Vancouver. Classic matchup, it’ll be a bloodbath."
Elliot nods, ready to deliver his verdict. "The Reapers and Gladiators are going to battle it out. New Jersey’s been too good all season not to take home the cup."
I hit them both with an evil grin. "Yeah, but both of you are wrong. It's going to be New Orleans and Los Angeles. And I absolutely have the Gators drinking champagne out of the Stanley at the end of the night.”
They both look at me like I've grown a third head. “I’m serious, all in on New Orleans.”
"Alright, on that delusional note,” Bryce checks his notes, grinning wickedly. “We’ve got a super secret, special guest. None other than Nolan Wilder, coach of the Red Wolves, is on the line."
Oh, shit. I sit up straighter, knowing what’s coming, and it isn’t going to be fun. “Mec, il va nous en déchirer un nouveau,” [4] I say looking at Elliot.
Elliot groans quietly, rubbing his temples. “Tabarnak! Nous sommes tous deux morts et ce sera lent et douloureux.” [5]
Bryce holds out his hands to stop us, grinning from ear to ear. “English only, I want to be able to enjoy you both shitting your pants.”
I shoot him a death stare, but there’s no time to argue before Bryce patches in Nolan.
"Coach Wilder," Bryce says, leaning into his mic. "Welcome to Hit Behind the Net . We’ve been talking playoff predictions—"
Before he can finish, Nolan Wilder cuts him off, his voice sharp and no-nonsense. "You clowns have got some nerve not putting the Red Wolves in your Final Four."
I stifle a laugh, knowing he’s one hundred percent serious but is also itching to light us both up.
"You’re telling me," Wilder continues, "that you think the Reapers, Gators, Yetis, and Gladiators are better than my team? Your own team, I might remind you, fuckers. You’re out of your damn minds."
Elliot clears his throat, stroking his mustache like a nervous tick. "Look, Coach, it’s not like we don’t think you’ve got a great team, but—"
"But nothing," Wilder snaps. "We’ve got speed, and we’ve got the heart. We’ve got an unbelievable offense right now. You think we’re just gonna roll over because you say so?"
Bryce tries to mediate. "No disrespect, Coach, but—"
But Elliot leans in, voice half-joking but with just enough truth to make it sting. "It’s not you, Coach, it’s because you’re missing Oren now."
I snap my head toward him, giving him a look that could kill. He's got that damn mustached smirk on his face. “Don’t you dare throw me under that bus. I’m taking you with me, asshole.”
The silence lingers for a few beats too long, but then everyone bursts out laughing, even Coach Wilder. Elliot’s grin widens, and Bryce shakes his head, trying to taper out his own laugh.
Wilder finally speaks up through the chuckles. “Well, you might not be wrong about that,” he says, half-amused, half-serious. “But don’t think for a second the Red Wolves can’t handle their business without you, Oren.”
I throw my hands up in mock surrender. “I didn’t say a word, Coach. Blame the mustachioed idiot with a death wish over here.”
Wilder chuckles again, the glint in his eye sparkling through the video call. “Fucking troublemakers, both of you.”
Elliot just shrugs, leaning back in his chair, “What can I say.”
We wrap up the call with Coach Wilder, still laughing and feeling the sting of lighting our asses up. The rest of the episode wraps up smoothly. It’s been a hell of a recording session, and I’m better off for it, even if Wilder gave us hell.
Bryce leans into the mic one last time. "Alright, folks, that’s it for today’s episode of Hit Behind the Net . Big thanks to Coach Nolan Wilder and to my boys for breaking down the playoffs with me. We’ll catch you next time."