Chapter 25 #2
“Nah.” I absently stroked his hair. “Sometimes people act like the golden era of hockey is behind us. That we’ll never see generational talents like we did ten, twenty, thirty years ago.
” With my free hand I gestured at the screen.
“Then guys like him come along, and it’s hope that the sport still has some life in it, you know? ”
“Very philosophical.” He lifted his head and kissed beneath my jaw. “One of my teammates set a record in major juniors. Two weeks later, it was broken.” He chuckled. “He did not take it well.”
“I mean…” I half-shrugged. “My record stood for seventeen years. That guy didn’t even get a chance to bask in the glory.”
“He was also just a pissy little shit,” Devon muttered.
I laughed. “Let me guess—thought he was hot shit and they should start setting up the die to engrave his name on the Cup before he was even drafted?”
“Pretty much. You knew the type?”
Groaning, I nodded. “Oh my God, I played with more than one.”
“Yeah?” The interest in his voice made me smile. “Do tell?”
“What? You want to hear about my entitled teammates who thought they were God’s gift to hockey?”
“I mean, you don’t have to name names, but…”
“But you want me to, don’t you?”
“Maybe?” His attempt at innocence was both adorable and hilarious.
I chuckled and smoothed his hair. As the All-Star event went to yet another commercial break, I thought back to my playing days. “Well, my first year in major juniors, I was on Jacob Conrad’s team.”
“No shit?” Devon sat up and twisted toward me so we could see each other. “You played with Conrad?”
“I mean, I played on his team.” I rolled my eyes. “As far as he was concerned, we were Jacob Conrad and his anonymous entourage.”
“Calisse.” Devon scowled. “You had one of those, too?”
“Did you?”
“In Bantam, believe it or not. This douchebag was thirteen and thought the rest of us just existed to help him get drafted first overall when he was eligible.”
“Did he?”
With a smirk, Devon shook his head. “It was satisfying as hell to get drafted above him, believe me.”
“I bet it was.”
“Anyway.” He waved a hand. “Conrad. He was that much of a diva in juniors? I didn’t think he started that shit until he actually started playing in the League.”
“Pfft. If anything, the League humbled him a bit.”
Devon’s eyes widened. “Jacob Conrad. Humbled.” His eyebrows were nearly in his hair. “You mean he was worse before?”
“So much worse.”
“How is that even possible?” He made a face. “If any more smug came off him, they’d have to issue air-quality warnings.”
I barked a laugh. The TV was switching back to the All-Star event, so I gently reeled Devon back down against my side. As he draped his arm across my stomach again, I said, “Trust me—no matter how cocky a player can be, his teenage self can always be worse.”
Devon just shuddered, and we both chuckled.
Throughout the rest of the skills event, we spent the commercial breaks comparing stories about teammates past and present.
He told me about a forward who’d stayed so late at a karaoke bar on a road trip, he’d had to hitchhike to the next town and barely made the next game.
I told him about an assistant coach my rookie season who’d still had a massive chip on his shoulder over never being drafted himself.
He regaled me with stories about a goalie in juniors who was legendary for doing wild shit.
“Like, I know goalies are not exactly known for their sanity,” he said. “You can’t really be completely sane if you sign up to be pelted with hundred-mile-an-hour pucks.”
“You’re not wrong,” I said, chuckling.
“Right? But this guy, he was the one who’d disappear for a few hours, then show up stinking to high heaven and dirty as hell because he thought it would be fun to do a greased pig contest.”
I burst out laughing. “No shit?”
“Swear to God.” Devon gave an exasperated but amused sigh. “We were in some town I can’t remember the name of, and he comes strolling into the locker room before warm-ups…” He gestured at himself. “I will never complain about the stink of hockey players after that incident.”
“Did he play that night?”
“Oh, yeah. Got a shutout and everything.”
“And did his nickname change after that? Like did they call him ‘Pigs’ or ‘Grease’ after that?”
“No.” Devon shook his head. “No way was he escaping the nickname he already had.”
“Which was…?”
“Tips.”
I furrowed my brow, twisting a little to gaze down at Devon. “And that was worse?”
“Mm-hmm.” He looked up at me with an impish smile. “Because it was from the night he was determined to prove that cow-tipping was real.”
“Oh no.” I facepalmed, letting my head fall back against the couch. “He didn’t.”
“Well, he didn’t successfully, no.” Devon laughed. “The cow kicked him. Benched him for the rest of the season.”
“Jesus. I’m surprised he didn’t get cut from the team after that.”
“Nah. Our coach and GM decided to keep him around as an example.” He paused. “And he really was a spectacular goalie when he wasn’t getting beat up by livestock.”
“Oh my God,” I said through my laughter. “If you’d told me anyone else did that shit, I wouldn’t believe you. A goalie, though?”
“Right?”
We both chuckled and continued watching the All-Stars.
And I was way too happy to think about what would come after this week was over.