2. Matt #2
I’m fine. It’s fine. I don’t need to be on social media. I don’t need to start studying our next opponent’s players and see what’s new before the next game. I don’t need to be as prepared as possible to help ensure our win and success in the first round.
A piece of popcorn bounces off of my cheek, and I stifle a laugh, tucking my tongue between my teeth.
I already know who it came from without looking up from the table.
Straight from the direction of Brett. If it wasn’t for the direction, I would have been able to tell from his giggles that broke out before the kernel even reached me.
My eyes flick up to him, and I hide any amusement in my gaze. His eyes narrow, and he reloads his hand with popcorn, readying to fire again.
“Don’t you dare, Burnsy,” I threaten him.
He sits up taller, hand still at the ready. “Bring it on, Matty Boy.”
“Boys.” Kos laughs, cutting the tension between us. There’s a warning hidden in his word. “Behave.”
“You’re no fun, Dad!” Burnsy whines, flipping Kos off before slamming the handful of popcorn into his mouth.
An evil smirk forms on Piper’s lips a second before she reaches up and flicks Brett’s ear. “Don’t be bad.”
Brett wiggles his eyebrows. “What do I get if I’m bad?”
She playfully flattens her hand on his face and shoves him ever so slightly. “I’ll make you walk home.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” He grins, leaning closer and putting his face an inch from hers.
She squints. “Try me.”
He seals the space between them, brushing his lips across hers. Then the tautness fully snaps, and she gives in, sinking her hand into his hair and kissing him deeply.
Stop looking, Matt. You’re being a creep.
Kos is busy talking with Laura, so I grab my phone and start scrolling since he is occupied and won’t yell at me.
The first post I see is from Owen Knox, a forward for the Washington Wild, who just did a brand deal with Qdoba. This fucker is a pest on the ice, and their team has been a longtime rival of ours, which makes me hate him even more.
The Wild have already secured their spot in the playoffs. When the time comes, they’ll be our most challenging series.
Without liking, I scroll down and find a post by Keeper of the Cup—the Stanley Cup’s official Instagram—and fire ignites in my veins. That’s going to be ours this year—I’m sure of it.
That is what I’ve worked so hard for—to hoist that thirty-five-pound cup above my head with my friends and family at my side. It’s the only outcome I’ll accept this season.
A video from Spittin’ Chiclets appears next, and, shit, they’re chatting about me. Ryan Whitney and Paul “Biz Nasty” Bissonnette are discussing my game from tonight.
Biz Nasty is on a tangent, talking dramatically with his hands, about how clean my play was tonight, his tone loud and full of confidence.
“He owned that net and wasn’t going to let a single puck in.
He played like his life depended on it. That’s what a winner does.
That’s how this team is getting to the finals, and honestly, Ryan, I think that’s how they’re going to win the whole thing. ”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Biz.” Ryan shakes his head. “There’s no way they are going to beat the Washington Wild. No shot.”
Biz scoffs. “Yeah, right. You’ll see, Ryan. Just wait.”
Ryan nods, raising his eyebrows in disbelief.
“All right. I’d love to see it. And look, I’m not hating on MacArthur.
He’s possibly the best goalie in the league right now, and you know what?
I’m going to say it. I think he has a clear shot to the Hall of Fame in his future.
He’s a standout. But is he enough to stop the Wild? I just don’t know.”
My thumb’s clicking into the comments before I can stop myself, my eyes consuming as much as possible. My heart twists into a shield as I navigate the commentary—the good, bad, and ugly.
MacArthur is the Nighthawks team. He doesn’t need anyone else.
MacArthur is overrated! Wild in four!
MacArthur is going to choke like the joke he is.
MacArthur is going to make you eat your words, Ryan.
Back and forth, the comments take me on a roller-coaster ride, leading me in a thousand different directions and through every emotion until I’m somehow exhausted, and I close out of the app, feeling overwhelmed.
In two final gulps, I finish my beer and set the empty glass on the table. The guys tip their heads my way, noticing my empty cup, which means I’m moments from heading out.
It’s a good thing I’m a big guy who can take care of himself because I’d be the perfect candidate for a stalker to follow. I do the same things, at the same time, in the same manner. I’m the most predictable and boring person you could ever meet. I love it that way.
I don’t like unknown variables or things challenging my routine. I’ve gotten this far because of it. And this close to the dream? I’m not changing shit.
“I’m tired, and I still have to break down tonight’s game when I get home,” I murmur, watching different waves of emotion drift across their faces—disappointment for not staying longer or pride for putting the game first.
After a quick flurry of goodbyes and handshakes, I head outside and quickly flag down a cab, sliding in the back.
The driver, who has a thick New York accent, greets me. “Good evening. Where to, boss?”
I tell him my address, and he types it into his phone.
“You got it.”