1. Cole #3
A rumble vibrated through his chest. “Fine.”
“Thank you for being the voice of reason, Cole.” Arizona flashed me a grateful smile.
Maisie’s eyes lit up, and she pushed her way past Crew and me, exclaiming, “You played so good!” We spun around in time to catch her pulling her brother in for a hug, but she quickly reared back, plugging her nose. “Ew, you stink!”
Ah, yes, the infamous hockey stench—a smell unlike any other.
I’d been playing this game for so long, constantly surrounded by nasty, sweaty hockey gear, that it barely even registered anymore.
Levi chuckled, addressing his stepson. “Should have warned you that a post-game shower isn’t a suggestion. It’s mandatory, bud.”
Austin wrinkled his nose. “Dude, there’s literally one shower stall, and it doesn’t have a door. No way am I gonna let my junk hang out for the rest of the team to see.”
My twin couldn’t contain his snicker. “Okay, who’s gonna be the one to tell him?”
“Not it.” I touched my nose.
The teenage boy eyed us critically. “Tell me what?”
With a murderous glare shot in our direction, Levi explained, “If you stick with hockey long enough, you might as well forget about modesty in the locker room.”
It took Austin a minute to put it together, his brows drawing down. But when it hit him exactly what his stepdad was implying, his jaw dropped open. Pointing a finger between the three of us, he asked, “You’ve all seen each other naked?”
Crew rocked back on his heels. “I mean, technically, you’re supposed to avert your eyes, but it’s a little difficult when there are twenty guys walking around letting it all hang out.” A smirk teased onto his lips. “First time you get a European teammate, you’re in for a fun surprise.”
I dragged a hand down my face, groaning.
Levi looked as if he wanted to strangle my brother.
And poor Austin was as confused as ever. “Why? What’s different about a European?”
“Okay.” Arizona clapped her hands. “I think that’s enough penis talk in public for one night, wouldn’t you say, gentlemen?”
Properly chastised, Crew grimaced. “Sorry. That’s my bad.”
Our teammate’s wife let out an unimpressed humph, steering Maisie and Austin toward the door.
“Great,” Levi huffed. “There go my chances of getting laid tonight. Thanks for that.”
Reverting back to his fun-loving self, my twin chirped, “Try to view the glass as half full. It’ll be good practice for when we hit the road in a couple of weeks.”
Levi’s gaze tracked the retreating forms of his family. “Never thought I’d say this, but I’m dreading the start of the season. I’m not ready to leave them.”
The guy had gone from bachelor to family man in the blink of an eye—a change no one had seen coming. Especially not when his reputation as a playboy preceded him when he’d been traded to the Surf less than a year ago.
As his friend and captain, I was compelled to ask, “Thinking of hanging up your skates?”
He heaved a sigh. “Maybe? Chasing glory doesn’t seem like it’s worth the sacrifice these days. Not when I’ve already missed out on so much time with Maisie.”
That was understandable. He’d only discovered he had a daughter a little over six months ago, and she had complex medical needs as an amputee.
I placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re already a league champion. No one would blame you if you took a step back to focus on your family.”
He hung his head, breathing out, “Yeah. I just don’t want my kids to see me as a quitter, you know?”
“Retirement isn’t quitting,” I reassured him.
“Then why does it feel like it is? Like I’d be abandoning the team when we’re working so hard to turn things around?”
There was no way to sugarcoat it. The San Diego Surf were the worst team in the entire league.
But with the addition of Levi midseason, and a coaching change not long after that, we’d turned a corner.
We wouldn’t be winning a championship anytime soon, but for the first time, the hope that maybe someday we could began to circulate throughout the locker room.
“How about this?” I suggested. “You finish out the two years left on your contract, then re-evaluate?”
“Yeah,” Crew chimed in. “By then, you’ll be old as fuck anyway.”
“Yes, let’s dig the man a grave when he turns thirty-five.” Sarcasm leaked into my tone.
My brother rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. Hockey years are like dog years. By the time you reach your mid-thirties, you’re practically ancient.”
I hated to admit it, but he had a point.
The wear and tear on our bodies from playing eighty-two games a year—this season, that number bumping up to eighty-four—was brutal.
The older we got, the longer it took to rehab from injuries, and at a certain point, guys decided it wasn’t worth living in constant pain anymore, no matter how much they loved the game.
At twenty-eight myself, it would only be another year or two before I was deemed “past my prime.” It sucked knowing my days playing professional hockey were numbered.
But I suppose it was par for the course.
Good things never lasted. Not for me, at least.