Chapter Three #2
Scott smiled a little. “That was more or less what I was thinking.”
“Poor Andersson, man. I feel sorry for that kid.”
“Yeah…” Scott said, looking in the direction of the dressing room. “How’s he doing?”
“Wonderful. How do you think he’s doing?”
“I’ll talk to him. You’re off the hook. Got our only goal tonight. Nice one too.”
Huff gave him a lazy salute. “What I’m good for.”
It was true. Greg Huff was one of the best sharpshooters in the game. He had incredible aim, and had been an NHL all-star for eight consecutive seasons because of it.
Scott grabbed a Gatorade from the fridge. Huff put out his hands in a catching position, so Scott threw him one as well.
“I’m going to take a shower,” Scott said. “But tell Andersson to stick around, all right?”
“Will do.”
If Scott could have a whole team of Greg Huffs, he’d be thrilled. Greg was a real dependable, stand-up guy, and a tremendous team presence on and off the ice. Not the flashiest player, and not the biggest guy by a long shot, but a huge contributor to the team.
Scott went to the showers. A couple of other guys were in there. Most of the team had already showered and were getting ready to go back to the San Jose hotel.
One of the guys in the shower was Frank Zullo.
He was the only player on the team Scott just didn’t like.
He was a great defenseman, no question, big and tough and a brutal fighter when necessary.
But he was also a bully, and a bit of a creep, really.
There were plenty of guys like Zullo in the NHL.
Scott made the water a little hotter, letting it wash away this terrible game. Tomorrow morning they flew to Chicago. They had a night off, then a game the following afternoon. Then a short night flight to Toronto for a game the next evening, and then home to New York.
He left the showers and went to the lockers. He put on some shorts and a T-shirt and went to find Andersson in the dressing room. The young goalie was packing up his gear, looking miserable.
“Hey,” Scott said, sitting on the bench beside Andersson’s enormous goalie gear bag, “I’m sorry we didn’t help you out there tonight.”
Andersson huffed an angry laugh. “I fucked up,” he said in his heavily accented English.
“We all did.”
“I looked like a fucking idiot out there.”
“Murdock made the right call, putting you in,” Scott said. “I don’t blame you a bit. I blame the rest of us. It’s just psychological. Putting the backup goalie in makes us cocky, I guess. Like the coach thinks this game should be a walk, so we all believe it, and then…”
“Then I look like a fucking idiot.”
Scott tilted his head in acknowledgment. “We’re all going to be replaying our mistakes tonight when we’re in our beds. No one on this team is proud of themselves tonight. But no one blames you either. I need you to know that.”
The young goalie gave him a reluctant smile. “Thanks,” he said. He stuffed the last of his gear into his bag and stood. “I’m gonna head to the hotel. Replay some of those mistakes. And then I’m gonna forget all about it and get ready for the next game.”
“Good man. You’re rooming with Burke, right?” Scott asked, just to make conversation as they walked out of the room.
“Yeah.”
“Man, I’m sorry. Good luck.”
Tommy laughed. “Yeah, thanks. I pretend I can’t understand him when I need him to stop talking.”
Scott laughed too. Tommy’s English was excellent.
“I’m gonna get my stuff together,” Scott said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Tommy.”
“Goodnight.”
* * *
Kip scanned the crowded pub until he spotted Shawn sitting alone at a small table. Shawn grinned across the room at him.
“Hey, man,” Shawn said, standing and hugging Kip when he reached the table. “Glad you could make it out.”
“Been around straight people too much lately,” Kip joked, releasing Shawn and settling into the wooden chair across the table from him.
It was the same pub they’d been coming to for years—the Kingfisher.
It had the same worn, cozy feel of any decades-old English-style pub, with dark wood and dim lighting and beer signs on the walls.
A television at the back of the room showed local sports.
At a glance it didn’t look like a gay bar at all, or at least not what most straight people probably pictured a gay bar being.
But the men sat a little closer, and the bartenders were, in Kip’s opinion, a little hotter. He loved this place.
“We got a cute server,” Shawn said. “You’ll like him.”
“Aw, I can’t compete with you.”
Shawn shook his head and raised his pint glass. “Too clean-cut for me. He’s all yours.”
Shawn was handsome, all dark skin and soft eyes and a warm smile. He was also an impeccable dresser, always looking like a J.Crew catalog model.
He and Kip had fooled around a bit in college.
Nothing too serious, but they had both been eager to experiment.
Shawn had a thing for bad boys, though. Despite his straitlaced appearance, he had always been drawn to men with tattoos and an air of danger about them.
Kip was just an eager-to-please nerd who couldn’t figure his own life out.
Their server stopped by the table, and Shawn hadn’t been kidding. Slim, athletic build and blond hair falling in his face—the guy was exactly Kip’s type.
Kip gave him a flirty smile as he ordered because he couldn’t help himself. He received one in return, and the man introduced himself as Kyle.
Shawn laughed after Kyle left. “Always so fucking smooth.”
“As if,” Kip said. “I’m a mess most of the time.”
“Nah, you’re all charm. That boy is already thinking about telling you when his shift ends.”
Kip looked over his shoulder toward the bar where Kyle was waiting, presumably for Kip’s beer. “Well…”
“But first, we have something to talk about,” Shawn said.
“What’s that?”
“I’ve been thinking about when we were out with Jimmy and Chuck last week.”
“Oh?” Kip could really use that beer.
“First of all, I feel like we maybe ganged up on you when we were—”
“Asking me what the fuck I was doing with my life?”
“Encouraging you to pursue your dreams.”
“Right.”
Kyle, the wonderful angel, came to the table with Kip’s pint of local red ale.
As he leaned to place the glass on the table, he took the opportunity to rest a hand on Kip’s shoulder.
Kip felt the tips of his fingers brush the back of his neck.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” Kyle said, the double meaning lost on no one.
“Look,” Kip said to Shawn, after enjoying a parting smile from Kyle, “I know you guys just—”
“I have a proposition for you,” Shawn interrupted.
Kip raised an eyebrow. “Those never ended particularly well before.”
“A business proposition. And I remember a few of those previous times that weren’t bad at all.”
Kip smiled into his beer. “Me too.”
“I propose,” Shawn said, “that you apply for a better job.”
Kip fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Like where?”
“I have a friend…”
“A friend, huh?”
“He works at the Museum of the City of New York.”
Okay. Kip was listening now.
“He told me that they are just about to post an opening for an assistant educator. You know—someone who helps organize school trips and stuff. Teach the little kiddies all about our great city.”
Kip slumped back in his chair. “I’m not qualified for that.”
Shawn looked at him pointedly. “Do I need to use my Elena voice?”
“No,” Kip grumbled.
“You will apply for this job, Kip Grady. And you will dazzle them with your charm, and your love of history, and the fact that you have lived here all your life.”
“I won’t even get an interview!”
“I’m calling Elena.”
“Fine. She won’t answer. She hates phone calls.”
“Apply for the job, Kip.”
Kip sighed. Why not, right? “Okay. I’ll apply. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Don’t mention it, asshole. Now—” Shawn leaned back and made a show of looking around the bar “—how about you see if our friend Kyle feels like celebrating your glamorous new career.”
This time Kip did roll his eyes. “I’m not celebrating shit.
And…” He stopped himself because he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.
I’m holding out for someone else right now.
You probably know him—he’s the captain of the New York Admirals.
You might remember him from People magazine’s “50 Most Beautiful People” issue?
Yeah, I have a crush on him. He’s almost definitely heterosexual. Fingers crossed!
Instead he just said, “I think I’m gonna head home early tonight. But let’s see if we can’t find you someone.”
* * *
“It wasn’t fucking charging! It was a fucking hit! It’s hockey, you blind mother—”
“That’s enough.” Scott grasped Zullo firmly by both arms and hauled him away from the referee.
Zullo turned his head and kept screaming. “What, I can’t fucking touch anyone now? This not a contact sport anymore? Open your fucking eyes, you—”
“I’ll talk to him. Just go to the box, Zullo.”
Zullo shook his head. Carter skated over to help escort him to the penalty box. If Zullo kept the yelling up, he’d end up with a game misconduct.
Scott went back to the referee. “Charging, Hal? Really?”
“You telling me I don’t know how to do my job, Hunter? I know what I saw.” Hal Coleman—one of Scott’s favorite referees—only came up to Scott’s chest, but he was tough as nails under his calm demeanor. Smart too.
“Well,” Scott said, glancing at the penalty box that was now occupied by a fuming Frank Zullo, “won’t hurt him to cool off a bit in there anyway.”
“He’s a real sweetheart,” Hal agreed.
Scott looked across the ice to the Chicago bench. “Is Becker all right?”
“I’m going to go check on him. Seems to still be alive.” Hal looked pointedly at Scott. “Tell your boy if I see that shit again he’s out of the game.”
“Noted.”
Hal left to head over to the Chicago bench, and Scott headed to the penalty box.
“Couldn’t change his mind,” he said. “Just take two to cool off and then we’ll finish disappointing the home crowd.”
“It wasn’t charging. No fucking way that was charging,” Zullo spat.
“Except the part where you charged him.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Hunter. You fucking serious? You playing for Chicago now? Becker took a dive!”
Scott was already skating back to the bench. “Take two, Frank,” he called over his shoulder.
Carter caught up with him. “How much can I slip Hal to suspend Zullo for a few games?”
“Come on,” Scott said dryly, “Zullo is perfectly capable of getting suspended without your help.”
“Fucking psychopath,” Carter muttered. “We’re still doing Chicago Cut after the game, right? I need those steaks.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Hal blew the whistle for the face-off. Scott went down to the circle in their end of the ice to take it, and threw some encouraging words at their goaltender as he skated by the net.
“Good game, Benny!”
“Don’t say a damn word. You jinx me and I’m coming after you.”
Scott chuckled. Eric Bennett was as mild-mannered as they come off the ice, but once he was in the crease, he was as fierce a competitor as Scott had ever known.
Scott bent down at the circle and put his stick on the ice. He glanced up to meet the eye of his opponent, a star center for Chicago named Clarke.
“If Zullo tries that shit again,” Clarke growled, “I’m sending Harvey after him.”
“Man, go ahead. Don’t know why you’d do that to Harvey, though.” Scott smiled.
“Zullo is a piece of shit.”
“Now, now. If you can’t say something nice…”
As soon as Scott won the face-off, he raced down to the opposing team’s zone and took a quick pass back from Carter. He launched the puck at the net and watched it sail over the goalie’s shoulder for a shorthanded goal.
It felt so fucking good to have his game back.