Chapter Three October
His next game couldn’t come quick enough.
Nick was still reeling from the quick transition between seasons.
They’d only had a couple weeks off before they went back at it, but he’d missed the short time away from the team.
It was so unlike the NHL; he hadn’t expected the constant stream of games to abruptly end and then so quickly start up again.
Gail was in the parking lot when Nick pulled in.
The petite defenseman had always taken him by surprise on the ice, her small stature in complete opposition to her large (and very vocal) on-ice presence.
There was a reason she was usually paired with Brady: the two of them were the Jagr Bomb’s shutdown defensemen.
She saw him pull up a few spots down and waited.
“You ready to try some clean, by-the-book zone breakouts?” she teased. It was word for word what Benns had messaged them earlier that day, and he laughed.
“I don’t know about you,” Nick said and slammed his trunk shut, shouldering his hockey bag and balancing his stick, “but all I’m gonna do is break out of the zone. I don’t actually plan on even trying to score goals. After a successful breakout, I’m just gonna hand the puck to the other team.”
She snorted. “You been giving these tips to Lexi? ’Cuz I swear to God, if that man turns over the puck one more damn time, I’m going to run him into the boards.”
“You’re never on the ice with him. Possibly because Benns knows you’d do that.”
“Fuck, you think I care if I’m on the ice? I’ll jump the boards.”
“Why are we jumping boards?” Brady asked.
The October chill was enough for both Nick and Gail to be in hoodies, but Brady had on his customary T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops.
In another week, Nick would need to dig out his Under Armour for runs, and Brady looked like he was about to head down to the beach.
“Because Lexi can’t hold onto the puck to save his life,” Gail said.
Brady nodded as though this made perfect sense. Hell, maybe it did. The two of them spent a lot of ice time together, they might have anti-Lexi chats all the time. Or Brady could be used to Gail saying crazy, random shit.
“You all right?” Gail asked as she gave him a once over. “You don’t normally get here so late.”
Following her gaze, Nick took in Brady’s appearance. He looked tired, maybe, and his shirt was a little wrinkled, but otherwise Nick didn’t see anything off.
Brady shrugged. “Long day.”
The three walked in, though Nick and Gail didn’t talk about Benns’s strategy plans anymore. He had the sense that Brady would approve of Benns’s efforts and would not approve of the joking spirit. Hockey was, after all, serious business.
“If this is beer league,” Gail said, “how come we don’t drink on the—?”
“Hey bro!”
“Mother fucker,” Gail said under her breath.
The path to the locker rooms was blocked by a couple jocks, muscled, tall, and tan like they’d walked into a CrossFit studio, not a hockey rink.
They were attractive, but Nick got that sinking feeling in his stomach he used to get in middle school when one of the older kids stalked over to give him a hard time.
Great.
“Ignore them,” Gail said under her breath and tried to walk past them. They didn’t move to make room for her. Gail gave exactly zero shits and steamrolled through the little opening they had left her.
Nick wanted to follow, wanted Brady to come with them and ignore whatever trash these guys were trying to stir up, but his sheer size made it impossible for him to try. If he did, someone would legitimately get knocked to the ground, and he wasn’t sure he’d come out looking good either way.
So instead he stood his ground at Brady’s side. Supportive teammate and all that.
“What?” Brady asked with barely concealed exasperation. In that moment, he looked ten times more tired than he had in the parking lot.
“Saw the stats for the Jagr Bombs,” the taller one said with a fake smile. “Saw you’re points leader again.”
“Great,” Brady said with so little enthusiasm it was almost funny. “Look, we got a game in a minute.”
Neither moved.
“You ever feel like stepping up a division, we got a spot for you.”
“No thanks. I’m happy where I am.”
Brady moved to shoulder past them, probably hoping they’d give him enough room to do so, but the taller one stepped in front of him.
“C’mon, BJ.”
The effect was instantaneous. Brady went from annoyed-but-calm to ramrod straight, tense like a whip about to crack.
“Don’t call me that,” Brady growled.
“It’s all good, BJ. I get it. You wanna pad your stats. My brother here”—he jerked his thumb at the other guy, who nodded—“he plays D4 for the same reason, but at the end of the day—”
Brady moved right into the other guy’s face. Despite his bravado up to that point, the man’s eyes went wide and he tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go except into the wall or his brother.
“Do not fucking call me that. I’m not your bro. I’m not your bud. I’m not your friend. I’m not fucking interested, so piss off and hope I don’t wreck your brother too bad when I play him half an hour from now. You hear me?”
The guy gulped. “Yeah, fine. I hear you, bro—uh, Jens.”
Brady gave him some space. “Good,” he said, then walked down the now-clear path to the locker rooms.
Nick tried not to make eye contact with either of them as he followed.
“You know,” the guy called after them, slightly braver now that Brady was walking away, “I know a guy who played with you in high school.”
Brady turned around but didn’t stop. “It is very important to your health that you don’t finish that thought,” he called while walking backward.
The guy opened his mouth one last time and only stopped when his brother grabbed his shoulder and shook his head.
“Atta boy,” Brady said, finally turning away with a mock salute. “Not as dumb as you look.”
*
“You want to talk about it?” Nick offered once everyone else had cleared out of the locker room.
“Hell no.”
Nick nodded. That was the answer he’d expected. He had to offer, though, just in case talking was what Brady needed.
They finished lacing up. Nick finished first, rushing to catch up and get his warm-up in.
“Hey.”
Nick stopped in his tracks at the sound of Brady’s voice. He seemed hesitant, almost bashful. Vulnerable, even. Maybe he did want to talk after all.
“Yeah?”
“Just, uh… wanted to say thanks. For having my back out there.”
Nick blinked, not sure how to respond. He’d done so little—the bare minimum of what he could have done—and yet here was Brady, thanking him like he’d been the one to chase off those two assholes.
“Of course, man. Anytime.”
They were playing the Mother Puckers, a team that featured the slightly smaller, thinner jock from the front lobby. Nick kept looking at Brady down the bench, Gail talking his ear off in urgent tones while Brady stared a hole through the guy’s forehead.
Uh oh.
“Jensie okay?” Benns asked. “He seems…”
“Pissed?” GG said.
“About to murder someone?” Lexi suggested.
“Tense,” Benns said diplomatically.
“He was talking to the Douche Brothers,” Young Greg said. “Cornered him out front. He didn’t look happy to see ’em.”
“No one ever is,” GG muttered.
“The Dube Brothers?” Benns asked, all politeness.
“Yeah, that’s what I said. The Douche Brothers.”
Benns sighed. “What’d they want? They trying to poach him again?”
“I think they were looking to get their asses kicked, to be honest,” Young Greg said.
How he knew as much as he did, Nick had no idea.
He’d been there, and still Nick found himself leaning in to hear the gossip.
“I’ve never seen Jens get so worked up. Dude’s usually mellow as fuck, and now he’s gonna rip someone’s head off. ”
Nick stole another glance Brady’s way; thankfully, Brady didn’t seem to be listening.
“Shit,” Benns said. He put his helmet on and started to skate toward center ice for the opening faceoff. “You guys do me a favor and make sure Little Dube doesn’t get near ’im? Lexi, you and Mags make sure you’re the D pair whenever he’s out.”
Lexi looked disappointed. “Sure thing, boss.”
The game started with Little Douche Dube as the center. Benns pointedly called Lexi and Mags onto the ice with him. Brady was about ready to ignore him and jump the boards anyway; a sharp word from Gail kept him in place.
The first period went by without an issue, calm enough that Nick was lulled into thinking everything had blown over. They kept the same lines running and effectively kept Brady and Little Dube away from each other.
There was a moment in the second where Little Dube clipped Nick in the shoulder as he blew by with the puck. Nick lost control, spun around, and fell to the ice. It was embarrassing, and normally he would’ve figured it was his own fault, but the seeds of doubt had already been planted.
The doubt grew when Little Dube repeatedly took stupid shots-on-net, always from bad angles and always into traffic. Young Greg went down hard when one hit him below his shoulder pads. Nick took one to the skate. Even with the hard plastic in the way, it hurt like a bitch.
What really pissed him off was that none of these shots were ever going to make it in.
Even Nick, with his limited ability to aim, wouldn’t have tried half of them.
This guy, who had already threaded the needle a dozen times on beautiful passes, who could saucer over sticks like nobody’s business, who would’ve scored top shelf if he hadn’t hit the post, could aim.
He was hockey-smart and hockey-capable, which made Nick think he was purposefully taking stupid shots that would hit people.
And then it happened. Whether by finagling on their part or because the hockey gods were at work, there was a weird line change that led to Brady and Little Dube being out on the ice together.
Nick was due for a change of his own, but he refused. He’d double shift if he had to, but he was not getting off until this mess passed by without incident.