Chapter Thirteen The Canada Tournament #2
“Also that team is from fucking Michigan,” Lexi whined. “They come from a state that only has Winter and Less Winter as seasons. Of course they handed our Maryland asses to us at a winter sport.”
GG’s face went red. He opened his mouth, and Nick almost looked forward to whatever putrid vile he was about to unleash upon Young Greg and Lexi (and anyone who tried to defend them).
If nothing else, it would make him feel better about himself at their expense, because he’d been on the ice for five of those nine goals.
Luckily (or unluckily), Benns intervened.
“They played a better game. They deserved to win,” he said sternly.
“We were too busy watching the puck and hoping someone else would do the work for us. Someone else did, and they won because of it. We’re a little shell-shocked from being in the Great White North, and I think it’s inevitable that we’d have a bad game.
It was our first game. We adjust, we pick it up, and tomorrow morning we come in ready to change the story. ”
There was muttered agreement throughout the locker room.
“We play a Chicago team tomorrow,” Brady said to Nick as the two of them walked out to the parking lot. They were relatively alone, in terms of proximity to their teammates, but he kept his voice down anyway. “It ain’t getting much better.”
“Fuuuck,” Nick hissed through his teeth.
He didn’t want to buy into stereotypes, he really didn’t, but for better or worse, Maryland wasn’t a hockey state.
The sport was growing for sure, but the history wasn’t there like it was in other places, and the weather didn’t allow for pond hockey or easy access to rinks throughout the year.
Hell, the rink closest to his childhood home closed for three months every summer because it was too dang hot to balance out the cost of keeping the place cold.
“Any good news about the rest of the teams in our division? Maybe one from Florida or Texas or Hawai’i? ”
“We got a New York team. Can’t tell if it’s upstate or—”
“Every part of New York is farther north than every part of Maryland, so I don’t think it matters.”
“—and a Louisiana team.”
“…so what you’re telling me is we’re winning one of our games tomorrow, getting lowest or second-lowest seed for the playoff portion of the tournament, and then tanking before finals?”
Brady shrugged.
“Lovely.”
“You gonna blow off tomorrow’s games and play tourist instead?” Brady challenged.
They both knew it was a garbage suggestion. Nick wouldn’t even be able to pull off a bluff. “No, but I like to know there’s hope.”
“Tourney’s a tourney. Who cares if you win?”
“Who cares if you win!?” Nick balked. He distinctly remembered Brady’s competitive drive had been kicked up a notch during playoffs, so he wasn’t buying this sudden “meh” attitude.
Brady rolled his eyes. “Winning’s nice, but we’re here to improve. You can’t get better playing the same circle of people and teams. You don’t get better by winning something that’s too easy. You gotta put in some effort and overcome some setbacks.”
“So winning a tournament is somehow a bad thing?”
“It ain’t bad, but it means you move up a level and start improving all over again.”
“…that is the most mature view of tournaments I’ve ever heard, and it makes me question everything I know about you.”
It didn’t at all—Brady constantly working to get better was the only reason they were friends—but he felt like teasing.
Brady gave a half laugh and a quarter smile, though his eyes gave away his full amusement. “Yeah? I seem that petty?”
Nick took a moment to actually think before answering. “No. But you are a Pens fan, so I can never rule it out.”
“Fuck off.”
“See, there it is.”
Brady shot him a withering look. “Big talk from a Caps fan.”
“I call ’em like I see ’em. Pens fans are quick to shit talk and quick to whine.”
“When have I ever whined about the Pens—”
“Before you continue that thought, please remember that I have watched Pens games with you at the bar plenty of times this season.”
Brady stopped short, nearly tripped over his feet, and paused to recover his balance.
And his pride, probably.
“You know what? I’ll gracefully bow out of this conversation. Why don’t we grab a beer at the hotel bar?” Brady said.
This time it was Nick who nearly walked into a wall in surprise. “Hotel bar?” he squeaked.
Bars meant beer. Beers meant lowered inhibitions.
Last time they drank together, they spent the night on Nick’s couch.
Thank fuck nothing had happened, or he wasn’t sure how he’d ever look at his damn couch the same.
This would be at a friggin’ hotel, a place practically made for randomly hooking up with people.
Especially because they already had a room ready to go…
“I promised Young Greg I’d have another beer with him, mostly because I don’t want him drinking alone when he’s still learning his limits. Think Mags is coming, so he’ll probably bring Lexi. I know you’re at the Hilton, but I saw it on the drive here—it’s not far.”
“Oh.” Nick breathed out a mix of relief and disappointment. “Yeah, a beer might be nice. Which conspiracy theory should I ask Young Greg about first?”
“Definitely Flat Earthers. He was so done by that point, it wasn’t super coherent, but it was both informative and hilarious.”
“…he’s not a Flat Earther, is he?”
Brady snorted. “You should definitely open with that, that’s perfect.”
Nick laughed. “All right, then. Lead the way.”
An hour, a shower, and a quick drive found Nick scoping out the lobby at the Marriott.
The hotel bar was crowded with other hockey players from the tournament, some of whom Nick recognized from the rink and others that gave off that “hockey player vibe.” Did he have that now?
It also gave him a strange sense of déjà vu, one that took him back to a dive bar in PA and gave him heartburn.
“Bro!” Young Greg said, and then physically lifted Nick into a hug.
“Holy shit.” Nick tried to resist the urge to clutch Young Greg, trusting him not to drop him. “You getting a head start on the drinks?”
“Mags got me a shot of tequila!” Young Greg mercifully put him down. His cheeks were rosy, and he leaned in to “whisper,” “It tasted awful.”
“You want me to buy you a beer?” Nick offered in sympathy. He wasn’t usually a hard-liquor drinker, and he certainly hadn’t been when he’d started drinking.
Young Greg slung an arm around his shoulder and patted his cheek. “You flirting with me, bro? Because I’m flattered but spoken for.”
Nick couldn’t help snorting. “Don’t worry, you’re safe. Just offering a beer. I’ll find you something better than tequila.”
“Everything’s better than tequila,” Young Greg said with the confidence of a new drinker, “or at least, nothing’s worse.”
He was pleasantly surprised to see most of the Jagr Bombs gathered around a strange sculpture that probably wasn’t meant to be used as a table, but it was the only free space in the bar area.
“I found Nicki!” Young Greg proclaimed proudly. “He’s gonna get me a beer!”
“Don’t overdo it, bro,” Donno warned. “You ain’t used to it.”
“I did fine last night!” Young Greg whined. “Ask Jens! I can handle it!”
Brady and Gail had taken over a spot by the windows; the light from the parking lot through the frosted glass gave them the illusion of halos. Nick was tempted to take a picture; Terry would enjoy it.
“How much you had already?” Brady asked.
“Shot of tequila.” Young Greg put his hand up to shield his lips from Mags’s view before loudly saying, “It was gross.”
Gail choked on her drink and bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Oh God, he’s like a puppy. Mags, why would you give a puppy tequila?”
“You can have one beer,” Brady said, like he was channeling Benns and being his best captain/hockey-dad self.
“I had three yesterday,” he whined, but he dragged Nick to the bar like he was worried he’d only lose ground by arguing. “What we drinking, bro?”
“Something light,” Nick said with a laugh.
He kinda looked forward to Young Greg’s twenty-first birthday if this was what they’d get to see more of.
It might even be good for him to get some practice here with the team watching out for him so he wouldn’t overdo it back home.
“And something Canadian, apparently. I don’t know half these beers, so we’re getting Molson. ”
Young Greg nodded with a little too much emphasis on the movement. “It is the official beer of the NHL. Good thinking.”
While they waited for the bartender, Nick tapped his wallet on the bar and considered carefully.
Had Brady been pulling his leg? It wasn’t until he had a beer in hand that he decided, fuck it, he had to know.
“So…” he said while watching Young Greg sip at his beer skeptically. “How about that Flat Earth?”
Young Greg’s eyes lit up, and he practically vibrated with excitement. “brO! Did you see that laser experiment they’re doing to prove the Earth is flat? See, the way it works is…”
A half hour later, Nick was nodding along to a very strange explanation of how the moon landing hadn’t solely been used to fuel American propaganda (which, granted, it had been used for, even if admitting so out loud somehow meant agreeing that the government had also filmed the whole thing in a Hollywood lot) but to propagate the myth of a round Earth.
It was actually impressive how much thought Young Greg had put into this whole thing.
It was wrong, all of it, but Nick enjoyed the enthusiasm.
He also questioned the Maryland education system, but he got the distinct impression that Young Greg’s love of conspiracy theories was fueled by too much time on the internet.
He was self-taught, as it were, and nothing a teacher or expert could say would make him change his mind.
“You guys get lost?”
They turned to see Brady before he slid an arm around Young Greg’s shoulder. Nick tried hard not to be jealous. “You drinking water?” Brady asked seriously.
“I will.”
“So no?”