4. Ryan
4
RYAN
“Good game, man. Good game… good game…”
I mumbled the phrase 19 times and then joined the end of the line to the ice. While the guys skated a circle, I went straight to the end of the bench. Even though I was in full gear, my helmet sat at my feet. As usual, I kept a ballcap pulled low on my head. For the next few hours, my main duty was to cheer on the team and keep an eye out for holes in our defense.
Our first game of the season was much grittier than expected. We eked out a win against Philly with a last-minute goal, but Paris gave up three in the first two periods. For him, that was a terrible night.
But a win was a win, and especially since it was game one, we showered and all headed to the local bar to celebrate. The Pub, a very on-the-nose name for the only bar in Seacrest, was basically a second home to the team. We gathered there after most home games, especially if we’d won. The bartenders knew us and had established long ago that fans were welcome before and during games. But about two hours after the final buzzer sounded, the only patrons besides the team and our pals were locals who knew how to be cool. I’d always wondered how they kept the space so chill for us, but anytime I’d tried to ask, I just got a knowing grin from the owner.
As expected, Quinn sat at the end of the table, staring at his beer like it held the answer to life. I dropped down beside him.
“Your right leg bothering you?” It was all I needed to say. I knew he knew damn well that all three goals had gone in on his lower right side.
He stirred. “I don’t know. I felt… tight? Was not a problem at practice yesterday.”
“Here’s to it not being a problem tomorrow.”
We clinked beers.
I let Quinn do his usual introspective thing. I had my quirks, but that man had a tunnel vision for the game that was unparalleled. While he pondered, I fell into a conversation with Dustin and Gene.
“You were on the ice for all three of Philly’s goals,” I said to our captain.
“Don’t I know it. Our D was wobbly.” Gene flinched. He’d turned 38 this summer and knew he was slowing down. Still had a hell of a slapshot, though.
“Do me.” Dustin chuckled.
“You didn’t score a single goal. And you allowed two turnovers, one of which became a goal.”
His grin fell. “Fuck. I like your notes better when we play well.”
I shrugged. “Keep your head up, Simsy. They get you every time when your head’s down.”
He nodded, and we moved to another topic. I didn’t like giving critical feedback, but my teammates looked to me to analyze their performance. Sitting on the bench gave me a great POV to collect data and notice little details. Two things I was naturally good at. I was so good at it that when I went home, I would scrape hockey stats websites and populate a running spreadsheet that I kept on the team. It was fascinating work that made a big difference in our season.
Wild and sexy, it was not. But then, I’d never pretended to be the coolest guy on the team.
As usual, most of the guys had already left by the time I threw cash on the table. Max and I were often the last to leave since we didn’t have partners to go home to. But eventually the bartenders started washing up. Time to shuffle to my car and call goodnight. The drive took ten minutes. As always, my thoughts got quieter with every minute that passed.
But the sound of scrabbling feet behind the front door always gave me a smile.
I tapped the numeric code to unlock and stepped into the dark foyer. Immediately, my feet and ankles were assaulted by frantic paws and little nips. Henrik danced around, welcoming me home, so I crouched down and scratched his ears. “Hey, buddy. How you doing? Did the kiddos look after you today?”
Of course, I knew my neighbor’s kids had pet-sat him. I saw the alert from the front-door camera when they came over in the afternoon. If it weren’t for them, I might’ve had to rehome Henrik. A hockey player’s lifestyle isn’t great for pets, certainly not without someone else to help. But the family next door loved Henrik and kept him whenever I was away. They didn’t know it yet, but I’d started college funds for both children as a thank-you. Knowing my best buddy was looked after and still waiting when I got home was priceless.
Henrik hurried outside to do his business. I hung up my coat and shut the door. He would run around the house and enter through his dog door into the kitchen, so I headed there.
This house’s ultramodern amenities and rustic Cape Cod design screamed architectural showcase. Probably because I’d had an architect create it and a decorator furnish it to create my dream home.
Our dream home. Or so I’d assumed.
I called to the automation to turn on the lights in the kitchen. The globes above the marble island glowed at 30%, exactly to my specifications for this time of night. My footsteps sounded on the tile as I filled a glass of water and wandered to my office. Henrik beat me to it. He was already curled in his bed beside my desk when I walked in. I scratched his ears again and sat down with a sigh.
Over the two years since the Connecticut Commodores had signed me as their backup goalie, I’d carved out a niche as the stats guy. For as much as I loved to play hockey, I realized soon after we’d inked the contract that plentiful ice time wasn’t in my future. Not with Paris in net.
Amanda had realized it, too. And when she did, our dream home became my oversized house for one and a half. Henrik was a puppy then. She never even suggested wanting to take him with her. She was too focused on what a disappointment my job turned out to be.
I played one game out of five or six, usually. Some backup goalies in the league had a more even split, but with a superstar like Quinn around, I wasn’t needed as much. Of course, I practiced with the team and worked out on the same schedule. I had to be ready to play at a moment’s notice should the need arise. But the last time Paris hadn’t finished a game was in a brawl with Atlanta two seasons ago. So while I remained alert and ready, I took the bench each night knowing to get comfortable.
I didn’t mind. I had my place on the team, and I loved it.
But when I opened the new season’s spreadsheet, I wound up staring into space instead. It was Saturday night. Precisely one week ago, I was on Long Island for Quinn and Audrey’s wedding. That wasn’t what had me distracted, though.
She did.
With a week’s worth of practices and prep, I’d put her out of my mind. Mostly. After I’d stayed up for three foolish hours in case she knocked on my door, of course. After spending Sunday replaying that whole series of events. How the hell had I wound up kissing a stranger in a bar? Who the hell was I to ask her to my room? Since when was that my style?
I should’ve been relieved she didn’t show. Should’ve known better than to invite a stranger to my room. And I certainly shouldn’t have been embarrassed when she vanished.
But then, Quinn should have had at least two more saves tonight. And yet.
Shoulds meant nothing in hockey or life, apparently. Because although that half an hour—and that kiss—shouldn’t have stayed with me, they did. One week later, I knew I should let it go.
And yet.
Audrey. She’s friends with Audrey. Maybe I can ask her… what, exactly? I didn’t even get a name. What a shitbag I’ll sound like if I even try to ask. If only I’d gotten some detail that told me who the hell she was. That’s the problem. She was a mystery. An unsolvable puzzle. If not for that, I definitely could let it go.
I laughed at myself in the silent room. “Bullshit. Get to work.”
Good advice.
“Come on, give me that deke, Rivera,” I muttered under my breath as I tracked Ethan racing in on me. As predicted, he feinted left and then shot right.
“Kick save!” I shouted while the puck rolled away.
Ethan plowed to a hockey stop in front of me and groaned. “Dammit, how’d you see that coming, Sieve?”
“A, fuck off. B, that’s your signature move. Better start changing it up if you want to try and get inside these pipes.”
I shot Gatorade into my mouth and smirked. Ethan loved calling me Sieve. The none-too-flattering nickname had become an old joke over the past year, as had my consistent “fuck off” in reply.
“Hmm, gauntlet thrown. Just you wait.” Ethan laughed and danced away per his team nickname.
But practice had an edge to it that morning. We had another game tomorrow night, so this was meant to be a light skills drill. Apparently, the rough opener had the guys tense. Pucks rained on my net from every conceivable direction. I developed a rhythm of blocking that had me more sensing where the next shot was coming from than looking for it.
My own personal goalie Force.
Coach Bowman, the goalie coach, shuffled across the ice to me. “Hey, buddy. Looks like summer training did you right.”
“Yeah, Coach, thanks. Feeling good so far.” I’d spent the summer in Alberta, Canada, working on my style. Bowman and Delgato, our head coach, wanted me more athletic in net versus using my body to block all the shots. It wasn’t like I’d completely changed how I worked, but I’d learned a lot and enjoyed the new challenge.
Anything that gave me a puzzle to solve, I was for it. Anything that demanded I focus and understand all the details got me going. It was how my brain worked and why I was so good with numbers and goaltending. A strange combination, maybe, but I’d quit trying to be something I wasn’t just to please people a long time ago.
It had ended me up alone, sure. But that didn’t matter when the season was in front of us.