Chapter 3
Three
Unknown Caller
Beck
It wasn’t always like this. At eighteen, I was a high-draft pick for Columbus. In college, I was a Frozen Four winner and All-American my junior year. I thought I’d pay my dues in the minors for a couple years and then trade up to a starting spot on an original six team.
Nothing went according to plan, even in the minors. First, Columbus sent me to their AHL team, where I promptly got my ass kicked. For three years. Then, they finally got sick of me and failed to renew my contract.
But my stats had improved a little by the end, and Colorado picked me up. It felt like a fresh start, and last season I did some good work, only to slump again this year.
Seven years after getting my draft photo in Sports Illustrated, my agent barely remembers my name. I make seventy thousand dollars a year, but my rent is high, my gear costs about six grand a year, and I eat enough organic groceries a week to feed a family of four.
And I don’t have a backup plan. Or, well, a life. I spend a lot of time on this bench watching our other goalie play. Then I go home alone.
The buzzer finally sounds, ending the game, and I let out a cheer as a reflex. Go team.
Showering is sort of pointless, but I do it anyway. I’m throwing clothes onto my still-damp body when my roommate, Beau “Big Rig” Riggins, asks me if I’m going to the pub with the rest of them.
“Nah, Rigsy, kinda tired,” I grumble.
“Dude. Laaaaame.”
“Yeah, yeah.” At least he didn’t say, “That’s gay,” which I’ve heard him say before. Only once, but still.
On my way across the frozen parking lot, my phone rings. I take it from my pocket and give it a look. Unknown caller.
Forest?
Hell. I want to kick myself for that thought. Everybody knows that unknown callers are always a scam.
The phone rings again, and I’m not that strong, I guess, because I answer the damn thing. “Yeah? Is this about one of those extended warranties? I don’t buy those. But I would if you insured goalie sticks. You ever see how fast a composite stick snaps? Like it’s made of spaghetti.”
“Hello?” says a male voice. “Is this the kid from the bar last night?”
My heart detonates. “Um, maybe? Depends on who this is.”
A chuckle. “This is Scully, I’m friends with—”
“Forest,” I grunt.
“Right,” he says brightly. “You gave us this number.”
Do not get excited. If Forest really wanted to see me again, he’d call himself. “I recall. Didn’t go so well.”
Another chuckle. “I know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you for a second. We still need a goalie to help us defeat the worst team in the beer league.”
I lean against the Jeep and look up into the dark sky. “I dunno, man. If you need my help to defeat the worst team in the beer league, maybe they’re not the worst team in the beer league? And it can’t be me. Sorry. Too embarrassed now.”
“Okay, let me clarify. I meant the worst people, not the worst players. But we’ll get to that in a second. First you need to know that the rejection wasn’t about you. When Forest said he doesn’t do hookups, he really wasn’t lying.”
“Oh,” I say heavily. “Cool. Thanks.” But I don’t see how that makes things better for either of us. Because that doesn’t sound fun for Forest, and I’d also like to have sex before I die.
“And you put him in a spot, kid. He turns you down, and his team forfeits to a bunch of assholes.”
“Yeah, that sucks.” And yet, it’s not my problem. It shouldn’t be anyway. The Ice Cats wouldn’t be thrilled about me volunteering for a beer league game. It’s probably against the rules. Hockey loves rules.
“This team is called the Plague. They chose that name. It tells you a lot.”
I snort. Not sure why I’m still on the phone with this guy, but I hear myself ask a question. “What’s your team called?”
“It’s a queer-friendly team. We’re called the Stickhandlers.”
I bark out a laugh before I can help myself.
“The Plague, though. You know what they pulled during our last matchup? Their D-man made AIDS jokes the whole game. Their goalie called us the ‘Sugar Plum Fairies’ and asked why our jerseys aren’t pink.
Real original stuff.” Scully’s voice drips with sarcasm.
“But the worst part was when they started in on Forest’s kid.
Asked if he was gonna grow up to be a—” Scully cuts himself off. “Well. You can imagine.”
I grip my phone tighter. “Shit.”
“So now you know what we’re up against. Don’t you want to give us a shot at stopping them?”
Damn it. I kinda do.
“We’re having a practice Monday.”
“Monday when? I’ve got… I’m busy until at least noon.”
“Practice is at nine p.m. And it’s in Boulder, which is a haul. But it’s in a fantastic facility. You’d love it.”
I don’t give a crap about the facility. I just want to stop some pucks, shut down some assholes, and impress Forest. Maybe not in that exact order.
“If Boulder is an issue, I could pick you up…”
“That’s not the issue. But what does Forest think about this? Is he gonna run the other way when I show up at practice?”
“No way,” Scully says quickly. “He’s totally onboard. He thinks you’re great. He just…”
“Doesn’t want to tie me up and fuck me. Got it.”
Scully makes a half-laughing, half-choking sound. “I’m not sure that’s even accurate. But Forest is a stubborn bastard, so there’s no point in discussing it.”
“Whatever,” I grumble. “Text me the address. I’ll see you Monday.”
Scully lets out a whoop of joy. “Hero! Thank you!”
He ends the call, and I get into my Jeep, feeling upbeat, which is kind of pathetic. I’m no closer to getting out of my slump, or getting Forest naked, but at least I made one dude happy.
I drive home to our quiet little house on the outskirts of Loveland and go inside. When my phone lights up with a text, it’s Scully again, with a mapped address.
After I tap on it, I say, “Oh shit.”