Chapter 4
Four
Like a Sloth Doing Tai Chi
Forest
“I’ll drive,” Scully announces after I greet him outside my house before practice on Monday night. “It’s no fun riding in your truck when it makes that death rattle. When are you finally going to replace that pile of shit?”
“Soon,” I grunt, cramming my hockey bag into the back seat of his Frontier.
“I’m still saving up for the down payment.
And for our expansion.” He has no idea what kind of a financial hole I’m in.
And I hate it. We have big plans to build an addition onto the bar, and I don’t have my half of the capital. I’m not even close.
Scully gives me a sideways glance, but doesn’t press it. “But I can drive, right?”
“Sure. Whatever it takes. I want us to have a chance against the Plague.”
Another sideways glance. We settle into his car, and Scully puts on some tunes, humming along with the Eagles.
“Did you figure out next few month’s promotions yet? I need to put in some orders before the weekend.”
“Sure did,” he says brightly. “We’re having a Superbowl party, so I’d like to get a couple food trucks for that night.”
“Sounds fun.”
“This will all be so much easier once we have our own kitchen,” he says. “What if we just took out a bigger bank loan?”
I flinch. “The interest rates they show me suck.”
“I think it will pay for itself,” Scully insists.
“Yeah, but will it pay for itself before or after we go bankrupt?” I’ve spent a lot of time with the spreadsheets, trying to figure this out. “Besides, we have a fifteen-year-old boiler and a leaky roof. It’s not smart to commit to the expansion when we’re vulnerable like this.”
“I hear you,” Scully says, because he trusts me. “Just let me know if there’s anything I can do to move the process along.”
My gut churns. “Will do.”
We’re almost to the facility in Boulder when Scully turns the radio off and glances over at me. “So, uh, speaking of practice. I asked the kid to come tonight.”
My chin snaps toward him. “Which kid?”
“You know exactly which one. The cute one who offered to tend goal.”
“Jesus Christ, Scully.” Heat rises in my chest. “Are you pimping me out so we can win this game?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He holds up one hand in defense. “But since you put it like that, I have questions. I know you had a bad night last year, so staying off the apps made sense for a while. But come on. It’s been months, and that guy is just your type.”
My jaw clenches as soon as he says a bad night. Scully doesn’t know the half of it. I only told him the bare bones—that a hookup I’d brought home had run off with a lot of my cash and electronics, including my son’s gaming console.
But it was much worse than that. I’m still trying to come back from that experience, emotionally and financially.
And my son? The poor kid doesn’t even ask about the gaming system anymore.
Now I want to punch Scully for making me think about this. And for sticking his head in where it doesn’t belong. “You shouldn’t have invited him. What does he think is gonna happen?”
Scully shrugs, maddeningly. “I gave him a little background on the Plague. I think he just wants to beat them fair and square and maybe show off for you a little bit. If he even comes tonight. Maybe he won’t. He said he was embarrassed.”
I let out a sigh. Then I ice out Scully for the rest of the ride. He turns up the radio again and ignores me.
Dickhead.
Before I’m ready, the Colorado Cougars’ training facility rises before us, all clean lines and modern architecture.
The team plays their home games in a Denver arena, but they built this cathedral to hockey in Boulder, with floor-to-ceiling windows showing off the gleaming rink inside.
Under the LED lights, the blue cougar at center ice appears to prowl beneath the shimmering surface. The place is glorious.
The only reason the Stickhandlers are allowed to train here is that a few of my teammates are employees of the Cougars organization.
Walt and Javier work in the ticket office, and Nicky is in the travel department.
They worked out a deal to get ice time a few evenings a month, when the team doesn’t need it.
Scully parks in the lot and I grudgingly follow him inside. I scan the lobby warily, but I don’t spot the ridiculously attractive blond goalie. It figures he wouldn’t show. Probably his way of saying fuck you after I shot him down.
We suit up on the bench, because we’re not allowed in the locker facilities. I scan the big room again, but there’s no sign of the kid.
And what is this weird feeling in my gut? It’s actually disappointment. Which is just strange. Hell, I don’t even know his name.
I’m just finishing lacing up my skates when movement catches my eye. Someone’s trudging along the walkway toward the bench, a hockey bag over his shoulder. Wait... is that him? It’s hard to tell because the guy has a baseball hat pulled low over his face and a hoodie pulled up over the hat.
But as soon as he reaches the bench, he throws down the bag and whips off both the head gear and the hoodie. My chest fizzes weirdly when I get a glimpse of the shape of his pecs under his compression shirt.
He is, as Scully pointed out, exactly my type. Tall. Lean body. Blue eyes.
Ignoring all our stares, he starts pulling on pads.
“Who’s this?” asks Javier, our center. “Got a name, kid?”
“It’s, um, James.” He pulls on his goalie mask—light blue with the Ice Cats logo on the side. Interesting. Kid must be a Cats fan. I’ve never been to an Ice Cats game, but I hear it’s a good time.
“Good of you to come, James,” Scully says, grinning. “Thanks for practicing with us. If it goes well, you think you can make it to the game Tuesday?”
“Yeah. Sure. It’s not here, is it?”
“Unfortunately, no. It’s at a high school rink in North Denver.”
“Oh, awesome,” he says. “Let’s kill those fuckers.” He rises off the bench, all six-foot-several inches of him.
And what follows is the most surreal practice of my life. James is easily the best goalie we’ve ever had on the ice. Not only does he stop every shot, but his chirpy feedback during the scrimmage is both weird and perfect.
“Your release is too slow,” he tells Javier after a save. “Like a sloth doing tai chi. Try moving your lower hand down the stick.”
To Randy, our defenseman: “You’re screening me worse than my roommate watching porn with the volume up. Two steps to your left and we’re golden.”
And to me, after I try to go five-hole: “That was predictable. Like ordering vanilla ice cream at Baskin Robbins. They have thirty-one flavors for a reason, Forest.”
I can’t decide if I want to strangle him or kiss him.
But the hour flies by, and when Scully blows the whistle to end our practice, I have the weirdest feeling in my chest. It’s optimism.
We might actually have a chance against the Plague.