Chapter 2
TWO
“What’s up with the banana emoji? Is that like the new eggplant?” Fox’s face pinches in thought. “Wait, this might work for adding a layer of organization to my contacts—Eggplant, grade A head. Banana, solid B, still nothing to balk at,” Dominic Fox, my closest friend—currently questioning this status—and Saints’ teammate, says from where he sits beside me in our team’s navy-and-yellow-themed locker room.
I shake my head, running my hands through my sweat-soaked hair. My skin is sticky, and every muscle aches after our brutal loss against Vancouver. My eyes lose focus on our logo projected onto the floor, a bold “S” with angel wings. If only those wings brought us the miracle we need this season.
We’ve lost more than we’ve won. No matter how hard we fight, we always seem to end up on the losing side. A feeling I know all too well. Tonight’s loss is just a drop in the bucket compared to the weight I’m carrying, knowing what Hannah is going through—and that I can’t be there for her.
“Did you hear me? You didn’t even laugh at my joke.” Fox’s voice jolts me out of my daze.
I follow his eyes to my phone, sitting between us on the bench. A message from Hannah waits for me. I have her contact saved with a banana emoji—Hannah Banana, the first nickname I gave her. Looking back, it’s not hard to see how I shot myself in the foot with her. Banana isn’t really a sexy pet name, is it?
“Dude, shut the fuck up, it’s Hannah.” I scowl in his direction but don’t take real offense. It’s Fox. The shit that comes out of his mouth is unfiltered, so I’ve learned not to take much of what he says seriously.
“Ahh, right, the chick giving you years of blue balls. She doesn’t deserve the banana, man. The blue heart emoji seems more fitting… ya know, for your balls.” He laughs at himself.
“Forgive me if I don’t take advice on women from you, Fox.”
“Maybe if you did, you’d get laid more,” he chirps back and elbows my side. “Speaking of getting laid, you coming to Sully’s?”
“Nah, can’t tonight.”
“What the fuck do you have going on? Please, for the love of God, don’t tell me you’re watching that dumbass show again.”
He’s referring to You’re The One , and he’s right. It is a dumb show, but Hannah likes it, and I like watching it with her. It’s a weekly tradition we started back in college, and even though we watch it together over FaceTime now—with me in Chicago and her in Dallas, soon to be Palm Beach—it’s a date we try not to break. Really, it’s just a good excuse to see her face.
“Next time,” I tell Fox in placation. He accepts that I can’t be swayed and moves on to rally the other guys. “Volk, you’re coming out. Don’t even try to bitch out on me. I need at least one of my friends to rally. You’re both terrible wingmen, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers. You’re up tonight, bud.”
Ilya Volkov, our goaltender, scowls in our direction from where he sits on the bench across from us. I’m surprised the lines on his forehead aren’t permanent. A furrowed brow and tight jaw are his most used expressions. “Fine.”
“Logan, hit the showers and then come to my office.” Coach’s voice bellows through the chaos surrounding us.
I glance at Volk and Fox, who’re already looking at me with knowing smirks. I know what they’re thinking; we’ve all been waiting for Coach to call one of us into his office since announcing he’ll need a replacement for King. Our captain was supposed to represent the Saints at All-Star Weekend, but after a brutal hit last week left him with a broken collarbone, he’s out for the rest of the season.
I wish I had the same confidence they do, but instead, my thoughts are filled with worry. Maybe he wants to talk about my spot on the team? My upcoming contract renewal?
I grab my change of clothes and head to the showers, stepping over piles of wet pads and discarded uniforms along the way. There’s always a scent in the air post-game, a mix of man sweat and body wash. Not a pleasant combo, but after years of playing hockey, it’s one I’m used to.
As the warm water hits my back, the what-ifs circle my mind.
My contract is up after this season, and even though my agent keeps assuring me an offer is coming, I won’t believe it until my signature is on the dotted line. Four years with the team, and I still can’t shake the thoughts that I’m not good enough. My path to the league wasn’t the typical one—no youth leagues, no juniors, no NCAA stardom before getting drafted.
I didn’t even get drafted. I clawed my way onto Rumford’s Division 1 team and thought I was finally on track with everyone else. Turns out, the NHL didn’t agree. I was passed over, not once but twice, in the draft before aging out of eligibility at twenty. Ending up a free agent, I landed a deal with the Saints in my last year of college.
But even now, years later, those same doubts still creep in, whispering that I’m not good enough. That it’s only a matter of time before everyone else realizes it. Pressing my head against the cold tile, I watch the water swirl down the drain, wishing it could take all the shit in my head with it.
When I can’t avoid the inevitable any longer, I cut the water, dry off, change, and make my way down the hall. Reaching Coach’s open door, I knock, ready to get this over with.
“Come in. Shut the door,” he barks from where he sits behind his desk. I take one of the two chairs facing him, gripping my thighs in an attempt to steady my bouncing knees.
“All-Star Weekend is coming up. I hope you didn’t make vacation plans because you’re going,” Coach states, straight to the point.
“Me?” Probably not the best reaction, but that’s what leaves my mouth.
“Yes. You. Who else?” His tone is one of a father scolding his child.
Yep, wrong thing to say. I know it’s a rhetorical question, so I remain silent, although I can think of a handful of guys on the team deserving of the All-Star title. My thoughts must be written all over my face because his harsh tone continues as he tells me, “You’re worse than a rookie shaking in his skates, waiting to get sent back to the farm team. You’d think you’d have the same confidence off the ice as you do on it. Then again, I’m not sure I want another cocky little shit like Fox around here…” He shakes his head before continuing, “Never mind that. The point is, you’re going. Be proud that you’re getting the recognition you deserve.”
“Sorry, sir, I think I’m in shock. I’d be honored to represent the Saints, thank you,” I say, reaching out my hand to shake his.
“Okay, get out of here.” He gestures toward the door, so I pick up my pace and return to the locker room to grab my stuff.
Holy shit. I’m an All-Star.
I head back to my cubby on autopilot, the news still not fully sinking in. I grab my phone, knowing exactly who I want to share the news with, but I already have a message waiting from her.
Hannah :
Hey. Landed. I’m going to have to rain check tonight. My mother is insisting on a “family meeting.” I’m sure to discuss how my breakup will affect her
Unable to get Fox’s words out of my mind, I quickly change her contact name.
Me:
Oh boy. No worries, we’ll catch up tomorrow. You doing okay?
Hannah:
Hanging in there.
I hate the thought that she’s upset over the breakup with Knolls, but I can’t say I hate the fact they broke up. It’s no secret Knolls and I aren’t friends. We used to be, though, freshman year at Rumford U. Both centers, both new to the team, both fighting for the first-line spot. He won, of course. But after that, we bonded over our shared love for hockey and dreams of making it to the NHL. Outside of hockey, we didn’t have much in common, but we clicked… until we didn’t.
I consider sharing my good news in a text but decide against it, wanting to see her face when I do. Though it looks like I’ve lost my excuse to ditch the bar. At least now I have something to celebrate.
I meet Fox in the players’ lounge, where he’s sitting with Volk. “Was I right, or was I right?” he taunts with a smug grin.
“Looks like you have two wingmen tonight,” I say instead of answering his question.
“I get the night off?” Volk asks in his thick Russian accent.
“You heard the man. I have two wingmen.”
“None of the other guys are coming?” I hope they are so I can sneak out early without feeling too bad about it.
“Nah, just us sinners tonight.” Fox winks.
I run my hand down my face until I reach the stubble along my jaw. He’s really trying to get this “Saints’ Sinners” thing to catch on. I will give him credit; it’s catchy, but it’s a new level of ridiculousness, even for him. The three of us, plus our captain, Miles King, are the only single players on the team. I think “Saints’ Singles” would be a more appropriate name, but Fox said, “What’s the fun in that?”
“Don’t say that in public.” Volk takes the words from my mouth.
“You’re no fun.” Fox rises from his seat as Volk follows. The rush of fans heading home after the game has cleared, so we’re able to slip through the quiet weeknight streets toward the bar, just a couple of blocks away.
Stepping into Sully’s, a hole-in-the-wall pub we hit up often, the familiar smell of stale beer and fried food assaults us. What I wouldn’t give to break my in-season diet and order a burger. The crowd is mostly neighborhood regulars, not the kind of place Fox usually goes when he’s hunting for a hookup, but it works for me, preferring the laid-back vibe.
We settle into a corner booth, the perfect spot for people-watching, partially hidden in the dim lighting. Overhead, the TVs above the U-shaped bar play football highlights from the weekend’s divisional games. I’ve never been a football fan, but Fox zones out watching them as Volk heads to the bar, returning a few minutes later with two beers and a Coke for Fox.
“Fuck, tonight’s game.” I take a long gulp of my beer. “When are we going to pull it together?”
The answer is, we’re probably not. The season’s more than halfway done, with only twelve weeks of regular play left.
“Keep your chin up, champ.” Fox nudges my chin with a grin. I wish I could be as carefree as him about losing. “And quit holding out on us. What did Coach want?”
I fill them in, and neither is surprised by the news, seeing as they had their money on me. They tell me about their plans for the break, and I tell them how All-Star, though exciting, put a wrench in my plans. At least Hannah and the event are both in Florida. I’ll just have to figure out how to balance my schedule so I can still spend time with her.
Fox is easily distracted by a group of women at the bar, tipping his chin in their direction. “Redhead and brunette, dibs on the redhead. I’m feeling something spicy tonight. Who’s with me?”
“Not it!” Volk and I say at nearly the same time. I get the words out quicker, saving myself from playing Fox’s wingman. I dig my phone out of my pocket as the guys head toward the bar, taking a picture of myself frowning into my glass of beer, and press send.
Me:
Look what you’ve sentenced me to. *Fox and Volk’s bullshit not pictured.
I get a response almost immediately.
Hannah:
Oh, poor you, enjoying a beer with your friends. Sounds terrible.
Me:
More like drowning my sorrows.
Hannah:
Can you drown in one beer?
Me:
How do you know it’s my first? I could be seven in by now.
Hannah:
Because I know you… Mr. Passed Out After Three Drinks.
Me:
That was one time!
She sends me a selfie, sticking her tongue out playfully, and I chuckle at the screen. But my good mood fades when I look closer and notice the red rims and glassy look in her eyes. I’m determined to turn her mood around when I see her.
The last time we were together in person… fuck, it was before the season started. Since college, our friendship has been mostly virtual—texts, FaceTime, and phone calls. It’s not ideal, but we make it work. Usually, we catch up when the Saints play the Spurs or during the summer. It’s not nearly enough for my liking, but it’s better than nothing.
I’ll be seeing her in just over a week , I remind myself.
The next morning, Hannah is the first person I try, but it’s early, so I’m not surprised when my FaceTime call goes unanswered. She’s never been a morning person. I pull up my mom’s contact and hit the video icon.
Her face lights up on the screen, eyes crinkling with a warm smile. “Hi, honey! This is such a nice surprise. How are you?”
Translation: You don’t call me enough.
“Hi, Ma, I’m good. How’s everyone there?”
“Great, Mia is considering college. What a relief. And you know Greg, trying to keep busy around the house. That man is not built for retirement.” She shakes her head, but there’s a fond look on her face. “How about you? How’s hockey?”
“Is that Ryan, Mom?” Mia shouts from off-screen, and then my stepsister’s face pops up over my mom’s shoulder.
While I’ve always been driven to push myself further, Mia’s the opposite, more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants type. She’s had more jobs than birthdays, more relationships than I can keep track of, and travels nearly as much as I do, which is saying something, considering I’m on the road over thirty days a season for hockey. But her home base remains our parents’ house. Even though we don’t share DNA, I wish I’d gotten some of her carefree spirit.
“What’s up, kid?” I tease.
“You are aware we’re pretty much the same age, right? You’re only three years older, old man.”
“Nearly four,” I quip. She just turned twenty-two, but in my mind, she’ll always be that nine-year-old I first met.
She shakes her head with a laugh. “Can I come down for another game before the season ends?”
With my family living just a couple of hours north of Chicago, visits are easy. “Sure thing. Let me know when and we’ll plan it.” Focusing back on Mom, I ask, “Is Greg around? May as well break the news to the whole crew.”
“Dad! Get in here!” Mia yells for my stepdad.
Greg appears behind them, not bothering to bend to get in the shot. “Ryan? That you?”
“The one and only.”
“How’s our hockey star?”
I can’t help but laugh. “This might be the first and only time you’re right in calling me a star. Coach picked me for All-Star Weekend. I’m the backup, you know, with King out?—”
“Bull crap.” Greg interrupts me. “It’s about time you were recognized for how much you do for that team.”
I clear my throat and shift in my seat.
Greg is who got me into hockey. When he started dating my mom, I was twelve, which is pretty late to the game by hockey standards. But Greg believed in me, signed me up, bought my gear, and never missed a practice. I wouldn’t be here without him. He’s been more of a father than the guy whose last name I carry: Logan. I’ve made it my own, taking ownership of the name of the man who bailed on me and my mom when I was too young to understand what was happening.
I shake out my hands, realizing I’d clenched them into fists.
“Honey, I’m so proud of you. That sounds wonderful! Greg is right, you are a superstar,” Ma says. I don’t bother correcting her. Superstar, All-Star, same difference.
“Congrats!” Mia adds.
“We’re all very proud of you, Ryan,” Greg says.
“Thanks. It’s an honor just to be considered good enough to stand among those guys. Just wanted to share the news, but I have to get going. I’ll call soon, okay?”
“Yes, please, don’t be a stranger. Love you,” my mom says, followed by similar send-offs from Greg and Mia.
An incoming call stretches my grin to its limits, but her returning smile isn’t real—it’s that impostor smile she’s been wearing recently, even before the breakup. My face pinches with concern, guilt gnawing at me. I should’ve seen something was wrong. “Hannah, you know you can talk to me, right? Whatever you need, I’m here.”
She spaces out before responding. “I know, Ry. Thank you.” She looks like she wants to say more, but she’s holding back.
Hoping to cheer her up, I jump in with my good news. As expected, she reacts with even more enthusiasm than my family, her real smile finally breaking through and lighting up her face.
“That’s amazing! Despite your doubts, I always knew it would happen. Haven’t you learned by now that I’m always right?” She tries to wink but ends up scrunching up one side of her face, not quite managing it. I chuckle, and she scowls at me, a look that is about as threatening as a kitten. “You don’t think it’s getting better? I’ve been working on it in the mirror.”
“You’ve been winking at yourself in the mirror?”
She waves me off, like I’m the ridiculous one. “Will I still get to see you when you’re in town?”
“Yeah, we’ll find time,” I assure her. The weekend’s packed, with events spanning three days—a draft, skills competition, media, and finally games on the last day—but we’ll make it work.
“I’m actually scheduled to cover the event.” She sighs. “I’ve been trying to get out of the contract, but I’m not holding my breath. At least you’ll be there and I’ll get to cheer you on.”
“Aw, my favorite cheerleader,” I joke.
She rolls her eyes but laughs. “It was a phase. It’s not like I tried out to be a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader or anything. I know my skills don’t lie in dance… or coordination.”
This is true, though she did look really fucking good in the outfit. I chew on my bottom lip, holding back the words, something I’m well practiced at.
I clear my throat. “So, how’s home? Good family meeting?”
“Ugh, the worst.” She rolls her eyes before taking a deep breath, her voice shifting into a mocking tone. “ ‘Hannah, what’s going on? Why would he do that? What did you do? Hannah, dear, you must’ve done something. Why don’t you call him, talk to him? I’m sure there’s a solution.’ ” She sighs heavily. “It was awful. My mother didn’t stop until she ran out of breath several hours later.”
“I’m sorry,” I offer, not sure what the right words are. I’ve never had to deal with meddling parents.
“I’m reminded why I don’t visit my parents often. I love them, but they drive me nuts. Really, it’s my mother. My dad has been less vocal with his disapproval, if he has any. Be thankful you’re not an only child.”
I don’t correct her that, technically, I am. I know what she means. Mia and I grew up together, and even though we aren’t biologically related, we’ve always considered each other siblings.
“Sorry, I totally ruined the mood. I have a feeling I’ll be doing a lot of that…” She trails off before refocusing. “Anyway, I’m really happy for you, and I can’t wait to see you next week.”
“I can’t wait either.”
Despite what she thinks, no matter her mood, there’s nothing she can do to ruin mine if I’m with her.