Chapter 6
chapter six
OCTOBER
The Columbus Pilots’ seven preseason games had been very middle of the road with three wins and four losses.
They’d allowed prospects a shot at the roster, and they’d given veteran players a chance to de-rust after the off-season, which Ryland had sorely needed.
He kept in shape—he had to—but aside from participating in Ethan Gallagher’s charity hockey tournament in Maplewood and assisting at Ethan’s hockey camp as a guest coach, actual ice time had been minimal.
As Ryland sat in the Pilots kitchen after tonight’s game—their first of the regular season, which had ended in an overtime loss to Nashville—he scrolled through social media as he scarfed down a yogurt cup with granola and berries.
Around him, his teammates munched on post-game snacks of their own, while others went through their post-game routines.
On the opposite side of the kitchen, one of the baby-faced prospects who’d been given a shot at the big leagues was debating a referee’s call from early in the first period with Herriman, a thirty-three-year-old vet who’d seen his share of bad calls.
“Don’t overthink it, kid,” Herriman said distractedly, gaze on his phone.
Burke’s face fell at the brush-off, and Ryland’s heart went out to the kid.
This disinterest of the older vets for the younger players was only one of the gaps Ryland wanted to begin trying to bridge this season.
“Yo, guys!” he yelled, loud enough to be heard out in the locker room and hopefully in the team’s lounge.
“Show-and-tell in five minutes.” To Burke, he said, “Did you grab something to eat? The grilled chicken wraps are really good, but if you’re looking for something lighter, there are yogurt cups and smoothies. ”
“Thanks, but I’ve never been able to eat after a game. I’ll be hungry in, like, an hour though, right as I’m ready to go to bed.”
“That’s inconvenient.”
“You’re telling me.” Burke sidled closer and sat at the counter on Ryland’s left. “Can I ask? What’s this show-and-tell thing about? Is it something you do every year?”
Ryland polished off his yogurt cup. “We started it this season to create commonalities between players and bring us closer together. It’s supposed to be fun, so when your turn arrives, don’t stress about it.
I mean, don’t bring your U14 jockstrap, but don’t bring your power of attorney documents either. ”
Burke laughed.
“I shouldn’t bring my divorce papers when my turn comes up, then?” Miles Sheppard, Ryland’s closest friend on the team, asked as he leaned between him and Burke to grab a Gatorade off the counter.
Ryland winced. “Shit, Miles. It’s official?”
“As official as my Pilots contract,” Miles murmured, cracking the Gatorade open.
“That really sucks, man,” Burke said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t get married, kid,” Miles said as he headed for the locker room. “It’s all downhill from there.”
Ryland stood and tossed his empty cup in the garbage bin. “Don’t listen to him. He’s understandably jaded.”
“And you’re not?” Burke asked, sounding genuinely curious.
“I don’t think I am. But I’ve also never been divorced.”
Ryland’s phone chimed an alert and he picked it up off the counter. A social media notification announcing that Kyle Dabbs had made a new post.
Yes, he’d set alerts for Dabbs’ socials.
No, he wasn’t embarrassed about it.
Biting back a grin, he clicked it open, then nearly choked on his own spit.
In the photo, Dabbs, wearing jeans and a tight blue T-shirt that showed off his biceps, sat on the front stoop of the townhouse he rented with Bellamy. He held one of his tiny Pomeranians in his arms; the other sat by his side.
There was nothing inherently sexy about the photo—in fact, its homeyness had Ryland’s gut clenching with envy—but Dabbs just looked so comfortable and content and adorable, if a built six-foot-four ginger-haired and -bearded hockey player could be labeled as adorable.
The caption was equally cute: Castle and Cosmo say hi.
If heart eyes were real, Ryland would be sporting them right now.
He screenshotted the photo and texted it to Dabbs.
Ryland:
Was this thirst trap your idea?
Dabbs:
The dogs’. They love showing off their guns.
Surprised into laughter at the unexpected quip, Ryland quickly texted back.
Ryland:
Do they get their own page in the annual Vermont Trailblazers calendar?
He was kidding, but Dabbs texted back a photo of Castle and Cosmo—one all-white with tufts of russet at the ears and the other all russet—sitting on an armchair with a Christmas tree in the background. They both wore Santa hats and the photo was labeled as December.
Ryland:
Wait, seriously???
Dabbs:
We did a Dogs of the Vermont Trailblazers calendar last year with the intention of donating the proceeds to a local rescue. We only printed the minimum amount, thinking they wouldn’t be hugely popular, but they sold out within an hour of them being put on display in the merch store at the arena.
Ryland:
Tell Castle and Cosmo they look handsome in their Santa hats.
Dabbs:
They said woof woof. That’s dog-speak for “Obviously.”
Laughing, Ryland was about to respond when Miles returned. “Are we doing show-and-tell, or what? Everyone’s in the locker room.”
“Shit, sorry.” Ryland scurried after him. “All right, everyone. Drumroll, please.”
The guys assembled in the locker room drum rolled on whatever surface was closest to them—the wall, a bench, their own thighs.
“Hewitt.” Ryland gestured at their goalie. “The floor is yours.”
Hewitt took the stage—or the middle of the locker room, as it were—toting what appeared to be a music case that was half as tall as he was.
“You brought a giant dildo to show-and-tell?” St. Graves asked, earning himself a mix of laughter and groans and one loud, “Gross.”
“This, you douchebags,” Hewitt said, “is a trombone. My siblings and I are all classically trained musicians, although my sister is the only one who ever did anything with it.”
“What are you going to play for us?” Lang asked from where he sat in front of his stall. “Beethoven? Vivaldi? Mozart?”
“I thought I’d try something a little more upbeat. And if I can have you all dancing inside of a minute, I want you to take that dildo comment back.”
St. Graves snorted. “In your dreams.”
Hewitt put the instrument to his lips and began to play . . .
The cancan.
And sure enough, in only a few seconds, guys were doing the cancan dance, and those who weren’t were bopping their hips.
Hewitt closed the song with a flourish, earning himself cheers so loud it made Ryland’s ears hurt.
St. Graves held out a hand, and Hewitt gave it a dap. “Yeah, all right, I take the dildo comment back.”
“Dude,” Burke said. “I’ll bring my guitar one day and we can jam out.”
“I’ll bring my trumpet,” Singleton added. “We can have a competition to see who does the cancan better.”
Lang raised a hand. “We get to cast the final vote, right?”
The night devolved from there, guys already making bets on which instrument would win. Hewitt drew Burke and Singleton into conversation, asking how long they’d been playing.
Ryland stood aside and watched it happen, his chest expanding with hope. This was what he’d wanted. Simple connection between human beings that would bring them closer together. Show-and-tell wouldn’t fix the Pilots’ cliquey problem—Ryland was aware he was playing the long game.
But it was a step in the right direction.