Chapter 17
chapter seventeen
Ryland:
Okay, tell me. Please. I’m dying.
Dabbs:
Tell you what?
Ryland:
That thing you said. In French. When I was at your place.
Dabbs:
What will you give me for it?
* * *
Ryland was back on the ice two and a half weeks after his injury.
He’d been riding a high since this morning’s skate, the thrill of being back among his people, his sport, and his arena pumping through his veins until he was giddy with it.
And now, as he sat on the bench during the third period and awaited his next shift, his leg bounced with excess energy and sweat tracked tears down his face.
The Pilots were tied 1–1 against the Washington Undergrounds at home.
The Pilots and the Undergrounds were almost neck and neck in points this season. The game could go either way.
Ryland had landed in Columbus just over a week ago, and in that time, he’d alternated between missing Dabbs, being excited about playing again, annoyance over the rehab he wished he didn’t still have to do, and a bone-deep desire to see Dabbs again.
Over the past week, Dabbs had sent him cute photos of his dogs, cuter photos of Shannon the crocheted ice cream cone posed in various areas of the apartment, funny hockey memes, and daily pictures of Bellamy the pumpkin that didn’t actually look like Bellamy, often wearing an accessory.
A Trailblazers hat on a day the team had a home game, one of the dogs’ raincoats on a rainy day, and a scarf when the weather turned unexpectedly.
Dabbs also called Ryland out of the blue just to say hi.
Yesterday, he’d had a minute between parking and joining his team for a meeting, and he’d called Ryland on his walk into the building for a thirty-second conversation that amounted to hi-how-are-you-bye.
“Hewitt’s moving slowly today,” Miles Sheppard said on Ryland’s left.
Ryland looked over at their goalie. Hewitt stood between the pipes, calling out instructions to the pair of Pilots D-men on the ice.
“He’s trying to mask it, but he’s not firing at a hundred percent,” Miles added.
“His back’s been bothering him,” Ryland said.
Miles tutted. “Fucker’s going to cause himself permanent damage.”
“He wouldn’t be the first athlete to do so.”
“But he doesn’t have to be the latest. Coach should’ve taken him out of the game after the second period.”
Maybe, but that wasn’t up to them.
In the next second, Ryland was on the ice, Miles a moment behind him.
A Washington player had sent the puck into the corner of the offensive zone. Bart Lang got there first and passed to Miles, who got it out from behind the net. He lost it to an Undergrounder but won it back quickly when the Washington player attempted a sloppy pass to his teammate.
Ryland circled around a D-man, anticipating Miles’ pass, and when the puck hit his stick, he shot—
And missed.
He groaned along with the twenty thousand fans in the stands.
Ryland did not want his first day back to be one of those games that sparked headlines like Is Zervudachi really ready to get back on the ice?
No, this was going to be a Zervudachi scores first goal since returning from injury kind of game, and with seven minutes left in the third period, he had half of that—if he was lucky—to prove it.
His chance came sooner than he expected, and despite looking forward to overtime—he’d had the most overtime points out of everyone on the team last season—if he could win his team the game in regulation, all the better.
Ryland wasn’t sure how it happened, but the puck got lost in a shuffle of skates as Miles and two Washington players battled for it in front of the crease. Then, in a move too serendipitous to make sense of, someone kicked it aside with their skate.
And it landed right on Ryland’s tape.
Ryland was so surprised that he stared at it for a full two seconds before registering what had happened. Miles’ shout of “Move it, Ry!” sent him bursting into action, and before he could think twice, he shot . . .
And scored.
The goal horn blew, fans flew to their feet, and Miles jumped on him before being joined by Lang and their D-men.
Reporters wanted a moment of his time after the game, so he donned his Columbus Pilots hat, ensuring the brim didn’t hide his eyes, and stood tall as he answered their questions.
“How’s your shoulder feeling?”
“You had a strong start today and an even stronger finish. Can you tell us what was going through your mind in the final few minutes of the game?”
“Walk us through the last few weeks, Ryland. How did you stay in shape while recuperating from your injury?”
“The Trailblazers also had a game tonight, but they lost. Anything to say to Bellamy Jordan about that?”
One of the reporters smirked. “Or to your new boyfriend?”
Ryland lost his smile and backed up a step. Once upon a time, he would’ve grinned like the Cheshire Cat and said something like, “The only thing I have to say to Bellamy Jordan is that obviously the better man won.”
He’d never say that now, though. He respected his brother’s choice in partners too much, for one thing. And for another, he’d grown to respect Bellamy.
And as for the second thing, that was the first question he was asked about his relationship with Dabbs?
Fucker.
“Man, that’s not a fair question,” Ryland said.
“You all know that Bellamy and I are on friendly terms now. That’s .
. . Yeah, I’m not going to answer that, and I don’t appreciate you trying to start something.
And as for me and Dabbs, I have nothing to say about that if you’re just going to belittle it. ”
The public relations people called a halt to the interview after that, and Miles—who’d scored tonight’s first goal early in the second period—took the spotlight.
In the locker room, Ryland shook off his annoyance and sat on the bench in front of his stall to check his phone.
Nothing from Dabbs, but that wasn’t surprising.
He was probably still at the arena. He hadn’t been cleared to play yet, but as team captain, his coach had given him permission to sit behind the bench during home games.
Ryland did have messages from his siblings and his dad in the family group chat, though.
Jason:
He’s baaaaaaack!
Brie:
I bet Dad five bucks you’d have a terrible first game back tonight.
Jason:
brIE! What the hell?
Dad:
She’s kidding.
Dad:
It was only a dollar.
Jason:
[eye roll emoji] I’m the only normal person in this family.
Dad:
That’s probably true.
Brie:
Says the guy whose wedding song was “Another One Bites the Dust.”
Dad:
Gave everyone a laugh, didn’t it?
Dad:
All joking aside, great game tonight, Ry. It’s good to see you back in the thick of it.
Ryland:
Thanks Dad and Jase.
Brie:
What about me??
Ryland:
You can give Dad his dollar.
Brie:
*gasp* The audacity!
He chuckled and set his phone aside, ignoring the social media notifications. In fact, he was going to take a page out of Dabbs’ book and turn them off altogether so the noise around their relationship didn’t taint what they had.
Rising, he went over to the sign-up sheet he’d tacked on the wall earlier, then raised his voice to be heard over the music. “Hey, assholes. Why do I only have two participants for the escape room?”
Herriman blinked owlishly at him. “Because you just put up the sheet today?”
“Yeah, chill,” one of the rookies said, a kid who tried too hard to fit in.
“Guys, it’s playground themed,” he told them. “There’s a literal jungle gym and those colored balls found in bouncy castles. Channel your inner child and sign up.”
“Playground, you say?” someone behind him said.
“That does sound fun,” Herriman admitted. He hobbled over, wearing only one skate, and used the pen Ryland had attached to the sheet to sign up.
That was more like it.
Ryland was no Roman Kinsey—not that he wanted to be.
Just that Roman’s comments about forming bonds and working through difficulties and committed players showing up for each other had struck a chord.
Like Kinsey had said, hockey teams could be cliquey, and the Pilots were no exception.
They showed up for each other, sure, but there was a connection missing.
He and Des had talked about escape rooms in the summer, and now that he was back at a hundred percent and ready to roll, he was finally putting the idea into action.
The playground-themed room had capacity for twelve people.
Ryland had hoped for seven, and by the time he removed his game-day uniform, there were eight.
He just had to mention playgrounds then? Maybe he should’ve led with that.
Miles sat next to him and stretched out his long legs. “You look pleased as fuck.”
“Moi?” Ryland played dumb. “What could I possibly be pleased as fuck about? Maybe the fact that people actually want to go to an escape room with me?”
“They are fun,” Miles said. “I’m going to skip it though. I’m not in the mood for it.”
“Which is precisely why you should come. Besides, I already signed you up for it.”
Miles’ short laugh had a genuine thread of amusement. “Of course you did. So. Question. Does the offer to stay with you still stand?”
“Does the—” Ryland gaped at him. “Yes. Of course.”
Miles let out a breath that ballooned his cheeks. “Okay, good, because I still don’t have a bed, and I can’t sleep on an air mattress anymore. It’s killing my lower back.”
“I thought your bed arrived a few weeks ago?”
“It did. But it was the wrong one, so I sent the delivery guys back with it and told them to come back with the one I actually ordered. Except the company is telling me that was the one I ordered even though I have the email confirmation showing otherwise, and—” He hung his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I don’t want to cave and accept the bed I didn’t order—it’s the principle of the thing, you understand?
But I don’t have the energy to argue with them, and I can’t keep sleeping on the air mat—”