Chapter 18
chapter eighteen
Ryland:
What the actual fuck is paczki?
Dabbs:
A jelly-filled Polish donut.
Ryland:
You made that word up.
Dabbs:
Nope. Check the Scrabble dictionary.
Ryland:
How do you even know that word?
Dabbs:
There’s a European bakery in North Bay.
Ryland:
You suck.
Dabbs:
[laughing emoji] Hey, you were the one who wanted to play virtual Scrabble. You’re up next, by the way.
Dabbs:
“Jerk?” Really?
* * *
Ryland was somewhere in this building.
That thought floated in Dabbs’ head as he got ready for the Vermont Trailblazers versus Columbus Pilots game in Burlington’s Sport U Arena.
They’d attempted to make plans to see each other before the game, but they’d both been tied up with other things—Ryland with his friend Denver from Maplewood, who’d arrived for a visit this afternoon, and Dabbs with a meeting with an illustrator for his book that had gone very, very well.
His agent was putting a contract together, which would state that Dabbs would pay for her services, but she wouldn’t receive any of the royalties.
He’d looked deeper into the company he’d come across that offered services to authors for a fee, but they specialized in non-fiction.
There were other companies, of course, but his agent had suggested working with his team’s public relations people on marketing his books if he wasn’t going to go the traditional publisher route.
And since he had an illustrator on board who would also do his covers, all he had to do was figure out how to publish his books—as in the actual mechanics.
How did one get their books published to the big retailer sites anyway? Or get into bookstores?
A problem for another day.
The locker room buzzed with activity. Sandro Zanetti was in charge of the music today, which meant reggae and hip-hop mixed with the odd country song. Dabbs had been cleared to play, and this would be his first game back in several weeks.
Dabbs ignored the chatter around him and focused on getting ready.
He needed to be on top of his game tonight and prove that he hadn’t lost his touch in the past few weeks.
He needed to stay on his toes too—the Trailblazers had swept round two of the playoffs against the Pilots last season.
The Pilots were no doubt feeling especially salty about that.
Understandable.
But it meant tonight’s game could get rowdy.
Coach Madolora, wearing a pinstriped suit with a purple pocket square, caught Dabbs’ eye from where he stood at the entrance to the locker room with a man who was vaguely familiar.
“Coach.” Dabbs approached him and nodded at the other man.
Early to mid-thirties, tall and lean, dirty blond hair pulled into a bun at the back of his neck, a trim beard, cunning blue eyes that swept the room as though looking for someone in particular.
He was dressed casually in jeans and a leather jacket, yet there was an air about him that announced he was here on business.
“This is Bennett Jackson,” Coach said to Dabbs. “One of the producers of the documentary we’ve been talking about. Bennett, this is Kyle Dabbs, team captain.”
“It’s official, then?” Dabbs asked, surprised he and his teammates hadn’t been told about it before springing a producer on the locker room. Coach had eventually told the team about the opportunity, but to Dabbs’ knowledge, they’d still been in discussion with the producer.
With Bennett Jackson, apparently.
And why did his name strike a chord of familiarity?
“Not yet,” Bennett Jackson said, his voice a timbre that reminded Dabbs of a cello. “We’re still ironing out a few details. But I wanted to come by and meet you all in person, see if I can address any doubts that are holding you back.”
Right before a game? Dabbs crossed his arms over his chest and prepared to tell Bennett Jackson to come back tomorrow.
“Not right this second,” Bennett said, accurately reading Dabbs’ expression. “Trust me, I know players’ pre-game rituals can be sacred. Your coach was just giving me a tour of the facilities. I’m not here to get in the way.”
Something about the way Bennett claimed to understand pre-game rituals clicked in Dabbs’ brain, and he snapped his fingers.
“You’re a hockey player. Played for . . .
” Damn, it had been more than a decade ago.
“Chicago?” To his recollection, Bennett had played only a single season before virtually disappearing off the face of the earth.
Bennett’s smile was strained. “Yeah. A long time ago.”
“Excuse me,” Zanetti said, squeezing past Bennett on his way into the locker room.
Bennett sucked in a sharp breath. “Sandy.”
Dabbs didn’t think Zanetti heard him, not with the earbuds in his ears, but he paused and looked back, doing a double-take when his gaze landed on Bennett.
His expression hardened before he blanked it into neutrality. Dabbs would’ve missed the former if he hadn’t been looking. Zanetti stared at Bennett for a long moment, fists clenching at his sides, then pulled out an earbud and transferred his gaze to Coach Madolora. “What’s he doing here?”
It was asked casually, but Dabbs caught the undercurrent of tension.
So did Coach, judging by the raised eyebrow. “Bennett Jackson is one of the producers of the documentary.”
“Him?” Zanetti raked Bennett up and down.
It wasn’t friendly.
“This is the guy you want to trust with that? Good luck.”
Bennett stepped forward. “Sandy—”
“Don’t call me that,” Zanetti snapped. “You lost the privilege a long time ago.”
“Sandy—Sandro. I—”
But Zanetti had already popped his earbud back in as he headed for his stall across the locker room, shoulders stiff.
Bennett swallowed hard, his gaze on Zanetti’s back. A muscle worked in his jaw.
“Guess you two know each other,” Dabbs commented.
Bennett’s closed-mouth smile was grim. “It’s a long story.”
Coach whisked Bennett away to continue the tour of the facilities, and Dabbs crept up to Zanetti. His posture didn’t invite conversation, but if he needed to talk . . .
“Zanetti—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Zanetti snapped without turning around.
Well. That was subtle.
“Okay. But if you ever do want to talk—”
“Nope.” Zanetti kicked his running shoes into his stall, where they landed with a thump, thump. “There’s nothing to talk about. It was forever ago. So long ago that it doesn’t matter anymore.”
Hello, blatant lie, meet Pinocchio’s nose.
Dabbs nodded, unwilling to press the issue. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Zanetti echoed.
Dabbs left him alone since that was clearly what he wanted and went back to his stall to get ready. Coach would be back in the next half hour, and then it was game time.
Against Ryland’s team.
Against Ryland.
Dabbs tried not to think about him as he got ready, but not thinking about Ryland proved impossible at any time of the day, made doubly impossible when they shared the same ice rink.
He didn’t get a chance to talk to Ryland before the game, but he did catch Ryland’s gaze during the pre-game warm-up and sent him a wink. Ryland answered back with a grin and a wave and what was possibly the moonwalk on skates—show-off—and the crowd went wild.
Dabbs wasn’t sure if it was because of them or because the DJ started playing “Love Story” by Taylor Swift.
The game started off with a fight early in the first period that set the tone for the rest of the game.
One of the Pilots players said something that had the usually affable Zanetti shoving him, and it was all downhill from there.
Zanetti earned himself a penalty, and once he was out of the box, Billy Honeybun—a player who’d been with the Trailblazers as long as Zanetti—tripped the same Pilots player who’d provoked Zanetti in retribution.
“Guys,” Dabbs said on the bench between shifts. “Keep a level head.”
He should’ve saved his breath.
The Pilots were pissed and they weren’t shy about making it known. The Trailblazers, by contrast, were very smug, which wasn’t a good look on them and also wasn’t the norm. But the Pilots were bringing out the worst in them.
The situation wasn’t helped when Zanetti scored late in the first period, bringing the score to 1–0.
The Pilots came back angrier than ever in the second period.
That anger fuelled their determination, and they scored twice in quick succession.
But it also made them sloppy and desperate, allowing the Trailblazers to sink two goals into the net shortly after.
A second fight broke out, earning penalties on both sides, and each team had a player in the box when Dabbs met Ryland in the face-off circle.
Lines of stress bracketed Ryland’s eyes. Dabbs felt the tension too. Hockey was supposed to be fun, but this game was antagonistic in a way Dabbs didn’t enjoy.
Neither did Ryland, going by his strained smile. He’d taken his nose ring out for the game, and Dabbs found that he missed it.
He winked at Ryland as he readied for the puck to drop. “Hi, cutie.”
Ryland’s smile turned genuine and warm. “You think I’m cute?”
Fuck, it was good to see him. Dabbs’ body was already pumped full of adrenaline thanks to the game, and seeing Ryland ratcheted it up by a thousand. Screw the fans, the game, the other players. Dabbs wanted to jump him.
“Can I drop the puck?” the referee asked mildly. “Or do you guys want to flirt some more?”
“I’d like to flirt some more if it’s all the same to you,” Dabbs replied, hoping to lighten things up.
Ryland’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head, and on Dabbs’ left, Bellamy sounded like he was choking on laughter.
The ref’s lips twitched. “How about you save the flirting for after the game, huh? Ready?” Without further warning, he dropped the puck.
* * *
Despite last season’s playoffs disaster, Ryland hadn’t expected this first game against the Trailblazers to be so combative.
Playing against Dabbs was supposed to be fun, but this was decidedly not.