25. The Great Sock Debate
25
THE GREAT SOCK DEBATE
Miles
I could really use a Border Collie.
The second I step into the locker room for our season opener on a Wednesday in early October, it’s buzzing with noise—gear clattering, banter flying. Herding these guys for the opening night team pic feels like wrangling twenty-plus rowdy sheep. A canine companion would make this so much easier.
But Coach asked me to round everyone up, so here I am.
“Boys,” I call out, stepping into the chaos, but my voice barely registers over Hugo’s loud declaration.
“For once and for all: you can wear sandals with a suit,” Hugo argues from his locker, peeling off a sock with cartoon cupcakes on it, “but you can’t wear socks and sandals with a suit.”
“Why are you discriminating against socks?” Wesley shoots back, yanking off his Corgi-butt socks like they’re badges of honor. “Socks are elite. Do you hate the coolness of socks?”
“Socks aren’t cool,” Tyler says from across the room, earning him a withering glare from Wesley.
“Maybe you didn’t get the memo, Little Falcon,” Wesley fires back as he tosses his suit jacket into his stall. I stifle a laugh at the nickname he just gave my brother.
Judging from the eye roll, Tyler’s not too fond of it, but Wesley doesn’t back down. Nope. He holds up his Corgi-butt socks once more like evidence in court. “I have monkey socks, giraffe socks, dumpster fire socks, librarians-like-it-hard socks, I-read-banned-books socks, Christmas socks, Halloween socks, and zombie socks. Socks are motherfucking elite.”
“Thank you, Wesley, for that rundown of your sock drawer. Exactly what we all needed today. Now, as I was saying, we need to get our asses in gear for the team pic,” I say, gesturing pointedly toward the exit.
Max stops loosening his tie. “Yes, but did you know I have I-hate-everyone-but-you socks?” he says, smirking as he holds up his foot to show off said socks. “Everly gave them to me.” It’s hard for him to hide the obvious adoration he has for his fiancée.
“Yeah?” Asher snorts. “Well, I’ve got giraffe briefs, monkey boxer briefs—but not Corgi butts. Hmm. I need those too. I might pitch that idea to CheekyBeast.” He whips out his phone, muttering a note to himself to send to, I think, his underwear sponsor, before turning back to Tyler. “So yeah, man, socks with animals are definitely cool.”
“You literally just bragged about your underwear, dude, not socks,” Tyler shoots back, scratching his head .
“And you should wear fun underwear too, man. Tip of the day from yours truly,” Asher says.
“I have black socks. And black briefs,” Rowan contributes dryly.
“Black—like your soul,” Asher says with an eye roll.
I plant myself in the center of the room, stick two fingers in my mouth and let out a sharp, piercing whistle that cuts through the chaos.
“Boys,” I say firmly, drawing all eyes to me. “Let’s settle this, yeah?”
Christian sheds his suit jacket in his stall near the back, raising a brow. But he stays quiet as the scene unfolds. It’s subtle, but his presence is felt—the watchful eyes of the current solo captain. This is a test, I realize. He’s waiting to see how I handle this circus—this show of leadership. Usually, he’s the one rounding up the unruly children, but if I’m going to be co-captain, this is absolutely part of the job. And since our first game of the season is tonight, I want to set the tone.
I turn to Hugo first. “You’re right—don’t wear socks with sandals and a suit. That’s just painful to my eyes and, frankly, all eyes.”
Then to Tyler: “Socks are cool. Deal with it.”
Tyler blanches, then swallows roughly, nodding. “Fine,” he grumbles.
Wesley sits up straighter, grinning Tyler’s way. “See? I told you, Little Falcon. And Big Falcon agrees. Socks are the G.O.A.T.”
“And Asher,” I add, pointing a finger. “Corgi butt idea? Golden. Get that happening ASAP.”
Asher salutes me with his phone. “On it.”
I turn to Rowan. “Your black soul is exactly what we need on the ice. ”
The defenseman gives a workman-like nod. “And it’s what you’ll get every single game.”
Finally, I return my focus to my brother since it’s time for some tough love. “Listen, man. The issue isn’t your socks. It’s your sandals,” I say, gesturing to the offending footwear he kicked off that I kind of can’t believe he wore with a suit on the first day. “They’re giving major number-one dad vibes. And I think that’s the real problem.”
The room erupts in laughter as Wesley slides across the bench to sit next to Tyler. “He’s right. Your sandals are the weak link, bro. Don’t worry; I can help. I don’t want you left behind in the sock-or-sandal revolution.”
“But no socks with sandals and suits,” Hugo cuts in. “Big Falcon said so.” He points to the DickNose board, then turns to me, his eyes like a puppy dog’s. “Can we make that a rule?”
Seizing the opportunity to wrap this debate up and move on, I grab the marker from the board. “Dress code rules. No socks with sandals while wearing a suit,” I write at the top, underlining it. “And…dress like a cool dad.”
“Ouch,” Tyler groans, clutching his chest as if he’s been stabbed. “Way to twist the knife.”
“We’re just looking out for you,” Hugo says, smirking. “One dad to another. Also, for the record, my wife dresses me, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.”
“Cookie Melissa?” Wesley asks, his curiosity piqued. Pretty sure he has developed a cookie addiction courtesy of Hugo’s baker wife.
“Damn right. She’s got great taste in cookies and clothes,” Hugo replies, and an idea forms in my head.
I snap my fingers. “We should send Leighton over to shoot a video of that,” I suggest. “Cookie Melissa picking out the defenseman’s clothes. That’s gold for social. ”
“Fashion tips from the players’ wives,” Wesley muses. “Hell yeah.”
“Right. I’ll pass it on to Everly first and see if she approves,” I say, pointing my thumb toward the locker room exit, and moving on from this talk of Leighton, since I can’t let on that I’ve thought about her nearly nonstop since the night at her place more than a week ago. “But right now, we need to get to the ice for a promo pic. Get your jerseys on and let’s go.”
They groan, but one by one, they pull on their jerseys and uniform shorts, lace up their skates and shuffle out of the room. I stay behind, making sure every last one of them gets their ass in gear, including Christian, who claps me on the shoulder as he passes.
“It’s no joke being co-captain potentially, huh?” he says, his voice low enough for only me to hear. “I won’t miss this stuff. I’ll delegate rounding up the boys to you.”
I glance at him, smirking. “So you’re putting me in charge of the sheep herding if I get the gig, Winters?”
“Fuck yes, Falcon. I’m keeping the good stuff for myself,” he says, then strides out, leaving me alone with the faint echoes of chaos still ringing in my ears.
I guess I’m the Border Collie. And…I don’t really mind.
But honestly, the real Border Collie is Scuppers. He’s the team’s mascot—part Border Collie, part Husky, and all rescue. When I step onto the ice a minute later, the black-and-white dog is already rolling on his back, legs flailing, begging for belly rubs.
“Aww, Scups,” Asher says, crouching to pat the four-legged critter. Scuppers paws at him, demanding more attention, while Leighton snaps picture after picture a few feet away. I keep my cool, careful not to look at her gorgeous face. We’ve been doing a solid job sticking to our friendship rules. Besides, a little dirty sexting doesn’t count. It was only once, anyway.
Shame, that.
“Did you put dog food on your face?” Wesley asks Asher.
“Nope. I’m naturally dognip,” Asher says, grinning as Scuppers flips over and pops up to lick his face.
“And I figured my natural animal magnetism would be enough,” Rowan says, with a deep sigh.
I clap him on the back. “Tough break, Bishop. Stings not being the chosen one, huh? Maybe do some journaling later. Get to the bottom of it.”
He scowls, then calls to get Scuppers’s attention again. But the dog whips around, surveys the scene, and bounds over to me instead, skidding along the ice, all paws and excitement, then plopping into a perfect sit at my feet, tail wagging furiously even in the cold.
“See? He knows what side his bread’s buttered on,” I say, scratching under Scuppers’s chin as Leighton’s camera clicks away.
She’s good at this—moving seamlessly among the guys, blending in to capture candid moments. Still, the closer she gets to me, the more my bones hum, the more my insides churn, the harder my pulse thuds. Her dad stands just a few feet away, arms crossed as he watches her work. It’s a reminder to keep my cool.
Everly clears her throat from the players’ bench, breaking the moment. “All right, guys, let’s get some team pics before the first game of the new season!”
She outlines the poses, but half the guys are already distracted. When she’s done, I turn around, and face the clowns. “Listen up, boys. You do a good job and focus right now, and drinks are on me tonight when we win.”
That gets their attention. Everyone snaps to, striking their best game faces for the team photo.
“Excellent,” Leighton says, her voice calm and encouraging as she snaps away. “That’s right. Just like that.”
She lowers the camera, turning to the bench. “How about one with you, Coach McBride?”
The guys react instantly. Hugo snickers. Alexei cracks up. Rowan snorts.
I shoot them both a glare. “Focus, boys.”
Coach gives a crisp nod, skates onto the ice, and lines up with us. Like magic, every single guy straightens up, standing at attention.
Leighton doesn’t miss a beat, snapping a couple of quick shots. “Good job,” she says, lowering the camera with a satisfied smile.
Because we all want to impress Coach. He’s that kind of guy.
A few minutes later, as I’m leaving the ice, Coach catches up to me. He nods, his expression unreadable. “Good job rounding them up for the shot,” he says. “That’s what I wanted to see.”
The subtext isn’t exactly subtle. This is what he wants in a co-captain.
“Glad to hear that, sir,” I say evenly.
“And remember, I’ll need you to take point on the press too,” he adds. “That’s part of the responsibility—being willing to talk to the media, even when we lose. Even if you’ve had a bad game. It’s about being the face of the team. ”
“Understood,” I say, stoic and sturdy. Exactly what he needs me to be.
“And accessible as well,” he says, his lips quirking in the faintest smile.
My gut twists. Would he still smile at me like that if he knew the things I’ve said to his daughter? The things I want when I look at her? The things I’ve done with…photos?
Hot shame slices through me, and I force all those traitorous thoughts aside.
When it’s game time, Leighton’s standing in the tunnel again, camera at the ready, snapping pics as we head to the ice, stopping at Scuppers along the way. The mascot hangs out at the end of the tunnel next to his handler, offering a paw for high-fives. Every player stops to high-five—high-paw—the dog for good luck. When I stop to offer a hand, I fight like hell not to turn my head back and look at Leighton one more time. I’m ready to high-five myself for my resistance when I reach the gate, but then something—a force more powerful than me—draws my attention back to the beautiful brunette with the Nikon around her neck.
Some days I wish I didn’t want her so much.
But it’s so much more than want—this feeling that won’t go away. I linger on her for another second, then I hit the ice.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” I urge as a Phoenix defender swarms Callahan before he can take a shot, but he flips the puck to Bryant, who ferries it around the back of the net, hunting for an opening.
Like, say, me.
I sneak past the defender chasing Callahan, getting open for Bryant. He flicks the puck my way, and I lunge for it, then line up my shot, but it bounces off the post.
“Fuck,” I grumble as Phoenix recovers it and streaks down the ice. My skates dig hard into the surface as I race to cut off their momentum, the burn in my legs a distant hum beneath the adrenaline. The crowd roars, but I tune it out. There’s no time to think about anything but this play.
Lambert looms in front of the net, his stick flashing out to bat the puck away before the Phoenix forward can even think about shooting. It rockets toward the boards, ricocheting off with a sharp crack that echoes through the arena.
Right to Tyler.
Sweet.
My brother’s stick inhales the puck, and he’s off like a shot, tearing down the ice with me flanking him. I’m open, so I call for it, a quick snap of my voice over the chaos. He doesn’t hesitate. My stick catches it cleanly. My eyes snap to the goalie.
There. Right there.
The gap between one of the goalie’s legs and the post is just wide enough.
I pull back and fire. The puck cuts through the air and slams into the net. The lamp lights, and the crowd cheers.
“Yes!” I shout, pumping a fist in the air. My pulse races— not just from the play, but from the relief I feel every single time.
Ever since my injury, I play on a different level of awareness. I don’t take my health for granted like I honestly did before the ACL tear. Now, there’s a low-level buzz in my brain, a memory of what could go wrong. So when things go right, I want to kiss the sky.
Relief and gratitude flood me. This team took a chance on me, and I’m determined to prove they made the right call. I’m determined to prove it every season, every game, every play.
Bryant skates over, knocking fists with me, and Callahan follows. But it’s Tyler’s assist that steals the moment. I grab him, pulling my brother into a hug that turns into a group pile-on. When we break apart and skate to the boards, I knock fists with him again.
“Nice job. It’s going to be a good season,” I say.
“I hope so,” he says as we hop over the boards.
The game isn’t over yet—we’ve got a few minutes left to play—but he gives another nod, maybe believing it at last, possibly feeling like he’s fitting in.
I tap my stick to the floor. “It’s not easy joining a new team,” I say, just for him.
“Especially when your brother plays on it,” he says.
“But you’re finding your way,” I say.
“Thanks. I hope so. I really want this to stick,” he says, genuine hope in his voice. Tyler had a good career in Los Angeles, but he carries a lot on his shoulders with two young kids. This career isn’t just about him—it’s about the life he’s building for his family.
I glance toward the stands, following his gaze to where Mom and Harvey sit with Birdie and Charlie, and Tyler’s kids, Luna and Parker. Tyler yanks off his gloves, waving to all of them, but his eyes linger on his son and daughter. He makes a heart gesture with his hands, and they wave frantically back at him, practically bouncing in their seats.
Somewhere in the arena, ovaries explode.
“Proud of you,” I say, admiring how he balances all the things. “You’re a good dad.”
“They’re good kids,” he says, and that’s just like him too. Deflecting.
I turn my focus back to the ice.
The game isn’t over yet, but something in the way we’re playing tonight tells me it’s going to be a good season. I just have to keep showing that the ACL injury didn’t break me. I feel that way every season here though. It hangs over me. A question the press might ask. A worry teammates might have. A concern for the coaching staff.
I don’t want anyone to worry about me—ever. I want to leave that guy recuperating far in the rearview mirror.
As the next line gets ready for the faceoff, with Winters poised and ready, I glance at the stands and spot Leighton. Nikon in hand, she lowers the camera, and her gaze lands on mine. Excitement flashes in her eyes. Maybe pride too. But that smile…hell, it digs right into my soul. It’s beautiful, and I wish I could flash her the public grin I want. Blow the kiss I want. Haul her in for a hug after the game, like I want.
This is getting ridiculous. I’ve had one date with the coach’s daughter, and she’s etched into my mind and heart.
It’s hardly one date. You’ve been sneaking hits of her all along, hanging out with her, talking to her, getting to know her.
And now is not the time for voices in my head.
I’ve got to get over all these feelings for her.
I jerk my gaze back to the ice .
Focus.
The game’s not done, and there’s still more to prove.
I turn back around to watch our team destroy Phoenix until “Tick Tick Boom” plays, signaling our win.
We cheer and knock fists and smack gloves as all the guys look to me, including Winters.
“Drinks are on you,” is the repeated refrain.
The captain grins, clearly amused as we head off the bench and into the tunnel. “You keep promising drinks, you’re gonna have empty pockets by the end of the season.”
“Sounds like a perfect tradeoff,” I say, then head through the tunnel, where my heart hammers—and it’s not from the win. It’s from the photographer at the other end, taking pictures.
This is going to be a long season.
Torturous even being so close to her.
And the thing is—I am here for it.