Chapter 17 #2
I texted back asking if we had to say anything now, or if we could wait a little bit.
Maybe we could tell Coach Mackenzie when we were engaged to be married.
He hasn’t replied, but I have a feeling I already know what the answer is going to be anyway.
He’s going to want to tell him as soon as possible, because Desmond is a good person, and he respects Coach Mackenzie.
So do I, but I’m also scared shitless of him.
My phone buzzes with a text just as headlights swoop across the other side of the parking lot.
Desmond
It’ll be okay, Jacko. I’ll talk to Nico on Monday.
It’ll be fine, I promise.
Nate’s truck rumbles to a stop at the curb, so Desmond is saved from a panicked but what if it’s not fucking fine text. The moment I open the passenger door, Nate turns in his seat to show me his back.
“Look,” he prompts, showing off the navy shirt he’s wearing. Morgan is emblazoned across his shoulders, sitting above a white seventy-seven. After giving me ample time to appreciate it, he sits forward and pats his chest. “Marcos bought it for me.”
“That’s awesome,” I tell him, snapping my seat belt in.
I’d faced a similar conundrum when Coach Mackenzie had first mentioned bringing us to the game.
I only own one T-shirt that supports our NHL team, but it’s generic and doesn’t have a player’s name or number on the back.
I’d looked online for a Carter Morgan one, but even the sale prices had been way beyond anything I could afford.
I doubt it will matter to Carter, but still.
“That’s cool they gave him the same number he had in college,” I comment.
“Yeah. Especially because the AHL team he played for in Florida didn’t,” Nate agrees, navigating the truck through the dark campus. “He was forty-nine with them, remember?”
The traffic is insane around the arena, and even though I’m not driving, my pulse skitters and my palms are sweaty.
I’ve had my driver’s license since I was eighteen, but because I don’t have a car, the driving test was the last time I’ve actually driven.
It’s times like this—when headlights from oncoming cars are slanting through the windows and into my eyes; the honking of horns surrounding us—that I’m happy not to be the one in charge of the vehicle.
Sometimes, I’d prefer not to be in the vehicle at all, but if I have to be, at least I get to be the passenger princess.
Nate, who isn’t bothered by the traffic, the horns, or really anything at all, brings us to the top of the parking garage and backs neatly into a space. He does it so smoothly, even though the vehicle is enormous, that I have the ridiculous urge to congratulate him.
“You’re a good driver,” I say, because truly, I probably would have just abandoned the truck and walked away ten minutes ago.
“Thanks, Micky Mouse. I grew up on a ranch, so I learned to drive as soon as my legs were long enough to reach the pedals.” He grins at me, before carefully opening up his door and hopping out.
We meet at the front of the truck, and Nate throws an arm over my shoulders, tugging me flush against him.
Nervously, I check my phone for the dozenth time to make sure the e-ticket is still there.
It is, because e-tickets don’t just disappear, but, because I’m composed entirely of nervous energy, I worry that it will anyway.
“Do you have your ticket?” I ask Nate, realizing that if anyone is going to forget uploading it, it would be my friend.
“Yeah, I think so. I downloaded it when Coach sent them out,” he responds nonchalantly.
I shake my head, unable to fathom the level of chill one must operate at to not feel the need to double- or triple-check things.
I’m pretty sure if I could live a single day with Nate’s confidence, I could take over the world.
When we get to the doors, it transpires that he does, in fact, have his ticket.
We join the flow of people heading inside, and the thrill of being here starts to affect me.
It’s been so damn long since I’ve been to an NHL game.
No matter how much I enjoy watching my peers play, college just doesn’t quite have the magic of the professional league.
I think about how awed I was as a teenager, watching Troy Nichols, and can hardly wait for the game to start.
“Hungry?” Nate asks, breaking me from my reverie about Troy Nichols and wondering if we’ll be seated close enough to the glass for me to see his face and the color of his eyes; the sweat curling his hair.
“Uhm, I’m fine.”
Nate glances over at me, hand on my back as he steers us over to one of the concession stands.
My face turns red as he steps up to order more food than even he can eat.
We don’t sit around talking about finances, but I know for a fact that he doesn’t have a surplus.
His uncle largely pays for his tuition, and his parents cover the rest. I know from random, offhand comments he’s made that there isn’t a whole lot to spare beyond what’s required to send him to school and keep him here.
But my friend is selfless by nature. A giver.
If he has fifty dollars in his pocket, he’s going to spend forty-nine of it on someone else.
Which, more often than not, is me. It embarrasses the hell out of me, even though I love him for it.
One day, I’ll pay back every single penny and bit of kindness that he didn’t have to provide me.
“Here you go,” he says happily, handing me a tray of food before grabbing his own.
“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that. I’ll pay you back.” I have to step behind him as we walk toward our section, but even from back here I can hear the scoff that earns me.
“Don’t worry about it. You can get it next time.”
I sigh, but don’t argue. He always says that, and, to date, I haven’t once paid for a meal when we’ve been together.
Somehow, Nate beats me to it and then pretends not to know what I’m talking about when I tell him he never lets me pay.
One day, I tell myself. One day you’ll have enough to do the same for him.
Only a few of the seats in our designated section are filled when we get there, which isn’t surprising seeing as I asked Nate if we could come early enough to watch warm-ups. Vas, here early as well, waves when he sees us.
“Look who it is!” Nate says cheerfully, taking the stairs down at a jog.
“Hello, my friends,” Vas greets us as we slide along the row toward him. He doesn’t have any food, and is wearing khaki pants and a light blue polo shirt with the NHL team logo on it. He looks like he might work here .
“How’s it going, buddy? Want some fries?” Nate asks, moving to sit on one side of Vas so I can sit on the other.
“Oh, I am fine. Thank you for offering.” He turns to me, smiling and patting my knee as I settle in my seat. “Micky, I am happy to see you! We are missing you.”
“I miss you, too,” I mumble, blushing. I really do, too. Behind Nate, Vas is—was—my favorite member of the team. He’s one of the best people I’ve ever met.
“Carter is going to be very surprised to see all of us here,” Vas comments happily. “I did not tell him, even though it was difficult to keep the secret.”
“You live with him, right?” Nate asks around the chicken nugget he shoved into his mouth.
“Indeed,” Vas agrees. “Although, during the season, it is more that I live with Zeke. Carter is not home very often.”
“I bet it’s nice living with them, though. Always having your friends around,” I comment, although I wait until I’ve swallowed my food, unlike some people in the vicinity. “Always having someone to talk to, and eat dinner with.”
“Yes, it is very enjoyable. I am trying to teach Carter how to close doors without slamming them, but have not been very successful.”
Nate chokes a little bit as he laughs, turning his face away from us and covering his mouth with a hand as he coughs.
Vas pats his back helpfully, pulling out his phone to check his text messages.
I look away and out at the empty ice as I eat the food Nate bought me, not wanting to snoop on whomever he’s texting.
A few minutes later, a hand lands on my shoulder and I startle so badly, the last of my fries jump off the tray and onto the ground.
“Coach Lawson!” Vas says, turning. Heart pounding and face likely red as hell, I turn around to see Anthony Lawson standing behind us. He gives an exasperated shake of his head, aimed in Vas’ direction, and pats my shoulder before letting go.
“How’re you boys doing? You’re here early as hell,” he comments, checking the time on his phone.
“We wanted to watch warm-ups,” Nate tells him, placing his empty tray on the ground and sliding it underneath his seat. “Is Coach here?”
He leans back in his seat as though trying to see if Coach is hiding behind Anthony Lawson.
“Nope, just me. Sorry.” He puts a hand on Vas’ curly head and ruffles his hair a little bit, the way I’ve seen Desmond do to Parker. Vas’ cheeks pink, but he looks pleased. “Come on, you three, let’s go see your buddy.”
Nate stands up immediately, grinning, and swings a leg over the seats to climb onto the level where Lawson is standing.
Vas and I follow a little slower, and trail behind the pair of them as we climb the concrete steps back up the way we came.
I wonder if we’re being led somewhere we aren’t supposed to go, and have those fears summarily confirmed when a security guard sees Lawson and laughs.
“You sure you don’t still work here?” he asks, grinning. “I swear I see you skulking around more often than anyone on the payroll.”
“We’re sneaking down to the ice,” Lawson replies, slapping the man genially on the shoulder and indicating us with his other hand.
“I didn’t see anything,” the guard says, hands held aloft. He winks at me, and walks in the opposite direction.
“Come on,” Lawson prompts, once more striding purposely off. Vas sends me a slightly put-upon look, but follows. At least if we all get arrested, I’ll be in good company .
Nobody gives us a hard time as we head below, even though we cross through several doors that are labeled with warnings about staff only. He brings us to the bench, checking the time and leaning over to mutter something to the training staff that makes them laugh.
“Right on time,” Lawson says to us, smiling. “They’ll be coming out soon and you can surprise Carter. Give him something new to grump about.”
I stand as close to Nate as I can, feeling like my presence here shouldn’t be allowed.
Ridiculous, since we passed at least eight people who knew Anthony Lawson by name and didn’t stop us.
Even still, the fight-or-flight portion of my brain is telling me it’s time to bail before the cuffs are slapped on.
I lean down to plead my case to Nate and try to convince him to leave with me, when the team starts taking the ice for warm-ups.
Troy Nichols is the first one through the open door, blade cutting into the pristine ice as he hits it at a run. Nate whacks his hand against my stomach, as though thinking there’s any way I didn’t notice my favorite player just run by.
Corwin Sanhover passes through the open door in the boards, and does a double take when he sees Anthony Lawson. Instead of taking a lap around the ice the way everyone else is doing, he turns and skates over to us.
“They’re going to give your photograph to security and bar you from the arena,” he notes, which makes Lawson scoff.
“Please. Like security could stop me.”
Corwin Sanhover laughs and shakes his head, nodding politely to me and Nate, and murmuring a hello to Vas that makes him flush. When he skates off to warm up, Nate sighs.
“He’s so hot,” he comments at a volume that immediately makes me want to slap a hand over his mouth. Lawson snorts.
As the last of the forward and defensive players make their way through the chute, the goaltenders finally make an appearance.
Carter doesn’t even look over as he steps onto the ice, heading off to skate a slow lap around their half of the ice.
Nate grins, leaning his forearms against the boards and watching.
I try to relax a little bit and just enjoy the treat that Lawson is bestowing on us.
Clearly we aren’t going to get in trouble, and clearly I need to chill-the-fuck-out.
When Carter notices us, his stern expression is clear even from across the ice. He looks pissed. Vas beams.
“He is happy to see us!” he exclaims, which has Lawson tipping his head back and laughing. Carter skates over, shaking his head at Vas but nodding at me.
“Hey, guys,” he grunts, coming to a stop at the boards. Nate, who apparently was a magician in a past life, produces a Sharpie and holds it out to Carter.
“Sign my shirt?” he requests sweetly. “I’m you’re biggest fan.”
I groan, but Carter’s lips curve into a small grin. He balances his glove on the wall and takes the Sharpie, scrawling a messy signature across one of the sevens on Nate’s back.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” he says to Vas.
“No. You were not meant to know. All of the team will be here.” He points toward our section, which is a lot fuller than it was when Lawson led us away.
“ All of the team?” Carter clarifies, tossing the Sharpie back to Nate.
“All,” Vas confirms.
“Oh,” Carter replies, the scowl slipping slightly as he looks between the three of us. He seems a little floored, as though he’s not sure what he’s supposed to say. He’s saved by Lawson, who claps a hand on the back of Nate’s neck, and shakes him back and forth.
“We better get out of here, though. Just wanted to say hello.”
He starts to lead us back down the tunnel we came through, when Carter calls out.
“Mick.” I turn in time to watch him scoop a puck up with the flat of his stick, flipping it through the air to me. Catching it, I smile at him, which he returns before skating over to his backup to stretch.
I follow behind Nate and his freshly autographed shirt, puck clutched tightly in my hand as we leave the team area.
It’s just a hockey puck—a small rubber disk that is pretty much useless in the grand scheme of things.
But all the things I own can fit into a single trash bag, and most of those things were purchased secondhand.
The few items I own that were gifted are immeasurably valuable to me—my Troy Nichols jersey, the SCU hockey T-shirt Nate gave me, and now this.
When we get back to our seats, I snap a picture of the puck sitting in my palm and send it to Desmond. His reply makes me beam, because he already knows without me having to explain it.
Desmond
Game puck from Carter Morgan III?
Priceless