Chapter 6
ODD MAN RUSH
Odd Man Rush: creating a scoring opportunity by outnumbering the opposing defense in the zone.
Graham
The only time I ever ate at The Slippery Elm — one of Harkness’s few fancy restaurants — was when my parents came to town.
This time, when I arrived at the entrance to the sleek dining room, none of my family had arrived yet.
But the last text I’d received had the ‘rents checking in to their hotel, so I knew it wouldn’t be long.
The place smelled like turkey, stuffing, garlic, and herbs. My stomach growled in appreciation. When a smiling hostess came to rescue me, she asked if I had a reservation.
“It should be under Graham. Four people.”
“Follow me.”
She led me to a nice table by the window, where I received a wine list and the kind of hand-written menu which informed more than it invited you to make selections.
But on Thanksgiving, that was only fair.
The chefs in the kitchen were busy putting snooty touches on plate after plate of turkey with self-consciously fancy side dishes.
This year, we had hockey games scheduled during both the Thanksgiving and the Christmas breaks. So while most students booked flights for leisurely stays at home, the team would return early to what felt like a ghost town.
Not that I’m complaining. Hockey was a big deal at Harkness. That’s partly because hockey was a New England thing, and partly because Ivy League colleges can compete at a higher level in hockey than in a money sport like football.
And somehow I’d bluffed and blundered my way into the center of it all.
So my parents had flown in from Michigan to eat overpriced turkey with me on Thanksgiving, and then hang around to watch me play Saturday night. It was all pretty glam.
A server glided over to my table. He did, really.
He glided. Dressed in a crisp white shirt with a black vest, it was obvious that the restaurant was going for a traditional look.
But instead of stodgy slacks, this guy had upped the ante with a pair of very tight black jeans.
They hugged his ass in a way that I was trying not to notice.
So I looked at his face instead. He was probably about my age, or a couple of years older, with shiny black hair and blue eyes.
“Can I bring you a drink while you wait for the rest of your party?” His voice was huskier than I was expecting.
“Um…” Damn it. For a second there, I got a little stuck on how attractive he was. Shit. I looked down at the wine list, as if I knew fuck-all about wine. Deflector shields engaged. “What do you have on tap?”
He rattled off a string of choices, and I ordered the first beer on the list, just to get rid of him.
“May I see your I.D., sir?”
Great. A Coke would have been the way to go. Live and learn. I dug my wallet out of my back pocket, and handed it up to him, my gaze on the doorway. Now would be a great time for my parents to walk in. Or even my harpy of a sister.
No such luck.
He studied my driver’s license for a beat longer than really seemed necessary. Don’t look, I coached myself. Don’t look.
I looked. And his eyes met mine immediately. “Nice picture,” he said, handing it back to me. He didn’t wink or anything cheesy like that. But there was an unmistakable flare of interest there.
Stellar job, deflector shields.
I took my ID back, shoved it into my pocket, and then took a big slug of the cold water he’d poured me, just for something to do. He went away, and mercifully it was a different server who delivered my beer. I looked out the window and wondered how long it took my parents to check into a hotel.
And where was my sister? Lori was supposedly taking the Metro North up from New York, where she worked as a minion on Wall Street. I hadn’t seen her since the summer. Or anyone else for that matter, except my teammates and my textbooks.
November had been brutally busy. We’d played six hockey games that month, winning five and tying one.
It was a streak unheard of in Harkness history.
While our team had been solid for the past two years, we’d never sat so firmly atop the Eastern standings before.
If I didn’t think it would jinx me, I would have taken a screen shot of our record and hung it on the wall.
Even better, I’d managed to pull my weight in every game.
The truce that Rikker and I established probably had something to do with it.
Since our chat in his room, we’d had a nod-and-continue-walking-by relationship, which suited me fine.
He knew things about me that I wished he didn’t know.
I could never quite forget that with a single drunken utterance (hey, you want to hear a funny story about Graham?) he could end my life as I knew it.
But he didn’t do that. And, like he promised, he’d stopped reminding me that he could.
For the last few weeks we’d been just two teammates on the ice. Rikker just did his job feeding shots to Hartley, and I did my job warding off the other team’s offense. For the most part, my life had slipped back into control.
Until tonight.
Earlier this week, I’d realized that my parents’ visit to Harkness would rain down a new shower of awkward into my life.
And that’s why I sat there gulping my pint in the restaurant, wondering how I could get a second one without making eye contact with the sexy waiter.
Hell, my parents’ arrival in town made me want to change my drink order from ale to Bourbon.
“Mikey!”
I looked up to see my sister hoofing it in a skirt and heels across the room towards me.
And my parents were right behind her. I stood up to greet them, taking the onslaught of affection like a man.
My sister squeezed me, my mother tousled my hair and kissed me.
My father gave me the regulation one-armed man hug with a back slap.
We all sat down, and the family chatter began.
My sister complained about her job while my father asked me questions about our last game, and what Coach had in mind for Saturday.
Mr. Tight Pants came back to take drink orders and drop off a basket of warm cornbread.
I took a single surreptitious glance at his ass as he walked away.
I usually wouldn’t risk it when my family was around.
But the place was crowded. I could have been looking at anybody.
“I got Red Wings tickets for over Christmas,” my dad said.
“Yeah?” I dragged my attention back to the table. “That’s awesome.”
“If we drive down on the twenty-sixth, and return the next day, you’ll have another three days before you have to fly back.”
“Can’t wait,” I said. And it was true.
“I would have gotten tickets to the Winter Classic, but…”
“I know. My game schedule.”
But Dad only beamed. “Too busy winning!” He grew up in Texas, where they don’t play much hockey. He had been a big football fan his whole life, until I started skating. Now he followed the Red Wings — and me, of course — with red-blooded enthusiasm.
Three servers approached our table at once, so that our five salad plates could land on the table almost simultaneously.
That’s how fancy a joint this place was.
As a stylized pile of greens landed in front of me, I got a whiff of men’s cologne.
I didn’t even have to look up to guess which waiter had just served me, leaning the smallest fraction of a degree closer than necessary.
With my deflector shields firmly in place, I didn’t even blink. Peddle it elsewhere, buddy. Although, my empty beer glass was exchanged for a full one, even though I hadn’t asked for it. So I was grateful. But not grateful enough to spare him a thankful glance.
Too risky.
I forked up a bite of the fern-like salad. There were dried cranberries and some kind of candied nuts in there. It was great. As long as they didn’t run out of turkey in the next ten minutes.
“This is so good!” my sister said. “It was a great idea to come here, Mom. Thank you.” Three years older than I was, Lori had always been the family kiss-up.
“I’m just sorry you can’t stay the night,” my mother told her. “We would have gotten you a room.”
“I have to work tomorrow,” she grimaced.
“That is just ridiculous.”
“Beth,” my father warned. “Those training programs are rigorous. Lori is busy mowing down the competition.”
My father loved that phrase — mowing down the competition.
Dad loved winning. There were a couple of tricky years there in middle school when I wasn’t doing so well in football.
He tried to help, but I could just feel his frustration with me.
The fact that he didn’t know much about hockey when I started playing was actually part of the appeal.
That, and Rikker wanted to try out.
See, that was just another thing that made me a solid contender for Jackass of the Year.
I’d spent the first two months of the year wishing Rikker would just get the hell off my hockey team.
But I never would have touched a stick in the first place if it weren’t for him.
I’d been dining on a steady diet of anguish and irony all season.
And now, salad greens.
When the turkey finally arrived, I was too hungry to even notice who served it.
So at least I had that going for me. And the food was good.
Really good. My mother’s brainstorm about how to have a family Thanksgiving in spite of my game schedule had paid off.
And I was just thinking optimistic thoughts about dessert when my father began to ask questions about Coach’s forward lineup.
And then I felt the dread roll back in waves, the same tension I’d choked on during the first seven weeks of the year.
Because my parents were going to recognize Rikker. And there was nothing to be done about it.