Chapter 29
Chapter twenty-nine
Luka
“Couldn’t have gone to a better man,” Reid says, shaking White’s hand and passing him the letter C from his jersey.
“Are you sure?” White asks. Most of the team is already on the ice warming up, and I should be out there with them, but I purposefully took my time lacing my skates so I could see White’s face when Reid handed him the letter.
“The coaching staff and the team agree, there’s no one else more dedicated to this team and bringing up the next generation than you,” Reid replies.
White glances my way.
“You’ve done your fair share of bringing up the younger generation,” he says, and Reid follows his gaze, a blush rising to his cheeks.
“I can always tell them to give it to Colt,” he says, pulling the letter back and just out of reach.
I laugh. “Please, goalies are too weird to be captain,” I say.
“See, even the rook knows you wouldn’t do that,” White chuckles, reaching for the black letter C Reid’s now holding above his head.
White tries to jump for it, grabbing Reid’s arm to launch himself higher, and I have to wonder if this is what they were like back in the day.
The decision to step down as captain seems to be revealing a much more relaxed side of Reid.
White finally grabs the letter and clutches it to his chest.
“Now come on, you two, let’s get out there,” White says, and we follow our new captain out of the locker rooms and toward the ice.
The second he skates onto the glassy surface, the team stops what they’re doing and turns their attention to him.
Then the clapping starts. Reid and I join in, and White waves and bows like a performer saying his final farewell at the end of a show, and then turns, clapping with them as he gestures to Reid.
The claps and hooting intensify, and Reid’s face blushes.
“Alright, that’s enough of that,” Reid says, and White shakes his head.
“I’m the captain, and I say you deserve at least another ten seconds,” he calls, and the guys cheer and clap, and then right on the ten-second mark, White stops and holds up a hand.
“That’s it, boys, let’s get back to it.”
They listen too, just like they would have listened to Reid, because White holds the same respect for every player out there. “You too, warm up those legs, you’ve got a show to put on tonight.”
“You got it, Cap,” I reply and start on my pre-game program.
I need to be ready if I’m going to pull off my trick play tonight.
The trainers have been working with a few of the guys the past few weeks, and the coach agreed we could give it a shot tonight.
He even told Reid that if he thinks he can pull off that sweeping net shot at some point, he should go for it.
Maybe now he isn’t the one wearing the C and setting the example for the team, he’ll take a few more risks out here, because he’s still got so much more to offer this sport before he even starts thinking about retirement.
I spot David and Benji in the stands. Wow, they’re here early.
“Hey, Reid, check it out,” I say, nodding over to where they’re seated.
When Reid turns his attention to them, they stand and turn around, pointing at the names on the backs of their jerseys.
While David is wearing Reid’s number with “Raines” curved across the shoulder blades, Benji’s has my number and says “Hart.” They turn around with big smiles on their faces, pumping the air like they’re celebrating a win already.
“Traitor,” Reid laughs.
“I think it’s sweet,” I say, and Reid skates around me in a circle as I stretch.
“You’re sweet,” he says, and I cover my shoulder with my hand where the mic pack is sewn in.
“Are you forgetting I’m mic’d now?”
He shrugs. “Would it be the worst thing in the world if someone heard me?”
“No, but you just dropped the captain’s bombshell; maybe give it a few weeks before you go rogue again.”
“So you’re not opposed to people knowing?” he asks, and I check to see who might be close enough to overhear us.
“I still think we should wait,” I reason, and the irony of the situation isn’t lost on me.
It was only a couple of months ago that Reid was rigid and stubborn, fixed on tradition and rules, and it was me who was flying in the face of all that.
He gets dicked down a few times, hands over his C, and suddenly he’s the wild child of the NHL.
“We’ll talk about it later,” I say, turning in place to match his circles around me.
“Your place or mine?” he asks, pumping his brows suggestively.
“Yours, then mine. I promised the boys we’d have spaghetti after the game.”
He skids to a stop.
“Really?”
“Yep, you’re cooking.”
“Oh, how nice of you to volunteer my chef services.”
“You want Benji to cook?” I ask, and he shakes his head adamantly. “It’s okay, I’ll cook. There was no need to make threats of poisoning.”
“Wasn’t there?”
***
The last few weeks, the Foxes have played like a well-oiled machine. Reid and I read each other’s moves even better than Cosmo and I ever could, and we start actually winning. We celebrate every game at his place, usually under the cover of my epic playlist.
We’re up two to one against Boston, and Cosmo has been a cocky shit all game, speeding past me and calling out old moves we’d try in college games to try and throw me off.
I deke around him and make my run for the net, but I can feel him hot on my heels.
I could get my shot off in time, but it would be safer to dump it back to White or pass to Reid.
Fuck. The seconds pass slowly as my mind jumps from one choice to the next.
If I were only playing for me, I’d take my chances on getting the shot off before Cosmo strips the puck, but it’s not just about me out here.
I pass to Reid just before Cosmo’s stick comes down, but on my follow-through, my stick gets under Cosmo’s and flings his up.
He turns away, but I can’t tell if it clocked him under the jaw on the way past.
“Cos!” I call as one of his players shoves me from the side, sending me flying. I land on my side, and a second later, the player who shoved me lands beside me, and Reid is there looking proud as fucking punch.
Cosmo is waving away the fuss and comes right over and holds out a hand. At first, I think it’s for his own player who’s grumbling but getting to his skates.
“I’m good, brother,” he tells me, and I grab his hand as he helps me up, wrapping his arm around my shoulder to the sounds of the deafening cheers and boos of the crowd. “Get ready to tie things up,” he laughs, and then I hear the call.
“Two minutes for high-sticking.”
Fuck, looks like I’m finishing this game in the sin bin.
I give Cosmo a playful jab before heading over to the box.
Reid thankfully avoids a penalty for sending their player onto his ass after they shoved me, but unfortunately, so does that dickhead, so we’re going to be down a player for the last one minute and forty-three seconds of the game. Shit. They better not score.
I watch as the guys fight to hold onto our lead because of my mistake.
Boston double-teams White, making it impossible to get the puck to him, but Reid is more than a D-man; he’s got moves these guys have never seen, and it’s those moves he draws on to fake out Cosmo and send the puck screaming up to the other end.
It’s caught by their goalie, but Reid is already almost there, ready to intercept if they try to send it down to Cosmo.
I scan the crowd and spot David and Benji yelling from their up-front seats to their brother. They still wear both our numbers, usually swapping each game to “share the love,” as Benji puts it.
There’s an audible gasp, and I frantically scan for Reid.
My pulse doubles its pace, and then I spot him.
He’s totally fine—better than fine. He’s got the puck, and he’s on a breakaway.
Cosmo is on his knees behind him, hitting his glove against the ice before climbing to his skates and coming after Reid.
I’m on my feet with half the crowd. White is trying to position himself to get a pass if Reid needs it, but they’re tight on him, blocking any chance of that happening.
Kirkston is moving up on Reid’s left, but he won’t need him.
He gets close enough and takes his shot.
The lamp lights up, and we’re on a two-to-one lead.
“Take that, Boston,” I yell as White and Kirkston slam into Reid, celebrating the goal they scored without me.
I catch the coach’s harsh glare, and I sit back down.
There’s still a minute on the penalty, and anything can happen when you’re a man down.
He calls a line change, and they set up for the face-off.
“Let’s goooo!” I cheer as the clock ticks down. I’m on the edge of my seat for every slow second that passes, and when the final buzzer sounds, I leap from the box and make a beeline for Reid.
“Thanks for saving my ass out here,” I say, and he swings his arm around my shoulder, pulling me into his side.
“No problem, rookie. That’s what us D-men are good for.”
“You’re good for more than that,” I say, and he squeezes me to him tighter for a second, leaning in close.
“You can tell me more about that later back at my place,” he says, and I glance to the side and find his gloved hand over where the mic pack is sewn into my shoulder pads.
I shake my head.
“I got the keys to my place yesterday, and they delivered my mattress this morning.”
“See you there at six.”