Quick Pucks Volume One Box Set

1. Craig

CRAIG

Four Summers Ago—June

The only time I regret being a hockey player is when I have to put on a suit.

Living with the risk of injury every time I step onto the ice? Yawn. Intense mental and emotional pressures, stress, and the performance anxiety of being an NHL goaltender in New York? Bring it. High chance of burnout? This is why I come back to Kenton every year to chill out during the offseason.

Do I pack my expensive tailored suits when I fly to a hippie-dippie small town in the rolling mountains of southern British Columbia to run a goalie camp for kids in the summer?

No, I do not. Which is why I knew it would be a problem when my new publicist called to tell me a journalist and photographer are coming out to do a human-interest piece on me for Gentlemen’s Style magazine.

That they’re doing a photo shoot, and I don’t even have to drive down to Vancouver for anything.

“I gave them your address,” she said reassuringly.

“They sent you three full suits and dress shirts—Armani, Dolce and Gabbana, and Ralph Lauren! You should be getting the delivery today! All you have to do is put them on and look handsome. You don’t even have to smile. ”

Did I bother complaining or explaining to her that most of my teammates and I have to get off-rack suits and jeans altered to fit our massive glutes and quads?

No, I did not. Because I’m polite? No. Fuck being polite.

I’m a goalie. I internalize everything and deal with whatever shit I need to deal with as it comes.

Did I have a minor, very masculine meltdown when the suits were delivered and immediately call Mrs. Bradshaw, my former billet mother, in a panic?

That is between me and my discreet, awesome former billet mother.

She told me the player she’s currently hosting had to get a suit altered for an event and he went to see the tailor at the local dry cleaner.

Said the woman did a great job and that she alters suits for most of the Western Hockey League players in town.

So here I am, in sweats and a T-shirt, carrying a garment bag and dress shoes into Pressed & Blessed, to see if some lady can figure out how to fit my junk into these designer suits that have no idea what kind of trauma they’re about to experience.

I’ve passed by this storefront a hundred times on my way to Peak Brew for coffee, but once I realized it was an eco-friendly dry cleaner and not a pressed-juice store, I stopped looking.

As soon as I walk in, I recognize the middle-aged man with the ponytail who’s behind the counter.

His jaw drops and he swipes the reading glasses off his face dramatically.

This is one of the guys who used to show up at all of the Comets games when I played for them.

We called him Uncle Tommy to his face and Uncle Puck in the locker room.

Big superfan. Could be a big problem. I’m gonna need him to lock in because I do not have time to chat.

“Shut the front door!” he practically shouts. “Not Craig ‘The Wall’ Bowman walking into our little shop on a Tuesday!”

“Uncle Tommy…” I say calmly, sliding my sunglasses into my shirt collar. “Long time no see.”

He comes out from behind the counter, offering an eager handshake and a bro hug. “Oh, not for me, Bowie, not for me—can I call you Bowie?”

“You can.”

“Bowie, I’ve been following every one of your games since before you got called up to the Griffins.

I’m born and raised in Kenton, but I’ve always had a thing for the Griffins.

They’ve got class. I can’t tell you how cool it’s been to watch you progress over the years, man,” he says.

“Yeah, I told Coach Barrett back when you started with the Comets at sixteen, I said, That one’s goin’ up.

He’s gonna make the jump. I knew when New York drafted you at eighteen, I said to my wife, I said, ‘That’s it—Craig Bowman’s gonna be a Griffin.

He’s gonna be my guy.’ Didn’t matter they sent you back here for another year—I knew where you were headed.

When they signed you and sent you to Connecticut, I followed every game.

Drove my family nuts! I knew it was just a matter of time before they called you up.

Only two years in the minors?! Was I right or was I right? ”

“You were not wrong, sir—thank you.”

“And now you spend your offseasons volunteering to run goalie camps for kids in our little town, hey? Your family must be so proud of you,” he muses, hands on his hips, shaking his head in awe.

You’d think my family would be proud of me, Uncle Tommy.

You would think… This is why I always kind of wished Tommy really was my uncle, but I just nod as I survey the shop, settling my attention on the back corner.

There’s a sign that says Cross Stitch, but there’s no one sitting there.

Maybe his wife is on a coffee break. I really hope Uncle Puck isn’t going to be the one to measure my inseam because he’s a little too enthusiastic.

“Listen, I have to get to the arena soon, but I have three suits and dress shirts that need to be altered by the day after tomorrow for a photo shoot. Is that a possibility?”

“Fuck yeah, it is, bro!” he says with way too much intensity for a guy in Crocs who wears his graying hair in a ponytail. “I mean, bruh. It’s bruh now, isn’t it? You need anything, we make it happen. How you want it, when you need it. That’s not our motto—that’s just for you.”

“Cool, thanks. Bruh.”

“That’s right, I’m your bruh.” He punches my biceps very gently. “My daughter’s in the back room—hang on.” He yells out, “Hey, Biddy! Biddy, we have a celebrity client walk-in. Get back out here, honey!”

Uncle Puck has a daughter named Biddy? This sounds suboptimal.

“Coming! If it’s not Harry Styles, I will be very annoyed,” a pleasant, young woman’s voice calls out.

Spoiler alert: She’s gonna be annoyed. I am literally the opposite of Harry Styles. One entire Harry Styles could fit into one of my pant legs. I could floss my teeth with Harry Styles.

“I gotta tell ya,” Tommy says, “that butterfly save against Tampa in February?! What a beauty! You and your buddy Sawyer played perfectly, but the forwards were off that game.”

“Oh, thank you—that was…” I’m not even sure if the rest of the sentence actually comes out of my mouth.

Because Uncle Puck’s daughter walks out and she’s around my age and she is hot.

She’s the hazel-eyed brunette I was checking out at Peak Brew yesterday.

From behind. And then from the side. And then from the front.

I’ve seen her around over the years and always noted that she was definitely not a puck bunny.

Even made a mental note of her name when her order was called, but it was Bridget, not Biddy.

Sixteen-ounce cold brew with a ham-and-cheese sandwich, extra butter.

Yesterday I noted she had a great ass in a pair of tight, ripped jeans, a tank top and flip-flops.

Her toenails were painted bright yellow, which should not have looked hot, but it was hot.

There was eye contact. There was smirking. We had a moment. But she got a call and left before I had a chance to chat her up. When I took a shower last night, I imagined her doing things that no father would want his daughter doing with anyone.

And now she’s about to get pretty up close and personal with my equipment and I haven’t even bought her a drink yet.