The Call-Up (On Thin Ice #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

THE UNIVERSITY OF WISCONSIN—SIX WEEKS BEFORE THE END OF THE NHL REGULAR SEASON

Brandon Bouchard

“Hey! Brando!” Richie McDaniel, my most obnoxious and insufferable teammate, calls out to me from across the locker room as I’m tying my skates for tonight’s game—one of the last of our season.

“Your brother is on TV again sticking up for his teammates.” The way he says “teammates,” exaggerated and full of disgust, makes my blood boil.

“You think he likes getting in the middle of those two cocksuckers?”

He receives some high fives from our teammates around him.

Not all of them, but enough have been consistently vocal about how they feel about Gavin Marshal and Connor Kennedy coming out as a couple.

It’s starting to grate on me. But same as I’ve done since this shitstorm kicked off, I cool my blood, swallow down all the expletives rising in my throat, and force my facial features to convey an air of indifference.

It’s easier this way, taking the coward’s way out.

So I shrug and simply say, “My brother just likes the attention.”

Which is partially true. My older brother, Ander, has always been the more gregarious of the two of us.

He doesn’t have a shy bone in his body and loves to eat up the spotlight.

Sometimes I think we should have switched the positions we play.

It would be easier for me to hide behind the cage of a goalie’s mask, and he would have loved to eat up camera time wearing a helmet with only a clear plastic visor over his forehead.

Unfortunately, our skill sets and statures dictated our on-ice positions more than our personalities did.

He’s got the size and expert eyes, perfect for eating up pucks before they make it into the net.

I’m smaller and have quick feet and even quicker hands that are capable of slinging the perfect wrist shot through a goalie’s defenses.

In a lot of ways, I can thank Ander for my ability to shoot.

The minute he chose to be a goalie when we were younger, it became my job in his mind to fling pucks at him as soon as I was able to handle a stick.

On the ice, in the driveway, even in our basement on rainy days.

Every day I shot pucks at him and every day he got better at blocking them.

Which meant I also had to get better and more creative at slipping pucks past him.

Plus, each USHL junior hockey player we hosted at our house was always happy to give me tips on how to beat him.

It pays, sometimes, to be the little brother.

“Seriously though, Brando,” Richie says. “You should tell your brother to tone it down. Otherwise, people are going to start to get the wrong idea about him.”

I shrug again. “I don’t think my brother has ever cared what anyone has thought about him.” And why would he? He’s one of the best goalies in the league, a shoo-in for the Vezina Trophy this year, a Stanley Cup champion last year, and now, an Olympic gold medalist.

Richie smirks at me. “Well, if he was my brother I’d tell him to tone it down. That shit’s gonna reflect on you.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. In what way does my brother’s current behavior affect me?

If anything, he’s doing me a favor by keeping the spotlight on himself.

Hell, I know that’s why he’s doing it. Well, not to keep me out of the spotlight, but his teammates.

The more he talks, the less Gavin Marshal and Connor Kennedy have to.

I shrug for a third time as I bend back down to lace my other skate.

Seemingly done with me, Richie moves on to joking around with the rest of the team.

He’s the star here at UDub. A high-quality prospect for the Minnesota Wolves.

So of course everyone looks to him for how they’re supposed to think, act, and feel.

Personally, I’d rather do all those things for myself.

“Bouchard!” Coach yells from his office door.

I sit up straight and look right at him. “Yes, Coach?”

“Take your skates off.”

Fuck. What now? I’ve been playing well. Why is he taking me out of the rotation?

I just want to play, get on the ice, and take my frustration out on some pucks.

Show the assholes not only in this locker room, but in every locker room what a “cocksucker” can do on the ice.

Not that they know I’m gay. And I’m definitely not about to tell them. But I’d know and that would be enough.

“Don’t look so glum,” Coach says. There’s a hint of excitement in his voice that catches not just mine, but everyone else’s attention. The locker room has gone silent as all eyes land either on me or our coach. “You’ve been called up, son.”

“What?” I and pretty much everyone else in the room yell out together.

“St. Louis needs you,” he says, stepping over to me. He grabs my hand and claps me on the shoulder, pulling me into a loose congratulatory hug.

Most of the locker room breaks out into hollers and shouts of “Congratulations!” and “Holy shit!” while I sit there stunned.

“We’re gonna miss that sneaky backhand shot of yours,” Coach says with another pat to my shoulder as he lets go and pulls away.

“You can’t be serious?” Richie says from his stall.

Honestly, I’m kind of with Richie on this one.

I’m a decent player, but if I was a betting man, I’d have placed all my chips on Richie getting called up to the league way ahead of me.

I mean, hell. Look at my track record. It’s been damn near four years since I was drafted.

I’ve long since resigned myself to the fact that my professional career will probably be spent in obscurity in the minors.

“I am serious,” Coach says. “Just got off the phone with their new coach. Says he’s been watching you.”

“Fuck!” Richie yells as he rises and slams his hockey stick against the wall. The blade shatters and the handle snaps in half.

“Hey!” Coach yells out. “McDaniel! Settle down. Your time will come.”

“This is bullshit!” Richie storms out of the locker room. I can hear him continuing to rage in the hallway. A few of his worshippers follow after him. I don’t care. I won’t miss them.

Still stunned, I finally look up at Coach. “You’re not joking?”

My remaining teammates all come over and start jostling me around. They’re patting my back and our goalie is lifting me out of my seat and into a bear hug.

“I’m not joking, son.” Coach smiles. “Go make us proud in St. Louis.”

As soon as my skates touch the floor again, I’m quickly swallowed up by everything this means.

This is my shot. This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for from the Mules since I was drafted by them almost four years ago.

The NHL has come calling. It’s also at this moment I remember the fact that Ryan Christianson, my first crush and former billet brother, plays for St. Louis.

The Mules aren’t a team like the Blizzards, or any of the other major cup contenders.

It’s easy for most people to forget who’s on their roster.

But not me. I’ve been following Ryan’s career since the moment he stepped foot into my family’s house when I was fourteen.

That sneaky backhand Coach said he was going to miss is Ryan’s.

My entire game is Ryan’s. I’ve modeled so much after him I’m shocked no one has ever noticed or made the correlation.