Chapter 3
THREE
Ryan
“Bouchard!” Coach Chris says at the pile of way too many bags on top of a humiliated-looking Brandon on the floor of the locker room. “Glad you made it, son. I heard you had some trouble with the weather.”
I eye Brandon up and down as he rises from the ground then drops his bags off his shoulders.
He’s red faced, his hair’s a mess, and I can practically see his heart beating out of his chest. He looks so different from the last time I saw him except his eyes are the same, bright blue and desperately eager as he attempts to brush himself off.
I smile. He’s grown up. Standing at least six inches taller now since I last saw him, and he’s lost most of the baby fat from his body and his cheeks. But even with that, he’s still mostly how I remember him. Young, boyish, and doing a terrible job of hiding how excited he is to be here.
“Uh…” He blushes furiously as he rises back up onto his feet.
I probably shouldn’t have used the nickname we all called him when I was billeting with his family. Old habits die hard, I guess. Especially when you’re surprised by the explosive entrance of your once temporary younger brother of sorts. And I do have to admit, it’s good to see him.
Coach Chris comes to his rescue and shakes his hand. “Your brother told me a lot about you. He never shuts up about your silky mitts.”
Somehow, Brandon blushes even more. I fight the urge to tease him about it like we always used to when he was younger. He’s always been quick to get red in the face, completely unable to hide his emotions. He better get that under control before everyone else in this locker room picks up on it.
“I hope I can live up to his hype,” Brandon says quietly. “Ander is a bit of an exaggerator.”
“Nonsense,” Coach Chris says and claps him on the shoulder. He points to the empty stall that Danton is standing next to, waiting with an outstretched hand. “Get changed and come meet the rest of us out on the ice.”
“Yes. Get changed, Baby Bouchard,” Ivanov teases as he walks up to him and shakes his hand. His Russian lilt makes it sound even worse than when I said it.
Brandon looks like he wants to get swallowed by the floor. A player only gets one chance to make a first impression and unfortunately, I might have just completely fucked his up.
Brandon
Of course that’s the first thing out of Ryan’s mouth when he sees me.
No, how are you? No, I’ve been keeping up with your playing.
No, it’s nice to have you here. Just right for the jugular with the teenage nickname from when he and his teammates needed to differentiate between me and my brother.
Because, you know, simply calling us Ander and Brandon wasn’t potentially humiliating for one of us. Primarily me.
It didn’t help at the time that I was already humiliated enough in secret for a whole separate reason.
Somewhere during his stay with us, I developed a crush on Ryan.
While all my classmates and teammates were beginning to notice girls, my dumb young gay ass was having very uncomfortable thoughts about the boy with the piercing gray eyes and jet-black hair who was sitting across from me at the dinner table.
That, compounded with the nickname, made for a very confusing nine months.
After which, I was completely gutted when he left.
If I’m being honest, I still feel some of those lingering emotions now.
Something about Ryan has always stayed with me.
Without a doubt, it’s why I’ve spent the last eight years following his career.
And why it stings so much now that he clearly only sees me as Ander’s baby brother.
“So, what do we call you?” Danton Foley asks as I take my seat in the empty stall beside him. He grabs his stick to go out on the ice. “Can we just go with Baby? Baby Bouchard is a little long.”
“You could try Brandon,” I suggest, attempting to sound unbothered. “It works for everybody else in my life.”
“Sorry, kid,” Ivanov says as he flips his goalie mask down and walks away. “Baby is good name. I have already decided.”
“Awesome.” I laugh, even though I want to protest extensively about how very not a good name it is. But I know better than to do that.
“Sorry about that,” Ryan says, stopping by my stall on his way out onto the ice. To his credit, he does look contrite. He’s wincing and his nose is wrinkled. I still want to slap the shit out of him, though. “You came in with such a crash, it just shot out.”
I shrug. It is what it is now. And besides, it’s not like I’m going to be here for that long. As soon as I get out on that ice, Coach Chris is going to regret listening to my brother.
“It’s fine,” I say, looking up at him. A mistake.
This close, I can get a good look at him and his unfortunately still handsome face.
He doesn’t look much different from when I knew him before, except the angles of his face have gotten more pronounced.
His jaw is stronger, and his cheekbones are sharper.
He’s clean shaven now, but I bet if he grew out a playoff beard, it would accent his face nicely and make his gray eyes pop.
Of course that would require this team making it to the playoffs.
Which, let’s be honest, if Coach Chris is looking at me to be some sort of spark that gets this team over the hump, he’s way off.
I’m a poor man’s Ryan Christianson at best. If he can’t do it, there’s no way I can.
It won’t be long until I’m seen as the fraud who’s modeled my game after the man I’m faced with now.
The same man who’s just patted me on the shoulder like I’m some token mascot before he steps out of the locker room and onto the ice for the practice I’m still running late for.
Ugh. I feel like a complete and utter disaster.
But at least the combination of practically running here and my nerves being ramped up past eleven already has me sweating.
It’ll feel good to step on the ice and cool off.
So I quickly finish putting on all my gear and slip on the new practice jersey that an equipment manager just handed to me.
“What do you want me to do with the rest of my stuff?” I ask him.
“Leave it,” he says. “We’ll get your stall set up. Go hit the ice.”
“Thanks,” I say and grab one of my sticks from my bundle before I run out of the door that leads to the ice.
Luckily I’m not too far behind everyone else. They’re not running drills yet and everyone seems to be going through their own warmup routines. Some are doing easy laps, some are working on their stick handling, a few are stretching on the ice while a couple of others are using the boards.
Ryan is playing with a puck. His stick handling is superb.
His movements are so easy and graceful, like the stick is an extension of him and even though the puck is always trying to slide away, because that’s what pucks do, he never loses control.
Granted, we’re not playing an actual game here and we haven’t even started practicing for real, but if I could, I’d watch him play with that puck all day.
Since I can’t, I reluctantly look away and skate some leisurely laps around the perimeter of the rink.
As I get into the familiar rhythm of my strides I feel myself finally begin to relax.
The way my blades feel as they cut through the ice, the noise it makes, sharp and crisp, settles my nervous system.
Even the smell of the ice is soothing, fresh and cold like a Wisconsin winter day.
In a way, every ice rink I step into feels like home.
“Bring it in, boys!” Coach Chris yells out from where he’s standing near the water bottles all laid out on the boards in front of the benches.
“As I’ve been saying since I got here, I don’t want anyone to get too hung up on where they fall in the lines.
Each shift counts in a game and under my system, the fourth line is just as important as the first.”
Well, that’s encouraging. Because the fourth line is definitely where I’ll be.
I take my gaze to Ryan at the same moment he appears to look towards me. He grins at me, then does a quick lift of his eyebrows like he knows something that I don’t. Which is probably true. He’s been playing under Coach Chris for a few weeks now and he’s been a Mule for six seasons.
I’m so distracted by Ryan’s presence I almost miss Coach Chris announcing I’ll be playing on his wing. Startled, I turn to face Coach. Thankfully I keep my balance.
Coach Chris notices my surprise and places a hand on my shoulder.
“I’ve been watching game film on you. You’re quick, you have great hands, and you’re too small to throw men into the boards.
Playing on Christianson’s wing where the two of you can skate away from all trouble and deke around the opposing team’s defense with your speed and quick reaction skills is perfect for our first line.
” He pats my shoulder. “Trust me on this.”
For whatever reason, I do trust him.
“Alright, Coach,” I say and skate away towards Ryan. “So, it looks like we’re gonna be lineys.”
“And thank the hockey gods for that,” Roysy says as he skates up to us before Ryan gets a chance to say anything to me. Roysy bumps Ryan with his elbow. “This guy’s been in need of a proper linemate for as long as he’s been on the team.”
“That’s not true.” Ryan jostles him back and Roysy takes a moment to stare at him. “Okay, it’s a little true.” Ryan takes his attention back to me and knocks my stick with his. “The real question is, are you ready to be my linemate?”
“No,” I laugh. “But that’s not going to stop me from trying.” I’ve been waiting too long and have worked too hard to get here to blow this opportunity. It doesn’t matter that I think Coach Chris is putting too much faith in me.
I mean, who does he think I am? Ryan? Not even close.
For starters, I was drafted ninety-eighth overall four years ago and haven’t touched NHL ice yet.
By comparison, Ryan, like my brother, was drafted in the first round six years ago.
He went twelfth and started in the NHL in the first game of the season.
He didn’t have to go to college or back to his junior team for development and he spent zero time in the AHL.
Which is probably exactly where I’m going to end up when everyone realizes that listening to Ander boast about my skills isn’t the best idea.
Ryan stares right at me with a challenge in his eyes, and says, “Good.”
I can feel my cheeks flush. God, he is still achingly handsome.
Then, without warning, he knocks my stick out of my hands with his.
Laughing as he skates away, he says, “You better keep your wits about you, Baby.”
I can feel my cheeks, neck, and ears burning as I bend down to retrieve my stick, then take my place on Ryan’s right wing around the face-off dot. Coach Chris points at Ryan and Gauthier to ready themselves for the puck to drop. Our lines are going to battle each other for possession.
“Ready?” Coach Chris asks as everyone takes their places.
Coach blows his whistle and we all get into our proper stances.
I take a deep breath of the cool rink air.
This moment before puck drop is always one of my favorites.
I savor this moment, my first with my new team, even if it’s only practice.
Time seems to stop as everyone waits for the puck to fall through the air and land between the two men at the face-off dot.
When the puck hits, Ryan flicks it out to me and I take off, bursting to max speed as fast as I can.
I shoot down the right side and pass the puck across the ice to O’Shea, who’s crossing the blue line.
He slides it to Ryan as he drives down the lane.
I watch him deke around Foley before he sends the puck right back to me.
It’s perfect. The puck lands directly on my tape and I’m in the perfect position to chip the puck over Ivanov’s extended right leg with my backhand.
Coach Chris blows his whistle. “Nice job!” he yells and signals for us to all gather around again.
Ryan looks at me, laughing. He’s grinning from ear to ear when he thumps my helmet with his fist. “You’ve learned a few things since I last saw you.”
“Thanks,” I say back, slightly breathless, and amazed that I pulled that off against professional players.
“Baby Bouchard has a big boy shot,” Ivanov says, from his net.
For a moment I’m worried that he’s mad. Goalies never like being scored on. But when I look down the ice at him, he’s smiling as wide as I am.
I think I’m going to like it here.