Chapter 6 #2
“Oh, no.” Mrs. Bouchard giggles as she lets me go from the second hug she’s given me in two minutes.
Her arms don’t stay empty long as she immediately engulfs Ivanov into her embrace.
She’s an average height but robust woman and Ivanov, who is six foot four, stands there stunned with stiff arms. “I’m Brenda Bouchard but all the boys call me Momma B. ”
Ivanov’s brow furrows as he looks at the top of the head of the woman who’s still wrapped around him like an octopus. He looks at me with dawning on his face. “This Baby’s mother.”
“The one and only,” she says as she lets him go and steps away. She looks him up and down. “Well, aren’t you handsome?”
Ivanov looks visibly flustered. But I can’t tell if it’s because she called him handsome, or because she held him for a very long time in what looked like it might have been his very first hug. Ever.
Mr. Bouchard steps forward and extends his hand. “Big Mike Bouchard,” he says, standing eye to eye with Ivanov. “Pleasure to meet you. Brenda and I are huge fans.”
Ivanov’s lip curls up. “You are?”
“Oh, yes!” Momma B agrees. “We’ve watched almost all of your games since you’ve been with Ryan’s team. The Mules are lucky to have an elite goaltender like you.”
Ivanov’s brow furrows again as if he’s just translated their words wrong and can’t believe what they’ve said.
But a smile eventually pulls at his lips.
“Yes. This team is lucky to have me. It was nice to meet you.” He turns around, still looking mildly confused by this encounter and walks away towards the players’ entrance.
“So,” I say, grabbing the Bouchards’ attention again before Momma B can accost another player. “Where are your seats?”
“Nosebleeds,” Big Mike says. “Best we could do last minute—”
“But Brandon will hear us just fine all the same,” Momma B pipes in.
I shake my head. Not because he won’t be able to hear them. I’m sure he will. “Let me talk to the team manager. There’s gotta be some room in the WAG box.”
Big Mike claps me on the shoulder. “You don’t have to do that.”
“It’s fine. Those seats are the best in the house and the ladies who are here will love you.”
“If you insist,” he says.
“Of course he insists,” Momma B says as she pats me on the cheek. “Ryan’s always been such a good boy.”
“Thanks,” I say, stepping back as I pull up my suit sleeve to check my watch. “We should get going unless you want to surprise Brandon in the parking lot.”
Big Mike claps his hands together with one crisp impact. “Right. Let’s go! I can’t wait to see his face in the ice.”
Brandon
“You ready, son?” Coach Chris asks as I step out of the locker room and head towards the tunnel where my new teammates are waiting to get on the ice.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say. I can feel and hear my heart beating in my ears.
“One second!” Jules says. She lifts her camera up and starts recording. “Gonna post your rookie lap before the game starts.”
“Great,” I say, trying to give her my best smile. But judging by the look she gives me, I probably look exactly how I feel. Like I’m going to throw up.
Coach Chris gives me a playful shove and I stumble forward. “Knock ’em dead, kid! Don’t trip!”
“We’re placing bets he does, Coach,” Ryan says, walking up behind Coach Chris wearing a playful, and distractingly handsome, grin. He places his hand on Coach Chris’s shoulder and asks, “You want in?”
I flip Ryan off, and he has the nerve to wink at me before he says, “I’m kidding. No one is betting on you tripping.” One side of his mouth lifts higher than the other, turning his grin into a smirk. “Throwing up, on the other hand, we all have some money on that.”
“He is looking a little green around the gills,” Coach Chris says, gesturing towards my jaw and neck area.
I want to argue, but the truth is, I am feeling a bit queasy. And I’ve been known to throw up before big games in the past.
“Alright,” Danton Foley says, coming over. “Leave Baby alone.” He pats my helmet with his hand, then removes it and holds it up high. He shakes his head. “No bucket.”
“I need that!” I reach and try to grab my helmet out of his hands, but he throws it behind himself, and Ryan catches it.
“It’s only for warmies,” Ryan says.
“Yeah,” Danton says. “We’ll give it back to you before the game starts.”
“Besides,” Ryan says as he tugs at my hair. I reach up and grab the strand he just pulled. It’s been ages since I got my hair cut, but now after getting called up, it’s staying. I’ll shave it all off after I get sent back down. “You gotta let the fans experience this flow.”
“Yeah,” Clemmers agrees. “Let the fans see the flow blowing in the wind. The ladies will love it.”
I try to reach for my helmet again. But Ryan keeps it out of reach by passing it to Ivanov, who’s pushing his way to the front of the line.
“No bucky for Baby,” he says. “Is tradition.”
“Yeah,” Ryan, Roysy, O’Shea, Clemmers, and Danton all say in unison. “It’s tradition!”
“And it’s lucky,” Ryan says, looking right at me.
“Damn it,” I mutter. I’ll never say no to something that can give us an edge, especially a superstitious one.
He gives me a playful shove, pushing me forward. “Front of the line, Baby!”
“You lead us out!” Danton yells, clearing the way for me to walk forward past the rest of my teammates.
As I go, they all find an opportunity to knock me around on my way to the front of the line.
There are fist taps to my shoulders, gentle bumps onto the top of my head, pats with a stick onto my backside.
It all feels familiar, yet also strikingly like the first time.
Which is strange as this is the last time I’ll ever experience a milestone in my career of this size.
This is the NHL. There’s no greater league above this to make it to and debut in.
“If possible,” Ivanov says from behind me as I wait at the end of the tunnel for the team to be announced. “Try to throw up in other team’s garbage can.”
Shaking my head, and laughing slightly, I tell him, “Thanks for the tip.”
As the lights dim, I quickly check both of my skates to make sure I don’t have a blade guard on or anything else that would cause me to slam immediately down on my ass out there.
They’re clear, in perfect condition. I made sure of that back in the locker room before I put them on.
But of course, my superstitious brain never believes that some malevolent mythical rink menace didn’t sabotage me when I wasn’t looking.
Everything is as it should be. There’s no reason to trip and now that I’m facing the ice, breathing in the crisp air, I no longer feel like I’m going to throw up. I take a deep breath. This is it. I only get one rookie lap and I can already hear my new teammates chanting my name.
Correction. Chanting half my nickname.
“Baby! Baby! Baby!” Ivanov’s Russian accent booms the loudest.
So now, thanks to that, forget tripping or throwing up. I want to die. I want a hole to open up under the rink and swallow me.
But that is not an option. So I steel myself the best I can while the announcer calls out over the speakers, “St. Louis! Please welcome onto the ice for the very first time… Number seventy-two! Brandon Bouchard!”
My cheeks flare red as I walk through the tunnel.
My teammates start chanting louder as they bang their sticks on the ground.
Despite them using that godawful nickname, their enthusiasm pushes me forward, and the minute I skate onto the ice, they cheer as loud as they can, drowning out most of the noise in the stadium that’s filling up with fans.
I skate my rookie lap as fast as possible.
With some luck, maybe no one will notice how pink my cheeks are.
But I’ve watched enough rookie laps on TV and seen the replays on social media to know the camera loves to zoom in.
Lord help me, my brother is probably having a ball laughing it up with his friends and teammates in Buffalo right now.
Shit. Gavin Marshal and Connor Kennedy are probably with him. I’m sure the camera mic picked up my nickname being chanted and even if it didn’t, my brother has definitely told them all by now anyway. I’m doomed.
But instead of a puck tripping me up, or catching an edge with my blade, what almost stops me in my tracks is suddenly hearing the familiar sound of my mother calling my name louder than my teammates.
My actual name. Looking around, I spot her and my father pounding their fists on the glass next to Vicky and Danton’s kids on one side and a few of my other teammates’ wives with their small children on their other.
My mom sees me spot her and starts waving her arms frantically.
Of course they drove down here. I should have known they wouldn’t be able to stay away.
I grab a puck with my stick blade, smile at them, then shoot a wrist shot towards the empty net.
It goes in and my mom starts jumping up and down.
Danton’s youngest, Danny, is bouncing up and down with her, clapping wildly.
“Your family,” Ivanov says, skating up behind me. “Is like your brother.”
“No kidding,” I say, a smile pulling at my lips.
He nods his head. “Your mom. Hugged me.”
I can’t tell whether that’s a good or bad thing. I’m not sure if he knows. “Sorry about that,” I say.
He places his giant goalie glove on my head like I’m his kid brother. “Not your fault. I blame Ryan,” he says and skates away.
Interesting. My blush comes back. Ryan arranged this. Wait. I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. I know exactly what happened. Ivanov wasn’t the only one of my teammates who got ambushed by my family today.
Now that the rest of the team are all on the ice, I skate towards where Ryan is doing some easy stretches.
When I get there, I can’t help but notice the gathering of young women who have taken up residence behind the glass with signs asking for either a puck, a marriage proposal, or both.
They’ve parked themselves into the perfect place for a view of his ass as he stretches.
Admittedly, it’s a nice view, but I’m not about to let myself enjoy it.
So instead, I get down on the ice with him to do a simple lunge stretch for my hip flexors.
“I take it my brother told my parents to call you too.”
“Too?” He looks at me and laughs.
“Yeah,” I say, guiltily. “He told me to call you.”
“And yet you didn’t,” he says, smirking.
“I didn’t want to bug you.”
He reaches over and gives me a playful shove on my shoulder. “It’s alright,” he says, then switches which leg he’s stretching. “To be honest. I should have done a better job of keeping in touch with your parents and…”
He looks directly at me for a split second before he quickly casts his gaze downward. I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but there was a trace of guilt in his expression, and it almost sounded like he was going to say me as well.
“Nah,” I say, catching his attention again. That flicker of vulnerability I saw from him is gone. But damn. He is still undeniably so handsome. Even with how aloof he can be, the relaxed nature of his face is sexy.
I swallow. I need to focus. I came over here to apologize for my overbearing family. “No one who lived with us is required to add us to their Christmas card list. Trust me, you’re fine.” Literally. “They don’t take it personal.”
Unlike me. My encounters with Ryan have all left me gutted.
It’s taken me years to sort out my intense feelings about that.
Not that he’ll ever need to know that. And also, apparently, I’m still not over it because looking at him right now, that old familiar ache I used to get in my chest at the sight of him has returned at full force.
“Still, though,” he says and rises. I follow and he slides a puck over with his stick.
He leans over it and starts working on his stick handling.
He sends the puck towards the net, sliding it right past Ivanov, who’s talking with a few of our defensemen.
He stands up straight again and rests both of his palms on top of his stick handle.
He gazes at me, then turns his attention to my parents. “It was good to see them.”
He skates off towards where my parents are, then scoops another puck up with his stick blade and sends it over the glass for them.
Goddamn it. Why haven’t I done that yet? Huffing out a breath, I grab a puck as well and do the same. My mother beams at me and I know this puck is going on the already crowded mantel next to one of the pucks from Ander’s first game.