Chapter 18
eighteen
LOGAN
By some miracle, we’re a month into the season and have only lost one game.
You’d think it would mean we’re all flying high, feeling good, and full of confidence, but that’s not how hockey players work.
We’re superstitious as fuck, and the minute we start talking about going all the way is the minute we start losing.
So we train harder, practice longer, and none of us talk about how much we want to make it to the cup this year.
“Byrne, push harder,” Coach Fry shouts as I drive the puck down the ice toward our backup goalie, Anders Flynn. We’re scrimmaging, giving the lower lines a chance to play against the first line, and I’m distracted.
“Dude,” Griffin calls as I pass him the puck. “Where’s your head right now?”
Stuck on a beautiful, curly-haired vixen who I can’t quite seem to make up my mind about.
“I’m fine.”
Griffin taps the puck back to me, and I race toward Flynn.
Glancing back at my fellow winger, I act like I’m going to pass it back to him to take the shot as the defensemen circle us, then bring my stick back and let the puck fly toward the net.
Flynn falls for the fake out, and the puck hits the net with a satisfying thwap.
“That’s my boy,” Griffin hoots, skating up to me and thumping my helmet affectionately. I shove him off and roll my eyes, but the goal and his encouragement have the desired effect, and I’m able to get my head back in the game.
We make our way back to the center line, Maddox facing off against the second-line center, when my eyes catch on movement by the boards.
Joe, our security guard, chats with a curly-haired teenage boy as he leads him over to the first row of seats right by the center zone.
Squinting, I realize it’s the kid from the friends-and-family night—the shy football player.
I scan the rest of the arena, looking for the other boy he was with or the dark-haired woman he left with, but he seems to be alone.
Curious.
“Byrne, wake the fuck up,” Maddox demands, and I turn my attention back to the ice just as the puck drops.
The second line pushes hard against us, and I can’t give the kid—Reed, I think—anymore headspace.
Especially if we’re going to make it past the third round of the playoffs this year.
The second and third lines need to be just as strong as ours, which means my guys and I need to bring the heat to every single practice.
The second line gets possession of the puck, and muscle memory and instinct take over.
We battle it out, giving hits and taking them, and my blood sings in my veins as I check the second-line center into the boards.
He loses control of the puck, then Wright is there to take it.
The puck is in play for another minute before Coach Fry calls for a line change, and my guys and I hop the boards and settle onto the bench.
I guzzle water and wipe sweat from my brow.
Reed sits across the ice from us, and I watch as he leans forward, his eyes tracking the puck avidly.
“Who’s that?” Ryder asks, catching the direction of my focus.
“He was at the friends and family game. Not sure whose kid he is, but he seemed cool. Pretty sure his name is Reed. I wonder what he’s doing here?”
“Hmm.” Ryder elbows Maddox. “You know who that kid belongs to?”
Madds and Wright both turn their attention to the teenager, who must feel the eyes on him, because his gaze lifts to meet mine, and I swear I can see him blushing from here.
“No idea,” Madds says as I lift a hand and wave.
Reed gives a quick wave back before he turns his attention back to the ice.
How a kid that shy can be a tight end is beyond me.
That position is a lot like playing center in hockey.
It’s a multi-disciplinary role that requires a sharp mind, confidence, and a serious amount of athleticism.
But I suppose there are different kinds of confidence.
He may not be socially outgoing, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a force to be reckoned with on the field.
Still, I can’t help comparing his demeanor with the way I was at his age. A lot of these guys would probably assume I came out of the womb brash and full of swagger, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.
It’s hard to feel confident when your mom leaves you alone with your dad at six, and all you get from her are a few random calls and presents at Christmas for the first few years.
And that’s not even taking into account having a dad who believes the sun shines out of his ass.
Growing up with a father who seems to be more concerned with his image than how broken and lonely his son is leaves a lot to be desired.
It wasn’t until I hit high school, grew six inches, and put on some bulk that I started to gain confidence. And that was largely because, suddenly, the girls at school noticed me. It wasn’t the attention I needed, but it filled the void.
At Reed’s age, I was still painfully shy and withdrawn.
I wonder if things would have turned out differently if an adult had seen how much I needed attention and encouragement?
If they saw me and encouraged me, rather than so much of my self-worth coming from the fickle attention of teenage girls in high school…
Maybe I could be that adult for Reed.
I keep half an eye on him as Coach Fry calls for another line change and we leap back onto the ice.
“Hey Joe, have you seen the kid from earlier?” I run my hand through my still-damp hair and scan the area, but Reed’s not here.
“Reed? He’s wandering around the arena somewhere while his sister works.”
Ah, so the dark-haired woman from friends-and-family-night is his sister.
I wonder what department she works in? I’m not surprised I didn’t recognize her.
The players don’t interact with many of the employees on the more administrative side of things.
She could be an accountant or something.
That would explain why I’d never seen her before.
“Good kid, that one. Very respectful. Sharp. A lot like his sister.”
I nod. “Yeah, I met him at friends-and-family night. Figured I’d try to find him and say hi.
” I glance at my watch. It’s almost three.
I wonder if the kid’s hungry? I am. Maybe I’ll order some lunch and see if he wants anything.
It could give me a chance to feel out if he’d be open to a mentor.
Not like I can help him with football, but I am a pro athlete.
I can hook him up with pro football players, agents, trainers…
I could encourage him the way I wished my father would have.
I’m probably getting way ahead of myself, here. The kid just resonates with me, for some reason.
“I’m going to try to find him. I’ll see you later, Joe.”
Joe nods, smiling at me in what I imagine genuine fatherly pride may look like. Not that I’d really know. It makes something deep in my chest tighten.
I wander the main floor of the arena, not finding the kid until I come to the pro shop. They’ve got it open while the employees stock the shelves. Reed looks at jerseys as the employees make small talk with him.
“Hey, kid.”
Reed’s eyes widen as he whips his head to the side, and he finds me standing there, my hands in my jeans pockets. The store employees gape at me, so I nod at them and say hi, thanking them for all their hard work.
Returning my attention to the tall teenage boy, I grin at him. “Reed, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” he says, nodding but dropping his eyes. “Hey, Mr. Byrne.”
“Logan, please. Mr. Byrne is my dad.” I run a hand through my hair again, chuckling.
“Logan,” he says quietly. Like he’s trying it out and isn’t quite sure how to feel.
“So, Joe said you’re hanging out while your sister works?”
Reed nods.
“Want a tour? I can show you the locker room and weight room and stuff. Hell, you could get a workout in if you want.”
That gets Reed’s attention. He looks up, meeting my eyes, and the excitement is plain to see on his face. “Seriously?”
“Hell, yeah. Come on.” I wave at the employees, then motion for Reed to follow me. “Did your sister or Joe show you where the main stuff is?”
“Uh, I think so. At least, they showed me the areas they said I could wander around. I did all my homework, so Joe told me he could get me into your practice.” He glances up at me. “I hope that was okay.”
“Of course, man. What did you think?”
“It was cool watching a professional team practice. Made me realize our coaches could go way harder on us than they do.” He shrugs at that, an impish smile playing at his lips.
“So you made the team?” He’d mentioned having tryouts at the family night, and I’m not surprised to hear he made it, but it’s just further proof that the kid must be good to make it on the team after tryouts had already been held.
“Uh, yeah.”
“That’s awesome. Congrats.”
“Thanks.”
I guide him through the maze of hallways that lead to the locker room, enjoying the way he takes it all in.
There’s something to be said for seeing this place through the eyes of a teenage boy not yet jaded by the bullshit that comes along with playing pro sports.
It brings back the wonder I felt touring this arena for the first time.
“You starting?”
Reed nods. “Yeah. I mean, it’s no big deal. It’s just the eighth-grade team.”
“Of course, it’s a big deal. Don’t sell yourself short. It doesn’t matter if it’s the eighth-grade team or the pros. Either way, you had to play your ass off to make it, right?”
“I guess so,” he says, unsure.
Arriving at the locker room, I push through the doors and motion for Reed to follow me inside. “You should be proud of yourself. I bet your parents are proud, right?”
Reed is behind me, so it takes me a moment to realize that he’s no longer following me. His footsteps have stopped, and he doesn’t answer my question. “Reed?”