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“That’s how we do it.” He grins, and I can’t argue with him there.
“You know it, bro.”
He shakes his head, laughing as I call him that.
“C’mon, bro! Say it!” I goad.
Another shake.
Rhys has adapted so many Americanisms after playing here for so long. But he’s never picked up bro. Maybe someday. I am nothing if not optimistic.
I jump over the boards, snatching my water bottle from the bench, and take a quick swig during the line shift.
The sound of skates scraping against the ice fills my ears as guys like our captain and star winger handle the puck now. We’re always in good hands when they’re leading the charge. We lost our last game. Gavin blamed the fish tacos. But we had banh mi for lunch today since I insisted we just needed to mix it up.
A couple minutes later, I’m back out there. And a few minutes after that, I’m delivering another assist.
Yes!
We hold them off and end the night with our fox mascot hitting the ice for a victory lap as a W flashes across the scoreboard.
“And now, more than a week off,” I say to Gavin and Rhys as we reach the tunnel. It’s Wednesday night and I’m not even annoyed I wasn’t selected for the All-Star game this weekend. I have the stats—but our team is stacked and we’re already sending a guy better known than I am and one with a more storied career, our captain, Stefan Christensen. Our goalie, Dev Ryland, is a star too and he got the fan vote.
My time will come. It’ll absolutely fucking come.
For now, I’ve got sore muscles and a date with my favorite pillow, my sleeping mask, and some smooth waves on my sleepy time app. I fucking love sleep. I can’t wait to crash.
At the end of the tunnel, I say, “Banh mi. Was I right or was I right?”
Rolling his eyes, Gavin says, “You were right.”
“What did you say?”
“You were right,” he repeats louder.
I cup my ear with my glove on. “Can’t hear you.”
“Your ego requires so much stroking, Bouchard,” Rhys says, shaking his head.
I wiggle my brows. “That’s not the only thing that requires stroking.”
“Ah, fuck off,” Rhys says with a laugh.
Gavin tips his chin toward me. “And I guess now we’ve got a new streak, so we’ll be eating banh mi every night after the All-Star break.”
Rhys groans but even Gavin’s superstitions can’t get me down. I am going to enjoy the fuck out of several days off.
Twenty minutes later, I’m showered and suited up. I pass the guys at their stalls, clapping each of them on the shoulder. “Catch up with you tomorrow. I’m heading up to Lucky Falls tonight.”
“See you then,” Rhys says.
“Good luck with the meeting,” I say, just to him.
Rhys gives a quick nod. His expression is mostly stoic, but the dude’s been stressed for the last week. The rumor mill is working overtime, speculating he’ll be part of a trade, so he’s seeing his agent tomorrow morning to strategize about whatever might come next.
I’m too young to have a no-trade clause, but I don’t worry about that stuff. I can’t control where I play. I can control how I play. My goals here are simple—make the coach and the owner happy and cause zero trouble.
Had enough of that growing up. Don’t need it now.
