Former players from the league like Jeremy and AJ getting together on a whim? Unlikely. What the hell is going on here? To my knowledge no one’s getting married, and there haven’t been any deaths in the extended hockey fam. We don’t have an NHL team so they can’t be here for a game, unless they’re passing through to Minnesota, but why would the Snow Pirates come here to go back to Minny?
AJ and Tate stand in the doorway. AJ’s been staring at me since the damn thing opened like he’s waiting for some permission so I stand up and walk over toward him. There’s a collective breath sucked in around us, like people aren’t sure what I’m going to do. But I forgave him long ago for the accident. It wasn’t a dirty hit, it was just bad luck and that could have happened to any of us.
“You’re letting the heat out.” I hold out my hands to take the beer from him and usher him inside. When I’ve ditched it in the kitchen, I turn to find him behind me, hand outstretched.
“Raffi, how are things?” His eyes narrow like he’s assessing me.
A quick glance back into the living room makes every pair of eyeballs snap away from the two of us like a perfectly choreographed comedy moment.
“They’re…okay.” I rub at the back of my neck before breaking open the pack of beer to stack it in the fridge.
His raised eyebrow says he doesn’t believe me. Like Ares’sdrug problem, AJ’s battle with depression and bipolar disorder isn’t a secret in our world. He kept it to himself at first, but once he’d gotten it under control, he started speaking out about it more and more.
With a heavy sigh, I close the fridge and drop my voice. “Depends on the day. Headaches aren’t as frequent, but when they hit, I’m down and out. They hurt like Satan himself is stabbing my eyeballs with hot pokers.”
His face softens. “Doesn’t sound good, Raff. We should talk about it.” He peeks into the room where our friends are pretending not to eavesdrop on our conversation. “Not here. But soon.”
I agree and return to the table via the mountain of snacks to pick up a plate. That bougie bastard Jeremy Lewis has brought some of the fanciest food I’ve seen. Who the fuck brings Brussels sprouts to a book club?
Not that I’m complaining. Fucking love Brussels with a balsamic drizzle and whatever the hell else he’s got in this bowl.
“Don’t knock it till ya try it.” The man in question bumps his hip against mine as he peruses the rest of the table with an already full plate.
“Is that how you pulled the wife?”
I load extra sprouts on my plate next to a watermelon salad O’Brien tells me is a recipe which came from the Morrison household in Minnesota. It’s got feta and some green leaf shit in it.
“What book is it this month?” How Jeremy has managed to balance so much food on his plate is anyone’s guess.
“Pippa Grant’sThe Gossip and the Grump.” It’s Lincoln Scott from the Minnesota Snow Pirates who answers, a spoonful of potato salad poised mid-way to his mouth as he picks up one of the twins’ copies and waves it.
Ares clears his throat. “This is serious shit too. I don’tknow many of you out of towners, but if you fuck with my book club, you’re out.” He jerks a thumb at the door.
It’s hard not to laugh. When Justin started this book club, many of us joined to support him, or out of curiosity, but now it’s part of our life. Reading our monthly books gives us space to decompress, and talking about them around a table gives us time to be together that isn’t at the gym, class, or on the ice.
By the time we get into the discussion about Sabrina and Grey, Pippa Grant’s inclusivity and diversity—including a character called Zen with they/them pronouns—and the way she includes a fun pet or animal in each book, Jeremy is in.
He’s moved himself away from the main discussion with Apollo’s copy of the book and a giant plate of food and is reading in one of the seats in the living room. Finn’s right there in the armchair next to him. The two poke their heads up every now and then to chat about something on the page and it’s the most wholesome thing I’ve seen in a while.
By the end of the night, some of our visitors have picked up some of Pippa’s backlist, namely her hockey romances. Jake has sent a group chat to the Flames asking if anyone wants to start a book club, and damn near everyone’s leaving with a box of food. Because while a bunch of college athletes would usually devour every damn thing in sight so nothing is left to take home, we’ve been beaten by this spread.
Austin sits at the table with the de la Peñas, while Linc and Finn leave with our rookies. Jake heads back for curfew, taking Tate’s copy of the book with him. He tried to take Scott’s, but learned pretty damn quickly that he doesn’t let anyone borrow his perfectly annotated copies.
AJ beckons me into the living room as people start leaving. Jeremy’s asleep on the couch cuddling Bacon, our team’s potbellied pig mascot. And Ares’s cat, Puck, is curled up behind his knees.
Book club is an all-family affair.
“Wanna talk about it?”
A shake of my head seems to have been expected when AJ nods in reply. “I never did either, at first.”
“It’s like talking about hockey in anything but a good light is frowned upon. It’s all good, all the time. You know?”
AJ takes a slow drink from his non-alcoholic beer. “It’s a scary thing to do, speak up when things aren’t going well. But once you do, it feels better. Like whatever was blocking the back of your throat and weighing down your shoulders is gone.”
He levels me with a sympathetic stare. “Why do you play?”
My mouth falls open to reply, but no words come out.
