“I’ll be up in a minute. I just have to unpack a few more things.”
The door to my room has barely even closed when my phone starts ringing in my pocket. Pulling it out, I see that it’s my brother.
“What’s up, Ander?” I ask as I tuck the phone between my ear and my shoulder. With my hands free, I attempt to put my clothes away into drawers.
“Baby Bouchard!” He’s laughing on his end of the call. “I can’t believe that name stuck.”
“It didn’t. It got resurrected from the dead.” I slam shut the drawer I just shoved all my underwear and socks into. The force rattles the lamp placed on top of the dresser. “How the fuck did you hear about that, anyway?”
“Dude. Ever heard of this thing called social media? Your team posted an introduction for you.”
“Great.” I rub my hand roughly across my forehead.
“Don’t be such ababyabout it,” Ander says with irritating emphasis. “It’s a good sign. Nicknames tend to be reserved for players who are going to stick around for a while.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. They’d just call you ‘rookie’ if they thought you’d be going back to Wisconsin by the end of the week.”
“I can still be sent back to Wisconsin by the end of the week,” I argue because it’s true. I’ve had one practice with the team and while I did well, there’s no guarantee Coach Chris is going to keep me around. Being good in practice means nothing if I can’t produce points during a game.
“I checked your schedule,” Ander says. “You play Tampa Bay at home tomorrow. That’s an easy intro for you.”
“You think?”
“Definitely. They’re so bad they make the Mules look like Stanley Cup contenders.”
“Love your confidence in my new team,” I saydryly.
“I guess I shouldn’t be that harsh. The Mules are on a bit of a win streak and now with Chicago tanking, there’s a solid chance you all might sneak into the playoffs. That still doesn’t make you contenders. You’ll have to avoid getting bounced in the first round before we can have that conversation.”
I shrug and tip my head to the side, which causes my phone to slide out of position and fall to the floor with a thud. I pick it up and this time put it on speaker so I can set it down while I continue to unpack. “Fair point.”
“And you’re going to love Coach Chris. He’s great. And totally fine with?—”
“Me being gay.” I roll my eyes as I finish his sentence.
“Yeah!” He laughs. “That.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not telling him anyway.”
“Oops.”
My stomach drops in panic, at the same time anger flows through my veins. It’s an interesting and confusing combination. “Ander. What the fuck? You didn’t, did you?”
“Nah!” He starts laughing again and I want to reach through the phone and strangle him. “I only told him about your silky mitts.”
Shaking my head and sighing, I say, “They’re not that silky.”
“They are, and I should know. I’ve taken more shots from you than anyone else in the league.”
“Considering I’ve never taken a shot at anyone else in the league until today, I don’t know if all of those count.” I lie all the way back on my bed and stare at the ceiling fan that’s slowly spinning above me.
“They count,” he says, like it’s a definitive fact. “Hey! Speaking of. What’s Ivanov like to shoot on? He’s having a surprising season.”
“Why? Are you planning on switching to forward and trying to score on him?”
“No.” He laughs. “But I am curious about him. He’s beenbounced around a lot, you know? There’s got to be a reason for that.”
