Laughter bursts out of me. “Good thinking. Maybe you should sign it or something?”
He smirks with exaggerated arrogance. “Oh, you’re saying you want my autograph?”
“Well, you are a celebrity,” I say, giving him a pointed look. “Plus, that way I’ll get more money out of it when I sell it.”
Baptiste breaks into laughter, the sound rich and unguarded as his head tips back.
“What are you two giggling about over there?” Adler asks, perching on the arm of the couch.
“Your terrible,terribleperformance tonight,” Baptiste fires back without missing a beat, winking at me.
“Oh yeah,” I add, feeling playful now. “Your… uh… defensive offside penalty was awful.”
There’s a stretch of silence in the room.
Then everyone explodes into laughter.
My cheeks are instantly on fire. There was about a one-percent chance what I said made any sense, but hey—points for confidence.
“We still have some work to do on the hazing,” Baptiste says casually, looping an arm around my shoulders. “But it’s a solid start.”
My brain short-circuits for half a second at the contact, but I force myself to stay in the moment.
“Oh yes,” Beaumont says. “We’ll teach you a few things. And soon enough, you’ll fit right in.”
“Welcome to the family,” Miles adds, and Marissa gives me a high five.
For a moment, it really does feel like I’ve just gained a family.
They start teaching me technical terms—mostly by highlighting all the ways Adlercouldhave done better tonight. Then it’s Beaumont’s turn to get roasted, followed by the other guys, and all the players get just as mercilessly teased by both the guys and the girls. By the end of it, I even manage to get one term right, which earns me a round of dramatic applause.
The evening is simple. Just friends chatting and laughing. Nothing out of the ordinary.
But for me, it is most definitely extraordinary.
Because I’m having the time of my life.
14
Baptiste
The next afternoon as we pour in from practice, the atmosphere is more relaxed in our Stripes locker room. Still high from our win, we fall into easy conversation, guys talking over one another, laughing, replaying moments from yesterday’s game and today’s drills. Music is playing at a low volume from someone’s speaker, the sharp scent of sweat and disinfectant hanging in the air, sticks tapping against benches, skates clattering onto the floor.
I’m brainstorming with Hawthorne and Miles about tightening our neutral-zone coverage—how we can close gaps faster when the Stars team tries to regroup—while Wally is nodding along next to me, arms crossed, his stony expression unreadable as always.
“We just need to put more effort into holding the blue line,” I say before grabbing my water bottle to take a swig. As soon as the liquid hits my lips, I spit it out and wipe my mouth. What the—
The taste is awful. I sniff the bottle again, grimacing at the vinegar tang with an undercurrent of dill. “Is this pickle juice?”
Loud laughs erupt around me, mixed with some incredulous faces. There have been a few pranks going around since the tournament started. Taz Houlihan got pranked last week and Jayce Brady keeps finding ducks everywhere, but it’s way more fun when I’m not on the receiving end.
I zero in on Adler and Beaumont, who are laughing the loudest. “Seriously? You guys suck.”
They grip their sides, faces going red with laughter, then Adler finally says, “It wasn’t me. But I kind of wish it was.”
“Not me either,” Beaumont finally manages between chuckles.
And I believe them. If they were behind this, they’d own it. Plus, I’m pretty sure the same perpetrator is behind all the pranks. I glance around the room, eyeing everyone suspiciously. Reeves and Jayce Brady are laughing a bit harder than the other guys, exchanging looks, but no one is claiming the prank.
