“Are you okay?”
I glance over my shoulder. Forker is watching me with wide, concerned eyes, the kind that people usually aim his way after he gets into a brawl and leaves the ice grinning, blood all over his face.
Okay, maybe I’m being a bit too aggressive in this scrimmage we’ve put together. I think I took a couple of years off Reno’s life with that last slam against the boards. Don’t ask me why I’ve started going full tilt on my hits, either. This shouldn’t be that serious, but I’m still fueled up from last week.
I’m reeling over that conversation with my brother. Lemmy was a bandage, and she did the job. Getting it off my chest with her was what I needed, but I refuse to utilize her more than once for the same situation. We know what this is between us. I won’t abuse my privileges.
“Not in a good mood today,” I bite out.
Forker snorts. “I’d say. You almost decapitated our stupidest left winger.”
Rossi is fine. He shot me a confused look from the floor of the ice, but he’s too scared of me to ever say anything. I dippedmy chin in an apology, acting like I hadn’t meant to hit him that hard, but I saw the concern all over his face—wondering what he had done to deserve that. I feel a bit bad. He’s like a poorly behaved puppy.
“He’ll live.”
Forker only smirks, but gets back to business just as quickly. We have Took in net, who is nearly as good as Waters, and one of Oz’s buddies on the other side. He’s pretty quick, too. He’s having the time of his life playing with us, and his saves are speaking for themselves.
Fork and I got Lowesy, obviously. The Dream Team sticks together. But that means the other side got Saltzy, and having both of the world’s greatest centers facing off head-to-head is a certified nightmare, even in a scrimmage. Caulfield came by to play on their side, too.
Lowesy wasn’t exaggerating. The guy is good.
I know he coaches now, but he really missed his calling. His face changes when he plays. Darkens. I’d be hesitant to go one-to-one with him, and I find him utterly likable. Caulfield on the ice is a different Caulfield.
“Let’s do this.”
We play until our legs are tired and we’re exhausted. It’s late, but it’s worth it. It got rid of the anger that was sitting in the back of my head like a demon needing to be exorcised. All those feelings? They’re tamed now.
Back in the dressing room, Rossi and Cole are goofing off in the showers, swinging their dicks and making dad jokes that aren’t even close to being funny. Thankfully, they’re both going home this week. I need a break from their stupidity. Took was in and out so quickly, I hardly saw him leave. One by one, everyone heads home until it’s the usual gang.
“Who needs therapy when we can just do that once a week?” Caulfield asks, pulling his jade-green crew neck over his head.
Lowesy smirks, dipping his chin in agreement.
“You really fucked up not going pro, Caulfield,” Forker says from his stall. “You would be a nightmare to play against.”
“Understatement.” Lowesy grunts, with a shake of the head. “He was a fucking terror. I never had to worry about a thing.”
Wyatt smirks, crooked and bashful. “Not my calling.”
Forker snorts. “Wrong.”
Dec dips his chin. “He had scouts up his ass more than I did.”
“Please,” Wyatt scoffs, running a hand over his head, “they were frothing at the mouth for you. I was just a nice, little treat for them to consider on the side.”
Saltzy pulls his gray hoodie on, glancing carefully at Wyatt. He always does that. Checks his reaction to what is said about it. When he sees Wyatt is smiling, clearly appreciative of the compliments, his shoulders relax. He doesn’t add to the conversation, just continues to get his shit on quicker than the rest of us.
“Join us anytime.” I tell him. “Hang up the whistle and get your hands dirty every once in a while.”
Wyatt laughs, leaning back in Oz’s stall. He crosses his arms in front of himself, glancing around the dressing room. “I hadn’t realized how much I miss it. Skating on the lake and fucking around with the boys is one thing. This reminded me why I loved the game so much.”
“Again,” Lowesy says, leaning over to smack his hands on Caulfield’s shoulders. He shakes him, yanking him toward himself. “Join us anytime.”
Saltzy, now fully dressed, glances around the room. I know he’s itching to leave. I can see it in his body language. But Caulfield is still only half-dressed. He’s in his underwear, shooting the shit. Saltzy can either tell him to hustle or try to relax and be with the boys for a second, the way he said he wanted to.
His eyes slide to mine and I gesture toward his stall, right beside Wyatt. His jaw pulses, and his expression remains stoic and emotionless, but I catch the little dip of his chin. He drops his bag on the bench and takes a seat next to Wy, not speaking, but staying present.
One step at a time, Saltzy.
