“No, asshole,” I snap. “Just playing some hockey and shutting down some idiots. You’re the one who’s making it weird.”
Scully chuckles. “Kinda true.”
Forest turns on his friend. “Is it even legal for him to play for us?”
Scully rubs his chin. “Pretty sure there aren’t hockey police, Forrester.”
“Forrester?” I squint at my favorite bartender. “You have two names, too? Alert the media.”
Scully claps him on the shoulder. “Seth Forrester. Forest is just a nickname.”
Seth Forrester. I like it. I like everything about him, even though he never misses an opportunity to shut me down.
Is there such a thing as having a kink for hot bartenders who hate me? Must be.
“Now that we know who everyone is,” Scully says patiently. “Why don’t you stop making that angry face, Forest? Jesus. We’re going to give the Plague the smackdown they deserve. Everything is right with the world.”
He sighs. “All right. Sorry.” He picks up his bag. “You’re not going to get in trouble with your team?” he asks me.
“Not if we don’t tell them,” I say. “Nobody has to know. Unless the Plague all have Ice Cats season tickets, and also a special fan club for goalies who don’t get a lot of playing time.”
Forest’s expression softens just a little. “They’re mostly based in Centennial, so you’re probably in the clear.”
“Good to know.” I head for the doors and out into the night.
“See you next Tuesday!” Scully yells after me. But I don’t even turn around.
Six
Why Don’t You Make Yourself at Home
Forest
Scully drives me home, parking his truck in my driveway even though I haven’t asked him in. Still, he pulls a six-pack out of the back seat and follows me inside.
It’s good beer too. Almost like he knew I’d be a grumpy idiot after he recruited Becker James to our practice.
“Why don’t you make yourself at home?” I ask, after he’s already plonked on my couch, put his feet on my coffee table, and opened two beers.
“I think I will. Cheers.” He hands me a can, then picks up my TV remote and starts flipping channels.
I pull out my phone and do the only obvious thing, which is to search the Ice Cats, specifically a certain hot goalie. And there he is, his blue eyes staring out at me from their roster page. He wasn’t lying when he said his save percentage was a little shaky this season.
Some more browsing provides a few extra details. Becker James—all six feet three, hundred-ninety-five pounds of him—has been banging around in the AHL for a few years. That’s got to be a hard life. His schedule is brutal. This weekend his team is playing back-to-back games in Abbotsford. I don’t even know where that is, but the internet thinks it’s in British Columbia.
Then I google “Ice Cats gay player” and come up empty. The team hosts a Pride Night once a year, but as far as I can tell, Becker James isn’t out. At least not to the media. And maybe not at all. When I picture him at my bar, nursing his one beer, I see a lonely guy.
I mean—once a week the guy drives an hour to drink a single beer in front of me, before driving home alone again. I’ve never seen him pick up at my bar.
Scully glances at me. “Whatcha doing.”
“Never mind, you nosy bastard.”
My best friend and business partner laughs. “You looked up the kid, right?”
“Fuck off.”
He howls.
