Given how unhelpful this response is, you’d think I’d chuck my phone out the window of my Jeep. But I need my phone to navigate to the rink where we’re playing the Plague.
And also, I need it to play my pump-up song, which is “Just Can’t Get Enough,” by Depeche Mode.
On the way, I remind myself to focus on goaltending instead of dissecting Forest’s intentions. As if my brain even worked that way—I’ve got a master’s degree in overthinking.
So I sing along to Depeche Mode and hope for the best.
The Red Mountain High School looks like most high schools—a cross between a hospital and a prison. A severely pissed-off mountain goat is pictured on a sign over the rink’s entrance. I assume it’s Red Mountain’s mascot.
After yanking my hoodie over my cap in the parking lot, I walk inside. Their rink is an echoey, low-slung barn with flickering fluorescent lights, just like so many others. But the ice looks smooth, and I feel the familiar itch.
Which dressing room is ours, though?
That becomes obvious a moment later when I find that one of the doors has the enemy’s sweater taped onto it. It’s a generic black jersey with “PLAGUE” spelled out in a dripping red font. Real subtle.
I find the other dressing room and heft my gear bag a little higher on my shoulder. For this game, I dug out my old juniors gear. No Ice Cats logos anywhere. The last thing I need is someone recognizing me and asking why a pro player is slumming it in the beer league.
For a team called the Stickhandlers.
“You made it!” Scully’s voice booms as soon as I open the door. He and Forest are pulling on their gear, and just seeing Forest makes my stomach do that fizzy thing. He’s removing a flannel shirt, because of course he is. So I get a glimpse of a broad chest with exactly the right amount of fur on it.
Oh man. If this is as close as I get to Forest’s naked body, it’s almost enough.
I give them an awkward wave with my stick. “Hope that mountain goat outside isn’t an omen. They’re actually pretty aggressive animals. Did you know they can climb trees? Which seems like showing off, honestly. Like, pick a lane—are you a goat or a squirrel?”
Forest just stares at me for a moment, then shakes his head and grabs his compression shirt.
Right. Shutting up now.
The locker room smells like every other locker room I’ve been in—that unique blend of equipment funk and determination. The Stickhandlers are joking around as they dress. They’re a mix of ages and builds that somehow works together.
“Boys, tonight changes everything,” Scully crows. “Barkley’s ankle is healed up, and we found ourselves a goalie who can actually stop a puck.”
“Unlike Marcus,” someone adds.
“Hey, that child had skills!”
“That child was wearing Crocs!”
Javier tosses me a red Stickhandlers jersey. “Here, buddy. Make us proud.”
“On it.” These guys feel right, somehow. Like maybe I could belong here, if I wasn’t…well, me.
As I strap on my gear, I sneak a glance at Forest. His arm muscles bunch beneath his compression shirt as he tugs up his socks, and my heart starts beating wildly with a singular question: do I have a chance with him tonight?
Probably not. But a guy can dream.
When we take the ice for warmups, I hear the chirping start immediately from the other bench. Real creative stuff about rainbows and fairies. I tune most of it out—five seasons in the minors teaches you that much.
But then one of them skates by our bench and calls out, “Hey, Sugar Plum! Nice pads. They come in men’s sizes?”
I can’t help myself. “Oh, you’re chirping me? That’s cute. Like a bunny growling.”
The guy actually stops skating, probably trying to figure out if he’s been insulted or not. His teammate skates into him from behind, and they both go down.
Forest, gliding by, actually cracks a smile, and it feels like a win.
I stretch carefully during warmups, because I can’t afford to pull something. God knows how I’d explain that to management.
