“The boy was talented.”
“The boy was wearing Crocs.”
Quiet Kid grins, and it lights up his incredible face. But Scully groans. He grabs a towel to wipe down the taps. “So what, we forfeit to those assholes? After all their bullshit?”
I make a grunt of dismay just thinking about it. During our last game against the Plague—which we lost 8-1—our opponents spent the whole game making homophobic comments, always out of earshot of the ref. The thought of forfeiting to them makes my teeth hurt.
“We’ll ask around and find a sub for Chen.” But we both know it’s a long shot. Nobody will want to sub in against the Plague. They play like they’re trying to make up for having tiny penises. Lots of sharp elbows and obnoxious chirps.
Fregular slams down his empty bottle. “Hey! Forest! You seeing this shit? Third line’s a disaster!”
As I turn to deal with him, I catch something odd cross Quiet Kid’s face, like he’s gathering courage to say something. But when I glance his way a minute later, he’s focused on the game again, watching with a studied intensity.
A moment later, the Cougars score, and the whole bar erupts. Fregular actually hugs the stranger next to him. When the noise dies down, I hear a voice that’s become familiar despite how rarely I hear it.
“When’s this game?”
Scully and I both turn to look at Quiet Kid.
“Sorry?” I ask. “You need another soda?”
He shakes his head. “Not what I asked. What time is your game next Tuesday? I could do it.”
“Do what?” Scully asks.
“Tend goal. Unless I’m…” He seems to catch himself. “…at work.”
Scully and I exchange a look. The kid has an athletic build. He’s all lean, angular muscle and square shoulders, but that doesn’t mean he can stop a puck.
“Can you play?” I ask.
“Dude, does it even matter?” Scully laughs. “We’re desperate. The game is at nine p.m.,” he tells the kid. “Even if you have to call in sick at work, let’s make this happen. We could all chip in to compensate you for your time, maybe. Just this once.”
“I can’t call in sick,” Quiet Kid says, shifting his gaze to Scully. “But nine o’clock is no problem.”
“Slow down,” I tell Scully. “Do you have your own equipment?” I ask the kid.
A flash of humor lights the kid’s blue eyes. He’s super attractive, with a square jaw and hair the color of a wheat field. His nose has a bump in the middle, like maybe it was broken once.
Maybe he really is a goalie.
“I play,” he says. “Here, I’ll show you my high school highlights reel. One sec.” He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling.
Scully gives me a meaningful glare that says, Be nice. We need this guy.
He’s probably right, but Scully is the kind of charmer who says yes to anything, and I’m the asshole who says, “Wait a minute while I overthink this.”
Someone has to be the grownup around here.
The kid holds out his phone, and Scully and I lean in to watch a video. It’s high school hockey, sure, but after watching for just a few seconds, it’s obvious the goalie is a stud. He moves like water. A breakaway shot deflects off his blocker like he knew where it was going before the shooter did. In the next highlight, he’s down in a butterfly, kicking out his right pad to deny what should have been a goal.
The third clip shows him tracking through traffic, somehow finding a slapshot that I can barely see through the mass of bodies. He makes each save look easy, like he’s casually swatting flies. Even in shaky phone footage, the talent is obvious. The kid has that sixth sense that all great goalies have, like he can read the puck’s mind.
“You’ll do,” I say drily, trying not to sound too impressed.
“Yeah, but I have one condition,” he says, his voice gathering strength.
“Name it,” Scully says. “Anything.”
