I roll over and pick up my phone. I have a bunch of messages. A group text that includes BJ, the Butterson twins, Kody, and Quinn, and several messages from my dad telling me to get my ass out of bed. There’s nothing from Clover. I should expect this, but I don’t love it.
I take care of my morning wood, get dressed, and head downstairs to the kitchen. The smell of fresh fritters makes my mouth water. Two travel coffee mugs sit on the counter, along with a box of fritters, and next to that is River, who clearly hasn’t bothered to brush his hair and is about as awake as I am.
He, however, is shoveling fritters into his face and gripping his coffee cup.
“Morning, sunshine.” I try to reach into the box, but he swats the back of my hand with his fork and wraps his arm protectively around the fritters.
“These are mine.” He points to a second box. “Those are for you.”
“You’re in a good mood.”
“It’s the fucking holidays. I’m supposed to be sleeping.” He stabs another fritter and takes a huge bite out of it, groaning. “These are so good.” His phone buzzes on the table, and he glances at the screen before quickly flipping it over.
Dad appears in the kitchen a few seconds later. “We’re all set. Grab your coffees and your breakfast and let’s roll.”
“I don’t know why I have to come. I play football, not hockey,” River grumbles, but he pushes back his chair, grabs his box of fritters, and heads for the door. I do the same, minus the grumbling.
We pile into Dad’s truck, River claiming the back seat. His phone is in his hand almost immediately. Mine keeps buzzing in my pocket, but the only person I want to talk to is Clover. And she needs space, so I get to talk to my dad, instead.
“What time did you get in last night, son?”
“It was late. I had a few things to take care of after my shift at the gym.”
He nods a few times and taps the steering wheel. “Would one of those things you had to take care of be a girlfriend?”
“No, Dad. No girlfriend. I told you, I’m taking a break from the dating scene. Besides, next semester is going to be heavy. I have bio-chem, which isn’t my favorite subject.”
“Kody could probably help you with that.”
Talking about school makes me think about Clover, which makes me wonder what’s waiting for me after the holidays, so I change the subject. “Maybe. When is Gram-pot coming down?”
“He and Grandma Daisy are supposed to be here the day after your mom and I get back. And Grandpa Sid and Gigi should arrive on Thursday.”
“Cool, cool.” I love it when my grandparents come to visit. Gigi tells us all kinds of cringeworthy stories about my mom, and Gram-pot is a weed scientist and always has the best edibles. During the season, I don’t partake, but he sneaks me a couple of low-dose brownies when he visits.
When we arrive at the arena, the entire Butterson clan, minus the twins, is already there, as well as Kody, his younger brother, Dakota, BJ and Quinn, and their dads. Darren Westinghouse, my dad’s long-time best friend and former teammate, is also there, plus Ryan Kingston and Bishop Winslow, two of the guys my dad used to coach back in the day. They’re tight with Kody’s parents and ended up buying property on Pearl Lake too. They’re retired from the league now, and my dadinvited them to be part of the not-for-profit hockey training program he and my uncle Miller set up several years back.
We spend the next three hours playing hockey. It should be fun, but I’m hyperaware of how awesome Kody is on the ice, and how much I feel like I’m struggling to keep up these days—especially with all these former NHL players skating circles around me. And River, despite having picked football as his sport of choice, can keep up with the best of them. And then there’s BJ, doing fucking leaps and twirls and still managing to get the puck in the net.
I fumble an easy pass from Kody and follow it up by shooting wide and missing the net. Instead of keeping my shit together and laughing it off, I throw my stick across the ice.
My dad calls a time-out and picks up the stick, then skates me over to the bench. “You don’t need to be so hard on yourself. There aren’t any scouts watching.”
“I’m underslept, stressed about my grades and shit.” I tip my head back and squeeze some water into my mouth.
He puts a hand on my shoulder. “You don’t have to be perfect, Maverick. Sometimes we’re just playing to play.”
I nod, biting back an asshole retort. I don’t know why I’m being like this. He’s just trying to be positive. “I know, Dad. I’ll get it together.”
But I don’t. I keep missing easy passes and fumbling the puck. It’s embarrassing. And I hate it even more that every single dad/former NHL pro keeps trying to give me positive feedback, telling me we all have bad days on the ice. What they don’t realize is that I’m starting to have more bad days than good. While Kody keeps gaining confidence, I keep losing it.
Afterward, we go for brunch, and Kody and I end up beside each other, our dads talking pros and what we can expect with the new draft class this spring. Kody is excited, but it makes me stressed. BJ’s dad, my uncle Randy, is sitting nextto Rook, Kody’s dad, half paying attention to our conversation. BJ is at the other end of the table with Quinn and the rest of the Buttersons. Even Laughlin, the only Butterson with dark hair and a black-cloud personality to match, is down there laughing and joking around.
Uncle Randy, who is sitting almost across from me, strokes his beard, gaze bouncing between Rook, my dad, me, and Kody. “You know . . .” He grabs the last breadstick. “It’s gotta be rough for you boys, always listening to these two wax poetic about hockey like it’s the only sport in the world.”
Both Rook and my dad frown.
“That’s not true,” my dad says.
