Page 17 of King of the Crease

“Making a comeback.” I nod along.

“It’s a little challenging playing again after twenty-five years,” Griffin says. “But it’s a good time. And we go out for beers whether we win or lose.”

Beers with friends. What a life. Nostalgia swirls in my head.

“I used to play,” I utter out.

“You did?” Hank doesn’t try to hide his shock.

“In boarding—in high school. I played for a handful of games. Then my father found out and made me stop.” I scoff at the memory. “He said it wasn’t a dignified sport.” I should probably have used a different word than dignified, but none came to mind.

“It may not be dignified, but it’s fun as hell,” Hank says. “What position did you play?”

“Goalie.”

“Me, too!” His face lights up brighter than our castle’s Christmas display. “Don’t let the gut fool you. My glutes and quads are like iron.” He slaps his own butt.

Griffin covers his face in embarrassment, but I laugh along…and attempt to sneak a peek. His butt pushes against the limits of his jeans. In a word? Yum.

Hockey was one of the things I tried while coping with my mother’s death. Memories of being on the ice, of being part of a team, fill my head. For those few games, I was one of the guys, not the crown prince. We joked; we talked shit. My father steered me to tennis. Less chance of getting my teeth knocked out.

“You’re right, Hank. It was fun as hell,” I say.

“You should join the Comebacks,” Hank says.

“What?” Now it’s my turn not to hide my shock.

“You want to come back to playing hockey. We are a team of comebacks. It’s a perfect fit. We can use another goalie on the team.”

“I’m only here for a few weeks, though.”

“So you’ll play with us for a few weeks. This isn’t the NHL. The rules are more flexible. Especially this time of year, guys are missing games all the time for the holidays. You can have some fun while you’re in Sourwood.”

“I haven’t played in years,” I remind him.

“I can help you with that.” Hank claps my shoulder. “Skating is like riding a bike, but with blades instead of wheels. And no handlebars. And no bell, although how fun would it be to have a bell we can ring as we skate down the ice?”

“But I’m not any good.”

“Neither’s Griffdog.”

Griffin shoots him a look that could melt an entire ice rink.

“You know I’m kidding, pal.” Hank nudges his side.

I don’t have a concussion, but I start to feel dizzy. Dizzy with excitement about getting to play hockey and be part of a team. My goal was to blend into everyday life in Sourwood, and there’s nothing more regular than grabbing a beer with friends. It’s not coffee at Central Perk, but it’s close enough.

“Join the Comebacks, Nick!” Hank says.

Nick. Another jolt up my spine.

“Sure.” I don’t want to sound too eager, but I just know I’m going to run home and scream to Millie about this.

“Can I get your number? I can give you the info,” Hank asks. His face lights up like he’s never seen the sun before. I’ve never seen someone so gleeful about texting.

I bought a burner phone to use while I’m here. I wanted to be completely untrackable. But now I can’t remember my number.

“Give me your number. I’ll text you,” I tell him.