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My dad didn’t even consider settling down until he met my mom six years into his professional career. The same can be said for the rest of my friends’ fathers. Hockey came first, then family later.
“I’m not shacking up with Shannon,” Jamie spits back, defensive. “Like you have room to talk, Prez.”
We call Peter “Preston” Parker by his nickname. Jamie added the z to his name years ago, and Prez stuck. Preston hates being called Peter because Peter Parker is Spider-Man’s real name. His dad lost a bet to Jamie’s long before he was born and ended up with the unfortunate name.
I couldn’t keep a straight face if an announcer said Peter Parker scored a goal. I would climb the Plexiglas like Spider-Man just to get a rise out of Preston if they did. Anyone would laugh, which is the reason Preston refuses to use his real name.
As the youngest son of Alex Parker, one of the best defenseman to ever play hockey for the Philadelphia Flyers, Preston has big shoes to fill. So do I. All of us do. It’s hard to live up to the Kane name. We’re constantly compared to our fathers, making it even harder to forge a path for ourselves without their shadows following us.
Preston narrows his eyes at Jamie. “The last time I checked I didn’t move any girls into our house.”
“No, but you’re seeing Bex behind coach’s back,” Jamie shoots back, irritated.
Preston has been sneaking around with Bex Bryant, our hockey coach’s only daughter. She’s hot, but I wouldn’t mess with coach—not when his decisions can influence my career. Coach Bryant has rules about his daughter dating his players, and yet she’s been with Preston for the last few weeks. All of us are waiting for coach to have an aneurysm and kill Preston.
“And?” Preston snorts. “Do you have a point, dick?”
“Wait until you get caught,” Drake interrupts, crossing his thick arms over his chest. “You won’t see a second of playing time from Coach.”
Drake is a big dude, well over six feet six inches. He’s built like a brick house, tall and sturdy, with arms and legs that make ours look small in comparison, and that’s saying a lot. Drake is the only son of Carter Donovan, who is my dad’s best friend and former teammate. He was the goaltender for the Flyers when Alex Parker and my dad played for them. Both times they won the Stanley Cup. Uncle Carter is like a second father to me, which makes Drake like a brother. All of my friends are family, more like brothers than teammates or friends.
“Coach loves me,” Preston says, confident. “I doubt he’d care that I’m seeing Bex. We’re just hooking up.”
“It’s more than a hookup,” Jamie retorts. “You’ve never kept a girl around this long.”
Preston shrugs. “I like Bex. She’s cool. And hot.”
We walk across the front lawn together, cut through the back streets, and end up on Greek Row. Our house is around the corner, where the rest of the athletes have campus housing. The Greeks occupy two whole city blocks, and the jocks get another two, split between different sports. Everything from football to ice hockey to women’s field hockey takes up residence in this section of the campus.
It’s hard to believe we’ve managed to live in the same house together, play on the same team, and eat most meals together for the last three years. Some days, we get on each other’s nerves. Most days, we want to beat the shit out of each other for the dumbest things. But overall, we make it work. We know each other well enough to understand when we need space.
When we step through the front door, my nose is assaulted by the delicious smell of garlic. Shannon was here earlier, cooking our meals for the week. She does this often, and because none us have a problem with it, she just walks into the house whenever she feels like it. While none of us were crazy about Jamie keeping the sorority girl around, we can’t deny she is an amazing cook. None of us can do more than microwave macaroni and cheese, so having Shannon around has been nice.
“I got some bad news,” I say. “You guys might want to sit down.”
Preston raises his eyebrows in curiosity. “What happened?”
The guys take their usual seats on the couches across from me and kick their feet up on the long, oak coffee table separating us. I fill them in about how Trent and I were caught switching places again. None of them are shocked, though they’re not happy with Dean Whittaker’s decision.
Preston, our team captain, leans forward, his elbows on his thighs and a worried expression on his face. “How fucking stupid can you two be? This is our last year. Our last chance to win another Frozen Four.”
