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“And you’re . . . pet sitting?”
“Just taking them for a walk around the neighborhood. I tried taking a nap before tonight’s game, but my mind wouldn’t settle, so I went for a walk. Dabbs was just leaving his house to walk the dogs—we live in the same townhouse complex—so I offered to take them. Ew, Castle, don’t eat the goose poop. God, dogs are so gross.”
“My mom and stepdad have a dog,” Nolan told Eli. “She likes to eat her own poop.”
“That’s more than I ever wanted to know about your mom’s dog. Listen, I’ve got to let you go. I have to bring these guys back, then head to the arena for tonight’s game. Will I see you there?”
“Not tonight, but I’m traveling with the team tomorrow for the New Jersey game.”
“Are you?” Was that a thread of excitement in Eli’s voice or was Nolan imagining things? “I didn’t think you’d be traveling with us.”
“Trailblazers’ culture exists during away games too. Actually, speaking of the culture.” Nolan hooked a foot around the nearest chair’s leg and dragged it closer, then stretched his legs out on it. “Who do you sit next to on flights?”
“Why?” A flirty note entered Eli’s voice, and Nolan’s breath caught. “Do you want to take their seat?”
“Yes.”
The silence, this time, held a tinge of disbelief.
Fuck. Had Nolan overstepped? He hadn’t meant to say that. It had just popped out.
He was about to apologize . . . backpedal . . . explain himself. Hell, he didn’t know what. But then Eli yelped, and he must’ve dropped the phone because there was a clatter followed by Eli’s distant cursing.
“Cosmo, you motherfucker. At least pretend to have some game. Jesus Christ.”
“Uh, Eli?”
Nothing for a few seconds, and Nolan clutched the phone between tense fingers. What the hell had happened? Then a weird whomp-type sound before Eli said, crystal clear, “You still there?”
“Yeah,” Nolan said on a whoosh of relief. “What happened?”
“Cosmo tried to chase after a dog and I tripped over his leash. Let me tell you, those hypothetical pets are not dogs.”
“A hamster maybe? Piper 2.0?”
“2.0 and 2.1. That way they can keep each other company.” Eli let out a hiss that had Nolan wincing.
“You okay?”
“Scraped up my palm. Ugh. I’ll live. It’ll be annoying during tonight’s game though. Anyway. Let me get these demon dogs back to Dabbs so I never have to see them again.”
“Sure,” Nolan said, chuckling. “Make sure you put a bandage on your hand. Who knows what kind of bacteria lives inside a hockey glove.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Eli said, but he was laughing. “They get washed.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Good luck tonight.”
“Thanks,” Eli said. “See you tomorrow.”
And with that, he hung up.
Midway through the third period against Dallas, Eli’s palm stung like a mother. His bandage had come off at one corner and kept catching on the inside of his glove, but he had bigger problems right now.
Like not sucking.
For his entire life, one coach after another had told him he had potential, as if that had meant anything to a ten-year-old. He’d interpreted that as you’re a great hockey player until he’d figured out the meaning of the word and learned that you’ve got potential actually meant put the work in and you’ll go places.
So he’d put the work in. He’d trained and he’d trained and he’d trained, and then he’d trained some more. He’d trained when he was injured, when he was exhausted, when he was overwhelmed. The NHL had been the dream. And when he’d played for the Trailblazers’ AHL affiliate, he’d known it was a stepping stone to where he wanted to be.
