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“There’s always extra.” Dad clapped him on the shoulder. “Eat. We won’t be back at the hotel for another hour, so grab something to tide you over. I recommend the mango smoothie.”
Nolan grabbed one and looked around for somewhere he could unobtrusively watch the players from, like he was about to narrate a mating ritual involving protein powder and chirping. Here, in the visiting locker room, we have the elusive hockey bro in its natural habitat. Observe how this species organizes itself not by seniority or intelligence, but by whoever currently controls the music. This specimen over here appears to prefer the same smoothie flavor as his work husband—a bonding ritual believed to strengthen pair loyalty during road trips and overtime losses. Nearby, a male attempts to attract the attention of a teammate via loud vocal displays and what scientists can only describe as deeply questionable singing.
Ah. There it is. The target has responded. Fascinating.
A successful courtship display. Rare to witness in the wild.
Nolan chuckled to himself.
“You don’t want that,” Eli said, appearing on Nolan’s right.
Nolan tilted his smoothie like he could see through the plastic to the liquid within. “I don’t?”
But Eli had already taken it from his hand. He replaced it with a different smoothie from the table.
Banana.
Nolan grimaced.
“Trust me,” Eli said.
So Nolan did and took a sip. “Oh wow. Damn, that’s good. Doesn’t taste like banana at all.”
“Right? Tastes like a virgin piña colada.”
“Is there even banana in here?”
“I’m convinced someone at the catering company consistently mislabels them. Maybe by accident or maybe to fuck with us, I’m not sure. I wouldn’t put the latter past New Jersey.”
“That doesn’t seem safe,” Nolan said. “What if someone has an allergy to pineapple or coconut?”
“The ingredients are listed. See here?” Eli flipped his own smoothie around, and sure enough, there was a label on the back that listed both pineapple and coconut as well as various other ingredients. But no banana. “Hughes is allergic to a specific kind of protein powder, and Gaff has a sensitivity to soy, and Coach Friedle is allergic to—well, anyway. Doesn’t matter. Pretty sure we would’ve fired this company a long time ago if they got the ingredients wrong, but it’s just the label. We’re used to it now. Banana equals yummy goodness. Don’t trust the mango, though.”
“What?” Nolan laughed. “What’s wrong with the mango?”
“Tastes like mango.”
“Eli,” Dabbs said as he reached for a smoothie. “There’s a jersey over there that needs your signature for this afternoon’s event.”
“On it,” Eli said.
“What’s happening this afternoon?” Nolan asked.
“Team meeting once we get back to the hotel, then a local sports store is hosting a few of us for a fan event. Autographs, pictures, that kind of thing.”
“And then you do it all again tomorrow?”
“Some of it, yeah.” Eli grinned, as though a hockey player’s schedule was anything resembling normal. “We’ll have morning skate and a quick team meeting, but then we’ll have the afternoon off before the game. I get the privilege of being followed around by one of our social media people for a video about my pregame routine for away games, so . . . yay.” The yay was said rather pathetically, and Nolan couldn’t help but laugh. He’d never understand the fascination with a professional athlete’s day-to-day activities.
“How did practice go today?” he asked.
Eli cocked his head. “Weren’t you watching? I swear I saw you in the stands.”
“I was, but I missed most of it. I was working on my tablet.”
“You didn’t see that sweet goal I managed against Matty Coates? Screw you, Nolan. You can have the mango next time.”
Nolan laughed again and met Eli’s gaze with his own. What was it about Eli that made him laugh so freely and make him feel like he could tell Eli his deepest, darkest secrets and not be judged? The air crackled between them, a thunderstorm on the horizon, and Nolan wanted to reach for Eli’s hand again. He’d already used the excuse of checking the wound on his palm, though, so what else was there?
