Page 44

He scanned the table, where, at the far end, Corbin and Crawford were laughing at Kowalczyk balancing an empty beer glass on the tip of his nose like a seal, his arms spread wide.

“I don’t know about that,” Cally murmured under his breath.

“People process shit differently,” I replied. “You brood, Kowalczyk acts like an ass, and Bell …” I turned to take in our captain, who—along with Morrison, Lavoie, and Bonesy—was huddled up at the opposite end of the table with a few of the younger guys.

Bell wasn’t what I’d expected coming into this team. Not entirely, at any rate. Yes, he talked shit, though it was mostly harmless—nothing that could ever be interpreted as a low blow. And I could see why a lot of guys called him an arrogant asshole. He was good, and he knew it, and he made no apologies for knowing it. On any other team in the league, he’d likely have a Cup by now, but he wanted to be in Portland. According to league gossip, his management team had manufactured his trade from Austin in a handshake deal during the expansion draft so he could be with his husband.

I’d been grinding away at this for six years, and I’d never known any other player to prioritize a personal relationship over professional glory like Bell had. The fact that he’d made that choice said a lot about his character. I wasn’t sure I would have done the same, though I’d also never been in love, so what did I know?

Dawes, looking like a kicked puppy, groaned loudly. “Does it ever get easier—losing, I mean?”

Bell spun his glass in the ring of condensation pooled beneath it. “If losing stops hurting, it’s because you’ve stopped caring, and the day you stop caring is the day you should hang up your skates.” Then he shrugged, a smile forming on his lips. “And there are worse things in this world than getting paid a stupid amount of money to play a game you’d play for free.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lavoie remarked. “I got a kid I gotta put through college.”

“Childfree, bay-bee.” Bell lifted his hand in the air, palm facing toward Morrison, who offered him a high five.

Lavoie snorted. “You say that now, but if E ever decides he wants kids, you’re gonna fold like a cheap shirt, man.”

Bell’s head cocked back. “You think Ethan’s going to want kids? My Ethan?” He shook his head, and Morrison smirked, lifting a bottle to his lips. “Never.”

Bonesy cackled and dragged the pitcher toward himself, leaving a trail of condensation in its wake. “Can you fucking imagine?”

“I feel like we’re learning a lot about these guys,” I whispered to Cally, gesturing for Bonesy to pass it my way when he was done.

Cally leaned close, dropping his voice low enough that it was somewhat hard to hear him over the noise from our teammates and nearby tables. “When I was ten, there was this guy my dad played with who called everyone a … an F word, and no one batted an eye.”

He pushed a harsh breath out through his nose. “It was the same in college—this guy on my team tried to play it off like he was only joking, but we all knew he wasn’t.” He shook his head, his eyes sliding down the table to land on Bell, who was rubbing his hand aggressively over Dawes’s hair.

“Sometimes,” he continued, “I can’t believe I’m playing with a guy who married his old teammate, and everyone is just … okay with it.”

There was a note in his voice that I couldn’t quite place. Surprise, yes, but that was to be expected. Everyone in the hockey world had been shocked as shit when Ethan Harrison announced he was gay. Even more shocking, though, was the photo of him and Bell standing at center ice holding hands that had accompanied the announcement.

But beyond surprise, there was something else in his voice, too, and the fact that I couldn’t put my finger on it bothered me.

“Why wouldn’t people be okay with it?” I refilled my glass, realizing how naive that sounded.

Cally rolled his eyes. “In case you haven’t noticed, most hockey players are intolerant assholes.”

“You really think it’s most of us?” I asked, watching Stockhard and Dawes stare at Bell with stars in their eyes.

Even if you were a homophobe, you couldn’t deny the man could skate.

Cally shrugged. “Maybe not most, but a lot.”

I took a sip, grimacing when I realized it’d gone warm, and pushed my glass away. “Well, fuck them.”

Cally toasted me with his water. “Fuck them indeed.”

After that, it didn’t take long for the mood to shift from somber to something more upbeat—the guys getting louder as more and more empty glasses filled the table. Hale was in the middle of recounting the plot of some show he wanted everyone to watch when Monroe stood and gestured toward a group of women hovering at the edge of our section then collapsed back down into his chair. “Ladies! Come join us. We’re celebrating.”

“The fuck?” Cally hissed. “Who fucking celebrates a loss?”

“You think Monroe even remembers we lost? Look at him.” I notched my chin toward the big defenseman, who was swaying in his chair, a crooked grin plastered across his face. He’d long since ditched his tie, the top three buttons of his shirt undone to expose his incredibly hairy chest. He was sweating profusely.

“Celebrating what?” one of the women asked, pulling out a chair and sitting down next to him.

“Being alive,” Hale answered, beer sloshing over the rim of his glass as he leaned forward to address her.