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Irritation pinches my gut. Rand and I have never been best buds. Of course, I don’t think you can say I’m truly “best buds” with anyone. Even my best friends hardly know me.
My voice sounds gravelly when I address the room.
I drop my arms to my sides, shrugging. “This situation is bullshit, I get it. But like Lindley said, if you want to start, fight for it.”
Rand barks out a derisive laugh. “C’mon, Ryder, you’re goddamn stupid if you think it stops there. You’re already a starter, sure. But what do you think happens next, bro? What, you’re going to play on the same line with Colson, and you think he’s going to have your back out there? He’s going to pass the puck to you instead of hogging all the glory for himself because he doesn’t want to share with an Eastwood guy? This isn’t just about fighting to be a starter. Because even once you’re picked, you’re still left competing with your own fucking teammates.”
The room goes so silent you could hear a feather floating in the air.
The worst part is, Rand’s not wrong.
No matter which way you slice this, we’re all screwed.
CHAPTER THREE
GIGI
It was just a kiss
MY DAD’S BEEN DOING HIS HOCKEY KINGS SHOW FOR A FEW YEARS now. It first aired a year after he retired, but that wasn’t his original retirement plan. Initially, TSBN offered him a nine-figure deal—and yes, I said nine—to be a sportscaster. But several months before he was slated to start, he and another recent retiree, Jake Connelly, did a guest spot on ESPN to commentate on that year’s Stanley Cup Finals. That one measly episode drew the highest ratings the network had seen in years. TSBN instantly saw dollar signs and realized Dad was better suited doing commentary than calling games. They pitched Hockey Kings to Dad and Connelly, and the rest is ratings history.
The two of them discuss all things hockey. NHL, college, international. There’s even some high school content. Everything’s on the table and the viewers love it. My favorite part, though, is the segment titles. The producers like to get creative with them. They also have serious hard-ons for alliteration.
Which is why tonight’s C-block topic had a title card with the words BRUTAL BRIAR BLOODBATH on it. Apparently, news of this morning’s scuffle made it all the way to the big sports networks.
“A little melodramatic, don’t you think?” I ask my dad when he calls me a couple of hours after he goes off the air. “It was, like, the least bloody brawl I’ve ever seen. A handful of blood drops, tops.”
“Hey, gotta get those views somehow. Blood sells in hockey.”
“You host a show with Jake Connelly, the most beautiful man in the world. Trust me, you’re going to get the views.”
“Nope, nope, nope,” he groans. “You know how I feel when you talk about Connelly’s stupid looks. It triggers my crippling inferiority.”
I snort out a laugh.
“What is it with you and your mother thinking that guy is handsome? He’s average, at best.”
“Oh, he’s definitely not average.”
“Agree to disagree.”
Chuckling to myself, I pull a pair of sweatpants out of my dresser drawer. I’m going down the hall to Whitney’s room tonight to watch a movie.
“Have you spoken to your brother today?” Dad asks.
“No. He texted last night, just some silly meme, but other than that, nothing in a few days. Why? Is he AWOL again?”
My twin has a habit of losing track of his surroundings when he’s writing music. His phone is constantly dead too. Which means Mom is constantly worrying and then texting me to find out if I’ve heard from Wyatt.
“No, no, he’s around. I talked to him this morning. He doesn’t have any gigs lined up, so he’s thinking he might come home for a few weeks.”
Unlike myself, Wyatt doesn’t attend college. He announced that decision to our parents the morning after our high school graduation, despite having been accepted into three of the best schools in the country, including Juilliard. He sat them down, all business (or as businesslike as one can look in ripped jeans and a threadbare T-shirt) and told them college had nothing to offer him, his path was music, and don’t bother talking him out of it, please and thank you.
Three weeks later, he moved to Nashville. And he’s not even a country music guy. His style lends itself more toward a folksy rock-pop mix—I don’t think I could accurately pin it down. All I know is, he’s good. Incredible, actually. He inherited the musician gene from Mom.
But the thing that sucks most about my brother? He also inherited Dad’s talent. Dude can play hockey too. And play it well.
He just doesn’t want to.
My brain can’t wrap itself around that. Who wouldn’t want to play hockey?
What the hell’s wrong with him?
