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I follow the guy along the ice. “Dang, that sucks. You’re probably sitting here judging how he’s playing, huh?”
“I’ve made some mental notes.”
My lips mindlessly coil into a smirk because, of course, he has. I like how he doesn’t deny anything and how real he is. No matter how unsettling it can be at times. “What would he need to improve on?”
“His blocking, for one. And he’s afraid to hit someone too hard.”
“I don’t necessarily see a problem with that. Maybe he doesn’t want to hurt anybody.”
“I’m gonna ignore that comment and pretend that you’ve been catching on this whole time.”
Fights.
Men being slammed into the sides.
Getting tripped by hockey sticks and skates.
Violence.
“I get it,” I retort softly. “Anger on ice.”
“And if you’re afraid, you shouldn’t play hockey.”
That seems like a direct motto that he lives by. However, it’s only human not to want to harm someone, but Reid isn’t that, is he? The man is an entity that doesn’t have a strong liking for little kids and gets easily annoyed. I’m not entirely sure what that makes him.
“Do you guys have partners or something?”
“Partners?”
“Like puck buddies.”
Reid returns his gaze to me and he looks exasperated as all hell. However, his tone is calm when he says, “No, Shorty…we’re all a team. We work together.”
“Like football.”
“Yeah, like football.”
“So, you guys talk out plays and stuff?”
“Not entirely. We do it in passing.”
“How?”
“While we’re skating or between periods.” He follows a player with his head down the other side of the ice. “We get it done.”
“What’s a period? Like halftime?”
“Sort of.”
“Huh.”
“What do you mean, huh?” The crowd reacts to something on the ice—don’t ask me what, I completely didn’t see it—and Reid jumps from his chair with the rest of the crowd when groans of disappointment fill the stands.
Pay attention to the game, Hollyn. There might be a pop quiz later, knowing him.
He sits back down, showing zero emotion, and a smile slithers its way across my lips that he catches.
“What?”
