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Frankly, I don’t know why I need rapport. One of the great things about the goalie position is that it’s less reliant on the chemistry I have with my teammates. It’s more solitary, individual; every save is my own responsibility.
But I’m not going to argue with my coach. Especially not someone I respect as much as Jack Torres. Coach is one of the main reasons my dad encouraged me to transfer here from Boston.
I go to insert my key into the doorknob, but before it makes contact, the door swings open.
A tall, curvy brunette strides into me on her way out the door. She slams right against the hard plane of my torso since she’s still looking behind her and not paying attention to where she’s walking.
She lets out a yelp and almost falls backward, but I grip her shoulders to steady her.
Laughter booms from inside the house. “Britt, meet Hudson,” Tuck McCoy, our right forward, calls out in his southern drawl.
“Oh,” she says, her eyes going wide as she looks up at me. “Hi.” The surprised look on her face transforms into a sultry smile. She hasn’t made any effort to take a step back so that her full tits are no longer pressed against my chest.
“Uh. Hey.” I grunt the words, stepping aside.
Her eyes elevator up and down my body before settling on my face. The sultry smile falters as she realizes I’m not returning it. She does a tiny shrug and then calls back inside the house in a syrupy-sweet voice, “See you later, Tucky!”
“Sure thing, darlin’,” Tuck drawls, sauntering over to lean against the door jamb, his eyes fixed appreciatively on Britt’s ass as she sways down our walkway.
I brush past Tuck. He lingers a moment longer, no doubt still checking out Britt, before shutting the door and clasping me on the shoulder.
“So, how was your first class, Huddy?” he asks.
I fix a gaze on him sharp enough to cut through steel.
“That’s a no on Huddy, then?”
“It’s a no on any nickname,” I reply.
“Tuck tries to give everyone nicknames,” another one of my teammates, Sebastian Laurent, calls from the living room couch where he’s playing a videogame. “Don’t worry, he’ll drop it soon.”
“Ya’ll are no fun,” Tuck pouts, strolling to the kitchen where he grabs a beer from the refrigerator.
Our left defenseman, Rhys Callahan, who’s sitting next to Sebastian, eyes Tuck as he polishes off the beer in no time. “Didn’t you just say you had to leave for class in five minutes?”
Tuck shrugs. “What do you think the beer is for?”
“I thought you wanted to pass all your classes this year, bro,” Sebastian quips.
“One beer won’t hurt,” Tuck replies dismissively. “You know what? Two probably wouldn’t hurt either …”
“You’re cut off, McCoy.” The authoritative proclamation comes from our team captain, Lane Larsen, who strolls in from the backyard.
“Aw, come on, Cap,” Tuck whines.
Lane shakes his head definitively. “Nope. You’re not gonna be at risk of losing academic eligibility like you were last year. Now get your butt to class.”
Tuck sighs but complies. He pushes the refrigerator door closed and heads upstairs to his room to get ready for class.
“And you two,” Lane says, turning his attention to Rhys and Sebastian sitting on the couch. “You think this is what Coach was talking about the other day when he told us we need to start getting serious about our diets before the season starts?”
Lane gestures to the giant bowl sitting on the coffee table in front of the two, filled to the brim with a mixture of various potato chips, Fritos, Cheetos, pretzels, and other junk food.
I haven’t known these guys for long, but it’s been long enough for me to see that team captain isn’t just a title for Lane. He’s totally the Airport Dad of the group.
And Tuck is definitely the spoiled younger brother of the group. Emphasis on spoiled, because apparently his dad is loaded and owns a construction company in Tennessee where he comes from.
Rhys Callahan is our left defenseman, and Lane’s best friend. They grew up together, but you’d never guess it. While Lane is the strait-laced, golden retriever type, Rhys has an edge to him. It shows on the ice. Rhys is never afraid to spend time in the Sin Bin.
