The father of one of our teammates handled the travel arrangements for the entire team. We got stuck with a random thirty-six-hour stopover in the middle of the Netherlands. Obviously, we had to seize the opportunity to check out a “coffee shop.”
“But edibles are tricky, and we had no idea what we were doing. So, of course, we overshot and ended up super high,” Dallas explained. “Like, super fucking high.”
Bailey and Shiv exchanged a look over the table that was somewhere between amusement and these idiots.
“Then we got the munchies,” I said, “so we found a McDonalds. We ordered everything on the menu, and with the exchange rate, it worked out to like two hundred dollars by the time we were done,” I recalled. “You know, I bet we could have dined at the fanciest joint in Amsterdam for that.”
“To be fair, those were the best chicken nuggets I’ve ever eaten.” Dallas’s expression turned wistful. “Worth the twenty-five bucks.”
I guffawed. “Because you were higher than a fucking kite. You were dipping them in your strawberry milkshake, dude.”
“Once we got back to the hotel, Carter lost his phone. We ransacked our room looking for it—using his phone as a flashlight. Finally, I wised up and decided to use my phone to call his. And he screamed when it rang in his hand.”
Shiv laugh-snorted, slapping her palm on the table, and Bailey broke into a fit of giggles. It wasn’t my sharpest moment, but it was funny in retrospect. I’d been pretty fucked up before, but that took the cake. Or brownie.
“Then we turned on Anchorman,” I told them. “We were a solid half hour into the movie before either of us realized the TV had been on mute the entire time.”
“Oh my god,” Bailey shouted, hazel eyes crinkling. “You two are such a gong show.”
Dallas chortled. “I blame Carter. It was all his idea.”
“I believe you,” Bailey said.
“What?” I shrugged, picking up my bottle of beer. Beneath the table, Bailey shifted her weight, accidentally brushing her leg against mine and momentarily diverting my attention. “It’s legal there. When in Rome. Er,” I stumbled, “Amsterdam.” See? She had a crazy amount of power over my brain.
“I think the lesson here is that you should never be released into the wild together without proper supervision,” Shiv said, still fighting back a chuckle.
“In our defense, we were only eighteen,” I said. “I like to think we’re a little bit smarter now.”
“I should hope so.” Bailey wiped away a tear of laughter. “You a closet pothead, Carter?”
“Ha, not really.”
“That’s not a no.” Her brow crinkled, expression sobering. “But what about drug tests?”
“I’m talking a couple times a year, max. In the off-season.” Usually. Ty was another story, with an encyclopedic knowledge about how to outwit drug testing and several successes doing so.
“Ah,” she murmured. “You really are corrupt.”
“Trying to reform,” I said. “Kinda. Why? Are you telling me you’ve never done that?”
She scrunched up her nose. “Once or twice. I just didn’t like it.”
Huh. I couldn’t picture Bailey doing anything illegal. Or breaking the rules in general, for that matter. Wasn’t sure how she ended up with me, but definitely wasn’t complaining.
“Ah, my rule-follower.” I patted her thigh beneath the table, letting my hand linger on her leg. She shot me a sidelong glance that was more than a little suggestive, which instantly turned me on again. Dammit.
Not long after, Shiv drove Bailey home so they could swing by and check out the exteriors of the apartments on their list. To, quote, “assess the sketchiness factor of the area and check out walkability to nearby Starbucks.” Chick priorities, I guess.
Wednesday couldn’t come soon enough.
OceanofPDF.com
CHAPTER 29
OceanofPDF.com
FACE OFF
Chase
For a weeknight game, the arena was packed. But that was always the case when we played Callingwood. The stakes were especially high tonight because Bailey was in the stands with Shiv. Hell, I didn’t merely want to win; I wanted to annihilate the Bulldogs. You know, male pride and all that. Not to mention the ever-present desire to crush Morrison in every possible way.
Unfortunately, our teammates were on a different page. I wasn’t sure what the fuck was going on, but they were sloppy, disorganized, and undisciplined. Ward and I were pulling most of the weight—and putting in ridiculous amounts of ice time as a result.
Even worse, Ty was having an off game, and the two goals he let in so far were weak as hell. One or two more, and Coach Miller would have to pull him. Though with our defense failing to show up, I had little confidence our backup goalie would fare much better.
With less than five minutes left in the first period, I hopped back on for another shift. I mean, why not? At this rate, I might as well stay out here the whole time.
As the blades of my skates connected with the ice, the Bulldogs lost possession of the puck and it slid across the blue line into their zone. Paul and I raced for it, but I made it there first. Before I could bring it out, he pulled up in a blur of navy and gave me a forceful shove, trying to separate me from the puck. We got stuck in the corner, locked in a heated puck battle. He attempted to stick-check, and when that failed, he accidentally-on-purpose slashed me in the hand with his blade. Hard. I sucked in a sharp breath as searing pain shot through my left hand and wrist.
Cheap motherfucker.
I hated him almost as much as I hated Morrison.
The whistle sounded as the ref called a justified minor penalty. And one that was more than needed for us. We could use the one-man advantage right now. I was nothing if not consistent in my ability to draw penalties from other teams.
Hand throbbing, I headed to our bench to make a line change, skating past the visitor bench on my way. As I passed, Morrison tipped forward, nodding at the scoreboard. “How’s it feel being down by two points after the first, Carter?”
This was his idea of trash talking. Pointing out the score.
“A hell of a lot better than being a free agent with shitty stats,” I said. “Must be stressful, man.”
Coming out of high school, Morrison was good enough to get into Callingwood, a respectable Division I school, but not good enough to get drafted to the NHL. He had a massive inferiority complex to show for it. Given his recent poor performance, he was set to flounder as a free agent when he left college next spring, praying a team would pick him up as scraps. Couldn’t happen to someone more deserving.
“I’ve got lots of interest from the league.” He glowered at me, squaring his shoulders from where he sat on their bench.
“Sure,” I said. “Even farm teams need a fourth line.”
Morrison was legitimately one of the most overrated players I knew. Had two mediocre years in the NCAA, followed by a short-lived hot streak in his third, which somehow landed him a captainship he didn’t deserve. He promptly shit the bed for his final season.
Unfortunately for him, one good year in college did not a professional career make. It took consistency and steady growth as a player. But that meant hard work, which was probably where the wheels fell off for his spoiled ass. All the money and training camps in the world couldn’t compensate for a total lack of grit. That was why I had a future in the bag and he didn’t, unless leeching off his wealthy parents counted.