There’s a beat.
“What?” I press.
“He mentioned the Worlds. Made a point to say that the higher-ups are watching you.”
I wince.
Fuck. I hate hearing that. Julio Vega is Dallas’s new general manager. The franchise recently made the change, and I had a call with him a couple of weeks ago. I thought it went well, but now it turns out my behavior at the World Juniors is going to follow me until the end of time.
I let out a breath. “This shit is going to haunt me forever, man. And the worst part is, I never lose my temper. You know that.”
“Trust me, I know.” He chuckles. “You’re like the iceman. Stoic to the core. Klein must have crossed a serious line for you to lose it on him like that…”
Michael Klein is the teammate whose jaw I broke in the Worlds. He had to get it wired shut after what I did to it.
But I haven’t told anybody what was said in that locker room, and I don’t plan to.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says when I don’t respond. “It’s in the past and therefore forbidden from being discussed.”
Owen likes to mock my “It’s in the past” motto, the phrase I tend to throw out when someone tries forcing me to talk about shit I don’t want to talk about. It particularly annoys women. Or people with sunshine and rainbows in their backgrounds—they’re incapable of understanding why I want to keep that door latched and locked.
Behind that door is nothing but darkness and pain. Who wants to trudge through that filth? To ruminate and rehash? Best to always keep the door shut.
“Anyway, I wanted to give you the heads-up,” Owen says. “I promised you I’d keep my ears open.”
“No, I really appreciate it.” I change the subject. “You looking forward to this season?”
“Damn straight. Can’t wait to get back out there. How about you? Everything good at Briar?”
“Fuck no. Training camp sucked. Lots of passive-aggressive bullshit, and other times just plain aggressive, no passive about it.” I pause. “Garrett Graham showed up to our practice this week. Of course it happened to be the one time I was late.”
“Late?” Owen sounds surprised. “That’s not like you.”
“The Jeep’s dead. Transmission gave out on me. It’s sitting at a garage in Hastings now because I’ve got no money to fix it, so I’ve got Shane chauffeuring me.”
“I’ll transfer you some cash.”
“No—” I start to object.
“Bro, I showed you my contract. I can afford it. Besides, I’m investing in future talent here. I can’t have my protégé not making it to practice on time.”
There’s no use arguing. Owen’s more stubborn than I am. “You really don’t have to. But thank you, I appreciate that. I’ll pay you back.”
“I don’t want you to.”
The door slides open behind me.
“Dude,” Shane orders. “Inside. Now.”
“I gotta go,” I tell Owen. “Something’s brewing.”
“All right, keep in touch.”
“Yeah. Later.”
I go inside and realize that sometime when I was on the phone, the email from Jensen landed in our inboxes.
In the living room, I find several new arrivals in the form of fellow forward Nick Lattimore, his girlfriend, Darby, and the Hawley brothers. I used to think Rand was the one who dragged his younger brother around everywhere, until I realized Mason mostly tags along to keep his older brother in check.
The triumph in Rand’s eyes tells me it’s good news.
Shane starts rattling off names, and relief hits me when I hear both my best friends made the list. Well, of fucking course they did. Jensen would be an idiot to sideline a solid defenseman like Beckett or a right winger with as much power as Shane. Rand, Mason, and Nick all made it too. And Colson and I have been named official captains, no longer interim.
“Dude, we won,” Rand tells me.
I frown at him. “What do you mean won?”
“The starters list. Eleven of us. Nine of them.”
Shane continues to skim the list, head down. “I mean, in terms of starters, yeah. But the final tally is about sixty percent existing Briar players, forty percent Eastwood.”
“Dude, who cares who’s riding the pine?” Rand counters. “Eastwood dominates the ice. That’s all that matters. Right, Ryder?”
I shrug, distracted. I’m studying the list on my own phone now. Jensen made the right calls here. Solid choices, all around. And the fact that we do outnumber the starters shows he wasn’t picking favorites.
“I guarantee someone cares about riding the pine.” Shane’s hookup partner, Kara, joins the conversation, her expression wry. “They’re probably super pissed right now. And talk about terrible timing—the list shows up right in the middle of Miller’s goodbye party? Brutal.”
“Miller?” Rand echoes blankly.
“Miller Shulick. He’s transferring?” She gives us an amused look. “You know they live like five houses down, right?”
“You’re fucking kidding me. You guys are neighbors?” Rand looks like he discovered there is a herpes outbreak on our street.
“I had no idea,” Shane says.
“Case, Miller, and Jordan live in the corner house at the end of this street,” Kara reveals. “Well, Miller not for much longer. He’s moving out on Sunday.”
“How do you know all this?” Rand demands.
“I used to date Jordan.”
“Trager?” He’s flabbergasted.
She nods.
“That asshat? What’s wrong with you?”
She glares at Rand. “Wow. Dick much?”
He ignores that.
But she’s not wrong. Dude’s a raging dickhead.
Case in point: “I think we should go over there,” Rand says gleefully.
“Come on, man,” Nick speaks up, looking annoyed. “We’re not going to their house to gloat.”
“Yeah, that’s mean,” agrees his girlfriend.
I’m surprised when Beckett takes a different position. “Maybe it’s not a terrible idea.”
“Seriously?” Shane gapes at him. “You want to gloat?”
“No, obviously not that part.” Beckett rolls his eyes. “I just mean, maybe it won’t hurt to make a peace offering. Bring them a case of beer or something. Wish Miller goodbye. It is kind of shitty he’s transferring.”
“You just want to party,” Shane accuses.
Our buddy grins. “I mean, that too.” He looks at Kara. “Everyone swears Briar’s party scene is fire, but I haven’t seen it yet.”
“Classes haven’t even started,” she protests. “Greek Row is basically a ghost town right now. Trust me, once everyone’s back on campus, you’ll see.”
“Well, until then, I vote we walk down the street and extend the olive branch in the form of booze and weed,” Beckett says.
Everyone looks toward me. I don’t know how I feel about this unsolicited crown that’s been placed on my head.
“I’m not making decisions for you assholes,” I say irritably, and Darby laughs in delight. “Do whatever you want to do.”