“Dude,” Shane tells Beckett. “That was me.”
“Really? I thought you got a BJ from that chick at the concert. You booty-called someone after we got home?”
“No. Porn, dude.” He rolls his eyes as if it’s obvious.
“Those sex noises were going on for like four hours.” Beckett gapes at him. “You were jerking it for that long? How is your dick still attached?”
“I was doing this, ah, edging thing I keep hearing about.”
“Right. I hear that’s popular in the porn community,” Beck says solemnly.
Shane gives him the finger. “Whatever. I’m young. I can do whatever I want with my dick. Mind your business.”
“Then keep the volume down next time. There’s this thing called earbuds. Invest in them.”
Chuckling, Beckett goes to the stove and grabs a pan for the eggs.
Shane winks at me as I pass him, lightly punching my arm.
“You owe me,” he murmurs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
RYDER
Communication hiccups
THE NIGHT OF OUR SEASON OPENER HOME GAME, I DRIVE TO THE Graham Center with Beckett and Shane. Sitting in the back seat of Shane’s Mercedes, I type on my phone and send the usual text message to our Eastwood group chat, a superstition that started last year and now we’re stuck with. During the drive, a dozen notifications blast the same message.
In the locker room, Beckett attempts to defend some movie he tried forcing Shane to watch last night.
“You don’t get it. The hero wasn’t in the same timeline as the brother—”
“Like I told you last night, it made zero sense and I don’t care to discuss it.”
“And like I told you, you have to watch it at least three times before it makes sense—”
“What kind of time do you think I have?” Shane interrupts. “I barely have time to watch one movie once, let alone the same fucking movie three times.”
“Funny coming from the bloke who watched porn for four hours straight last weekend. Loudly.” Beckett turns toward our Eastwood buddies. “Four hours, no joke. Although, I will say, he picked something good. I’ll give you that, Lindley. Not sure if it was the same chick moaning in all the clips, but she was amazing. Nice tone and pitch. She sounded really hot.”
She was. She was pure fire and my body still feels the heat of her on me.
And like an ass, I haven’t called her since that night.
I just…can’t.
Something happened that night. I love sex as much as the next guy, but Gigi came over before the sun set and left in the wee hours of the morning. We didn’t even eat, for chrissake. Just pounded water and each other. Longest session of my life, and it still wasn’t enough by the time she left. And then, all those moments in between, where we lay there talking. Well, she did most of the talking. But I wanted to listen. I asked questions. I initiated.
Needless to say, this behavior cannot be repeated.
Before we hooked up, I made it clear to Gigi that all I wanted was sex. Yet, somehow, I’m the one who forgot that.
Until I can make sense of whatever the hell’s happening in my head, I can’t risk the temptation of seeing her again.
“Don’t bloke me,” Shane grumbles at Beckett, bending forward to stretch out his back. “This ain’t Australia, matey.”
I notice Will Larsen chuckling during their exchange, but he stops when he notices Colson frowning at him.
Once everyone is suited up, Coach Jensen comes in for his first pep talk of the season.
“Go out there and deliver.” He nods, then turns toward the door.
“Wait, that’s it?” Patrick blurts out.
Jensen turns around. “What? What else do you want? Do you want me to do a little dance for you?”
“I, personally, would love that,” Tristan Yoo says.
A couple of titters ring out.
“I don’t do speeches,” Coach states firmly. “I do enough talking during practice.” He looks around the locker room. “With that said—individually, every single one of you has the chops. As a team? Well, we’re about to find out.”
And find out we do. The game is fast-paced from the first face-off. Which is surprising because Northeastern isn’t typically as strong as either Briar or Eastwood. Not only that, but from the film I’ve seen, their new sophomore goalie is a sieve.
And yet we can’t shoot a single bullet past him.
I’m on the first line, skating with Colson and Larsen, and defensemen Demaine and Beckett. We’re the strongest players on the team and should be unstoppable.
And yet.
On our next shift, we try to make something happen. The chill in the rink suffuses my face as I skate hard past the blue line. We’re on the attack.
“On you,” I shout to Case, whose back is to the play when the opposing defenseman goes in for the forecheck.
He completely ignores the warning and proceeds to get slammed into the boards. Luckily, he manages to win that battle and get the puck.
Beckett shouts, “Point, point,” to indicate he’s open. Colson ignores our defenseman and tries to be a fucking hero. He takes a shot at net, it’s scooped up by our opponent, giving Northeastern a breakaway.
“What the hell was that?” Beckett shouts at Colson, utterly irate.
Beckett never loses his temper. Yet we’re only in the first period and he’s already snapped twice at our cocaptain. Our intrepid cocaptain who, apparently, thinks he’s the only one playing out there. I remember Rand Hawley’s warning at the beginning of the year about whether I can trust Colson to share with Eastwood.
Guess we have that answer now.
Coach calls for a substitution as the other team regroups behind their net. I fly back to the bench, while Shane, Austin, and the rest of the second line hits the ice. They’re equally good, and equally in trouble.
As an observer from the bench, I clearly see the issue.
There’s zero communication out there. At least not between anyone from Briar and formerly Eastwood. And that’s a massive problem, because you’re supposed to be able to rely on your teammates out there. They’re your second pair of eyes. You alone can’t be everywhere all at once, and during a game there are constant mini battles being fought on the ice. Your teammates are seeing plays you might not know are available to you. And they’re supposed to fucking tell you.
“Golden Boys,” Jensen shouts. “You’re on.”
Okay. I guess that’s the name of our line now.
We’re back on, and I win the face-off and snap a pass to Colson. When it comes to handling the puck, the guy is excellent at deception and throws off defenders left and right. He’s so good at what he does. Weaving and cutting through opponents, faking a shot only to cut away and fake another one. His patience is superhuman. But even with all that skill, we can’t seem to score on these damn guys.
After a dump and chase, I’m caught up behind the net fighting two Northeastern forwards. I use all the moves I’ve been teaching Gigi, pivoting hard and creating confusion until I hear Demaine shout, “Open slot,” and get a quick pass to him.
He goes for the one-timer.
It’s denied.
“Motherfucker,” the French-Canadian growls as we scramble for the rebound.