“You didn’t,” I huff.
Next to me, Davidson cranes his neck, looking to the corner of the room.
“I did,” Novy replies.
“He did,” Morrow adds, dropping into the empty seat next to him. “He made me take a picture.”
Novy grins, flashing me his phone screen.
I gasp. The asshole didn’t just touch Hal Price’s Grammy, he picked it up off the shelf. He’s holding it, smirking like a total douche. “Nov, you can’t just take people’s trophies off the shelf,” I hiss.
“Why not?” He shrugs, slipping his phone in the inside pocket of his suit. “Coley held it too.”
“Asshole,” Morrow grunts, jabbing him with his elbow. “I told you not to tell.”
I just huff again. “You two are idiots.”
They squabble under their breaths, arguing over whose idea it was to pick it up.
“Guys, this is weird, right?” Davidson repeats, leaning across me to loudly whisper at them. “No one else is gonna say it? I’m the only one?”
Novy and Morrow go still, slow turning to look at Davidson. They’re both defensemen, so they each have a few inches on me and, like, thirty pounds of muscle. Novy’s got a jagged pink scar zigzagging up his cheek. It’s still healing from when he took a skate to the face and had to get one hundred and thirty stitches. The man had already perfected the art of the scowl. He’s Russian so they’re born with that, right? It’s like a factory setting. But now when he scowls, he looks like he’s gonna murder you and your dog and uproot your house plants just to be a dick.
“You got a problem with all this, Dave-O?” he says, a muscle in his jaw twitching.
I go still, feeling trapped between them.
“Yeah, if you’ve got a problem being here, there’s the door,” Morrow echoes, his tone just as hard. It’s an odd look for him because, off the ice, Cole Morrow is a super-nice guy. The puck bunnies go crazy for him. His usual charming smile has been replaced with a glare as he waits for Davidson to speak.
“No, I’m cool,” Davidson says at last, sinking back into his chair. “This is totally fine.”
“Damn right it is,” Morrow replies.
“Why don’t you just not speak again tonight, Dave-O,” says Novy, dismissing him.
Davidson bristles but stays silent. He’s only a backup goalie, and he’s having a shitty season so far. He can’t talk back to a starting defenseman, and he knows it. Not unless he wants Novy to make his life hell whenever he gets in the net.
Novy’s an asshole on the best of days, but his defense of our teammates is oddly touching to see. Who would have ever pegged him as such an ally?
“Oh my god,” Morrow gasps. He grips Novy by the shoulder, and then they’re both turning. They morph into a pair of excited squirrels whispering to each other and shoving.
“Langers, look,” Novy hisses, slapping my shoulder.
I turn my head, following their gaze to the corner of the room where Hal Price is standing there laughing, his hand on the shoulder of none other than Al Fucking Pacino.
4
“I think Langers is about to piss himself,” Morrow laughs.
“Shut up.” I tear my gaze away from the vision of Hal Price laughing with Al Pacino.
Our captain, Sully, drops into the row behind us wearing a wide smile like a kid at Disneyland. “Guys, Slash is here.”
We all turn, following his point to the other side of the room where Slash is most definitely standing next to Alice Cooper.
Yeah, this is fine.
“And to think I was gonna skip this to stay and soak in the hot tub,” Sully adds, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Ladies and gents, if you could all start finding your seats,” calls a deep voice from the front of the room. “I think we’re ready to get this party started.”
We all turn. The guy talking is Doc’s brother, I think. Rumor is she’s a twin like Compton. His sister is here somewhere too. I met her during pregame warmups. No wonder he keeps quiet about her around us. She’s a total ten. Apparently, she’s a rocket scientist or something cool like that.
“Johnny Depp is here,” Poppy squeals, dropping into the last empty seat by Morrow. “Oh, my good gracious, I’m gonna faint.” She presses a manicured hand dramatically against her chest.
“Pop, did you see Slash?” says Sully, leaning between the seats.
“No,” she gasps, her head turning on a swivel.
“And Al Pacino,” Morrow adds.