Page 7 of Pucked Together

There's an end game. And I'm nearing it. A thirty-two-year-old goalie doesn't have much time left, regardless of how good they might play. Which is why, yeah...I want that damn cup.

"And this is exactly why Coach suggested you come live with us after the storm hit,"

Fergie says, pieces of chicken flying from his mouth.

"You gotta let loose, Balsy," Hicks agrees.

His missing tooth from last week's practice is prominently displayed as he smiles my way.

Yeah, I'm sure it had nothing to do with me keeping an eye on the younger guys to make sure they stay on top of their game this season.

The previous owner of the Heatwave called it.

"In five years' time, we're winning that cup," he said with a tip of his Stetson to seal it.

He may be gone now, but the goal is still the same.

"You got hit by Chancey, too?" Izzy asks. Her eyes lost their intensity just slightly.

That damn look. I'd seen it growing up more times than I care to admit. I'd much rather see hate in her eyes than pity.

I shrug. "I would've preferred to stay at the Four Seasons downtown for a few more weeks, but your annoyingly persuasive brother got involved."

"Hmm...guess even rich assholes can't be spared from life's storms." She rolls her eyes and then looks at her brother. He's smiling like the Cheshire cat as he takes a swig of his beer.

"Sorry, Izzy, I know you're new here...but that's jar," says Fergie, motioning his head towards the jar on the kitchen island.

"You can add it to your goalie's tab. He already owes two of us, I see," she quirks her lips up.

"Ri-ight..." I stay silent and push around the Brussels sprouts left in my container. She's already decided she doesn't like me. So not saying anything to piss her off even more is probably my best bet.

I can feel Izzy's eyes on me, heating my skin, and I'd rather not look right into the eyes of Medusa if I can avoid it.

"Well, this is all very fun," Izzy says into the awkward silence.

She stoops down to pick up her fur ball of a dog. "But I need to take Wednesday for a walk before she decides to piss on all your gear. Not that I would mind if she peed on number thirty-three's things."

Yeah, she really doesn't like me.

"A roomie faux-paw," Hicks points at her with his fork. When she just stares at him, he adds, "Get it? Dog. Paw."

"It's not funny if you have to explain it, dumb—” he pauses, “butt," Keelan corrects himself, eyes on Fergie.

Izzy walks by Keelan, snatches a spring roll from his plate, and places it between her teeth like a cigar. "Have fun, boys."

She saunters off through the back doors with her little mutt in tow. Hicks and Fergie don't hide their gawking as she leaves, and Keelan gets serious for the first time all evening. He waits for the door to slide shut before he lets us have it.

"Listen up," he leans in, placing his elbows on the table, "in case I didn't make myself clear before, Izzy is a no-go. You hear me?" He looks each of us in the eye, one by one.

"We can't even look, man?" Hicks complains. "Have you seen your sister?"

"Ew, Hicks. No. And you especially can't look at her."

"Rude," Hicks says before biting into his chicken.

I can't help the scoff that escapes me.

Keelan turns to me. "You got something to say, B?"

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