Page 68 of In Too Deep

“God, Joker! Is that, like, your fourth plate?” Ashley says, laughing warmly.

I glance over and see Eli shoveling forkfuls of Ashley’s incredible pasta salad into his face, though he freezes when we all stare at him, which only makes us laugh harder.

“You better hurry,liten ekorre.1 Or you won’t have your hands free when the parade comes by,” Jari says, grinning at his teammate.

Eli nods and resumes eating with gusto as he walks back toward the garage, either to dispose of his plate or maybe eat more. But I’m distracted as a hand touches the small of my back, a warm body smelling of leather and saffron pressing close to me in the crowd. I look up at Oli, catching his amber eyes. His hair is getting long again, and he has it slicked back away from his face, with dark pieces curling around his ears.

“Having fun, princess?” he mutters, low enough that no one else hears.

I nod, sighing contentedly. I thought I’d be more on edge, but the alcohol has softened everything and let me actually enjoy myself today. It’s so rare for the team to gather casually during the season, but we really needed this break. The trade deadline is coming up fast—landing on the Friday after Mardi Gras. While there haven’t been any moves from the main roster, a few of the youngest prospects have been traded for slightly older players, ones closer to playing in the big leagues. It’s smart, as we have guys like Pope and the Pair of Ovs who are either pushing forty, or in their early forties, and will probably retire after their contracts end.

I still don’t know what to make of Oli’s trade deal, or the plan he pitched a few nights ago to prevent it from going through. I have the most to gain, and the most to lose, which is a lot to consider. But thankfully, I don’t get to dwell on my dour thoughts, as noise swells from down the street. Glancing down the road, I can see the gleam of glitter and the flash of bright lights on the lead float for the Krewe of Anubis.

Krewes are social clubs at heart, spending the off season putting on charitable functions for their local communities. The president for the club is the captain of the krewe, and for Anubis, that means riding on a float at the beginning of the parade wearing a massive papier mâché dog head while his “priests and priestesses” toss out special beads and other goodies. Thehouse sits toward the beginning of the route, so we are able to snag a bunch of collectables as they’re thrown our way. After the captain, dance teams, marching bands, special fire dancers called flambeaus, and all manner of other entertainers come through, some tossing out beads and plastic cups and stuffed animals, and others just performing.

But the real party starts when the floats come into focus.

Massive structures of foam and fiberglass, lit by brightly colored bulbs, Mardi Gras floats are rolling works of art. The members of the social club ride along, throwing out trinkets to the crowds screaming, “Throw me somethin’, mister!” At some point, Oli catches a light-up top hat, and it’s almost unfair how good he looks in it. Eli finds his way up onto the ladder behind Daisy, Paul’s youngest, waving his arms and using his inhuman reflexes to prevent anything from smacking the toddler in the face. Monroe has his camera out, pointed at our friends and coworkers, and I grin to myself, excited to see what sort of magic he’s capturing.

Tonight, three krewes drive by in a row, and it’s well after dark when it’s all over and I’m helping to bring the overflowing kiddie pools into the garage, the spoils to be split when we’re not all exhausted and more than a little tipsy. I make a fatal error in my third trip from the garage to the kitchen to bring in the leftovers, however, when I sit down on the edge of the couch to rest my feet. Because before I can do anything to prevent it, I’m crashing backward onto the cushions, and I’m asleep within microseconds.

1. Translation (Swedish): Little Squirrel

After the insanity oflast night, I’m genuinely surprised any of us are able to skate in a straight line under the overly bright lights of our practice rink. I didn’t exactly abstain from drinking, but my excitement has burned away any lingering hangover symptoms from my system.

As of two hours ago, the team doctors have cleared me from the injured reserve. And I’m headed out to play my first game in just under two months.

The mood in the locker room as we get dressed is electric, and I’m pretty sure that’s not just me projecting. Spencer and Elijah have told me about how surly the guys have been for one reason or another, but I’m not seeing any of that tonight. Could it be the carnival spirit? Maybe. But I’d like to think that it’s because Logan has put our lines back in the order that works best for us as a team.

My phone buzzes on the bench beside me, and I unlock it with a smile. It’s a post from Tori, a stylized photo of me from this morning’s practice under text declaring my return to games. The response in the comments is more positive than I would have expected, which warms my chest. There’s always the fear that people will forget about you if you’re away from play for too long, but it seems that fans were almost as eager for my return as I was.

“Still remember how to skate, Ace?” Wyatt teases from across the room, making everyone who’s paying attention laugh.

“I think so,” I retort, rolling my eyes with a smirk.

A knock on the door halts any further banter as Dennis, our equipment manager, pokes his head in through a gap for a moment before shouldering through. He’s got my helmet in one of his hands, a soft towel cleaning the newest addition to it as he crosses the room. I sigh, but don’t complain out loud. Doc might have cleared me to play, but it didn’t come without conditions, the primary of which is the curved piece of plexiglass that’s now bolted to the front. Dennis hands it to me with an expectant look, and I slip the helmet on right away.

“It’s not as bad as I thought.” I twist my head this way and that.

The guard doesn’t cover my whole face, like I’d worried it would, but is shaped to cover my cheekbones and eyes, a section molded to bend over my nose without covering my nostrils. That will prevent my exhales from fogging it up and obscuring my vision while I’m playing, which I’m glad for. The edges extend beyond my peripheral vision, so there won’t be any distortions or blind spots theoretically, and it weighs almost nothing.

“This’ll work great, Den. Thanks!” I say, bumping fists with the older beta.

“And if it doesn’t, we can always swap it out for the cage,” Dennis replies with a chuckle.

Spencer lets out a sympathetic groan. When I’d played in the Canadian Major Juniors, we used plexiglass visors similar to one I have now, per the league regulations. But they were much narrower and usually straight across and ended right around the bridge of your nose. In the NCAA, the college league where Spencer played before being drafted, players have to wear the full face guard made up of thin metal dowels, welded together in a grid to prevent pucks hitting them in the face.

Dennis doesn’t linger for long, heading back out to the hallway to make sure everyone’s stuff is ready to go. Not long after that, we get the signal that it’s time for warmups. I’m practically vibrating as I line up between Spencer and Eli, and I can’t stop smiling. It’s been such a rough few weeks, feeling well enough to play but constantly being told I can’t, missing the guys and the time we would spend together, and now this looming trade offer. But none of that matters as the team moves through the tunnels, bumping fists with fans as the music and cheering gets louder with every step. And once I set my skate on the ice, all my worries melt away.

I look up and scan the crowd as I skate the half-ice circuit, taking it all in. But my eye catches on something in a box, a familiar head of blonde hair and the sparkle of a purple dress. I can’t help myself, lifting my stick to Tori with a smile, but leaving it in the air to pretend like I’m saluting everyone in the stands. The crowd roars at the gesture, and I grin as Spencer bumps my shoulder.

“I think they’re glad to have you back out here,” he says warmly into my ear.

I laugh and nod, my smile growing wider. I catch his eye for a moment, and it’s all too easy to read the unspoken end to the sentence in his ocean-blue gaze.

And so am I.

I’d heard the expression that some things are like riding a bike: you never really forget how to do it. Playing on a line with Eli and Spencer is my bike, and even after two long months away, my muscles know exactly how to ride it.

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