Page 1 of Snap Shot

Chapter 1: An Absolute Legend

Landon

Nothing feels better than winning.

Adrenaline surging, heartbeat thundering over the blaring horns as the crowd’s raucous banging on the glass blends into white noise. It’s the highest of highs.

Don't get me wrong—I've lost my share of games. Missed hundreds of shots. Taken nasty hits. I don’t get twisted over it, but nothing tastes sweeter than a win.

Good thing I don't have to worry about losing these days.

I'm living the dream. We stand undefeated—top of the division—in the postseason. Swept the last two rounds of the playoffs. Only one series stands between us and the final. Four games until the Cup. It's so close, I can practically taste the metallic champagne bubbles popping on my tongue.

Both of my palms press into the warm tiled wall of the shower as the buzz of the conference win wanes. I lather up my face and beard, hoping to wash away wracked nerves.

The white soap bar flies from my fist with a jolt when Wade reaches the top of the chorus with his rendition of Miley Cyrus's “Wrecking Ball”, squawking over the steady patter of shower streams. One eye peeks open through the sudsy foam to the sight of him tilting his head back and using a shampoo bottle microphone. He hee-haws to hit the high notes. Something about getting wrecked. Which is what is happening to all of our ears right now.

A chorus of groans echoes from the team. I'm with them. It's fucking torture. You'd think we'd be used to our tendy's post-win ritual by now, but it's as bad as the first time we heard him sing. If you can call it that. The falsetto ends abruptly when Jaeger slaps the bottle out of his grip. “Dude!Notcool!”

“You're fucking embarrassing.”

Jaeg's a grumpy shit, but who can blame him? After ten solid years in the league and five leading this team, our captain can pretty much do and say whatever the hell he wants if you ask me. Am I biased because he's my best friend? Maybe. But everyone respects the seasoned vet. Wade, too. Though he'd never admit it.

Wade picks up the bottle and chucks it at Jaeg, who swats it away like a mosquito. It lands outside the shower area and skips across the floor until it hits the base of a trash can with a thud. “That's not what your mom said to me last night.” His head convulses, eyes rolling back. “Oh, Wade.” He moans in a girlish pitch and humps the air. “Fuck me harder!”

A brutal shove from the broody d-man sends Wade slipping through his footing. We respond with scattered snickers. He catches himself, sliding over the film of water like Tom Cruise inRisky Business, belting out the first chords of “Old Time Rock and Roll” while curling up his lip like Elvis Presley.

“Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun!”

I shake my head and scoff, grabbing the dented soap off the tile.

“Whatcha lookin' at? Wanna piece of this, Landy?” Wade wiggles his hips, waving his junk. Man has the most unfortunate last name for someone so obsessed with his own prick.

I gag. “Gluhueck.You wish, Boehner.”

He likes to remind everyone his last name's not pronounced how it's spelled, but it's fun to give him crap. It brings him down a peg. Sometimes.

Wade smirks and spreads his arms as he backs away, ignoring my retort. “’Cause you'll have to wait in a lineup like everyone else.” Wrapping a towel tight around his hips, he goes through a series of body-building poses. His chest puffs and hands clench on either side of his head to flaunt those flexed biceps he's always sculpting. “It's the Bone Zone!” Then he leans forward, pulling his fists together. His pecs and delts strain as he grunts. “It's the Bonerrama!”

Derrick strides by on his way out, knocking his bulky shoulder into Wade's, and this time, he falls on his ass. “Bro!”

Jaeg flips him off behind his head while looping a white towel around his neck.

Wade wobbles to his feet like Bambi, complaints fading as he wrings the damp line of towel on his buttcrack and follows Derrick.

After a quick rinse, I wipe a foggy mirror clean to practice a pre-press pep talk.

Fucking crush it, Radek. We're gonna drink from Lord Stanley's Cup in no time.

I practice a humble but winning smile for the conference before pushing off the sink and tousling my hair dry. As dry as it can get with these flimsy locker room towels, anyway.

When I get to the dressing area, Wade and Fletch chuckle and snort as others chatter. The two huddle over a phone, probably watching a TikTok. Predictable. Fletch notices me walk in and smacks a turned-around Wade on the arm. They both send me looks over their shoulders. Schemers if I ever saw 'em.

Out of nowhere, the lights flicker and a familiar electric guitar riff—the beginning of the Chicago Bulls team entrance song—blasts over hidden speakers.

“Attention beauties and beasts!” Wade yells through cupped hands. At least his bottom half's dressed now.

I swear, if I have to look at his pecker swinging around one more time.

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