Page 20 of Home Ice Advantage

Ryan frowned. What a weird fucking thing to do. He wondered what on earth Aronson would want with the little chip of concrete, which wasn’t even really an actual rock. But it wasn’t like he could ask. He turned his attention away from Aronson and onto the team. Hisrealresponsibility.

Eric realized the error he had made in allowing Sullivan to buy him dinner as a forfeit. And then again, the error he had made in not setting any boundaries around it.

First of all, it meant that he actually had to spend time with Sullivan outside of work. Second of all, it meant that Sullivan had picked the city and the place, which meant that Eric had been dragged out to dinner in Columbus, Ohio, of all places, to a restaurant that was half-exposed beams that had been bolted on top of the regular ceiling and half glass separating the inside parts of the restaurant. There were fancy chandeliers made of delicate strung-glass crystals and a large glass wine cellar.

Eric glared at all of it as he followed Sullivan to the front desk. “Really?” he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. The waiters wore bow ties and pale green suspenders and aprons that matched the chandeliers, and the whole effect was ridiculous.

It was the kind of place that, if he was a different kind of person, he’d be documenting for an Instagram post later on. He could see diners beyond doing just that, the flash of phone cameras here and there. Eric, however, wasn’t the kind of guy who took pictures of his food unless he was cooking it at home. He hadsomeshame.

“The food’s great,” Sullivan said, with a shrug. He was smiling at the hostess, turning on every ounce of stupid twinkly-eyed charm he had. “Hello, we had a reservation for two under Sullivan?”

The woman, a pretty blonde, smiled back, the kind of irresistible reflex that people seemed to have when faced with the full force of Sullivan’s personality. “Of course,” she said. “Right this way.”

It was the kind of place that would take your coat for you, but Eric stubbornly kept his on until they got to the seat and slung it over the back of his chair. Sullivan shot him a look, and Eric looked back, all fake innocence. Eventually, Sullivan seemed to decide it wasn’t worth it, and sat down without commenting on the coat situation at all.

“You know,” Sullivan said. “You’re getting a free dinner out of this. You don’t have to look like you’re facing the firing squad.”

“I have to look at those bow ties and suspenders every time they come over here. That’s bad enough.”

“All right, old man,” Sullivan said, but the corner of his mouth was twitching like he was trying not to laugh.

It only made Eric more annoyed, so he covered his frustration by looking down at the dinner options. The menu actually didn’t look half-bad, even if it did have ridiculous description choices liketuna ribbons.

Eric was still busy frowning at the various options when the waiter made his way over. He was a very young man with the freshly scrubbed look, red cheeks, and somewhat ostentatious earrings of someone who’d made his way from a small town to the big city and decided that, fuck it, now that he was here, he was going to be himself. Eric’s initial inclination to be sarcastic at him wilted under the force of his earnest smile.

“Welcome to the Guild House,” the server said, “my name is Cayde, and I will be taking care of you tonight.”

“Great,” Sullivan said, smiling back. “Thank you so much.”

“Have you dined with us before?”

“I’ve been a few times, but this is his first.”

“Well, if you let me, I’ll explain the menu,” Cayde started, and Eric immediately tuned him out.

He kept half an eye on Sullivan and the waiter as they chatted about the raw dishes and the appetizers and the wine list. He pinched the bridge of his nose and frowned at delicate scrolling print. It was frustrating that everything didsound good, but he’d dawdled too long: when he looked up, he found that Sullivan had already ordered several appetizers for the table, and Cayde was smiling widely as he looked from Sullivan to Eric, taking in Sullivan’s pleasant, oblivious grin and Eric’s thundercloud of a scowl.

“Your partner has picked out someexcellentoptions, I assure you,” Cayde said cheerfully, as he turned to leave. “The tuna ribbons are my personal favorite.”

Eric started to sayhe’s not my partnerbut caught himself when Sullivan looked back at him. He waited until Cayde had moved on to the next table, but before he could say anything, Sullivan cut him off.

“Now,” he said, pointing the butter knife he’d been holding in Eric’s general direction. As far as threats went, it was vaguely comical. “Do you want to tell me why you’ve been such a damn buzzkill at practice?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Eric lied.

“I’m trying to make the practices fun for the guys. Something that they can look forward to, that’s not rote, that’s notboring. And you’re in there glaring at them like—like some kind of bird of prey, and it’s not the vibe that I’m looking for.”

“A bird of prey?” Eric asked, laughing. “Wow, Sullivan, who would’ve thought you had some poetry in you.”

Sullivan’s eyes narrowed and he pointed the knife at Eric again. “Look, I know it’s not what you were used to with Leclerc. It’s probably not even what you were used to when you were playing. But like I said before, we’re supposed to be on the same page, and I need you to work with me if this is going to be effective.”

Eric was torn between the boiling frustration that had been simmering in the pit of his stomach since Conroy had hired Sullivan, and the opposing natural tug toward him. It was easy to see why Sullivan had been as vital to the Desperadoes as he’d been. He said everythingsofucking earnestly, putting his whole stomach into it. Those big brown eyes narrowed, focused and intent. And despite Eric’s inclination to dislike him he was charismatic as hell.

“I just—look, Sullivan, it’s not just me. It’s the older guys, too. Some of them haven’t been thrilled about the adjustments. And at a certain point you just can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

Cayde brought out some of the appetizers and Eric glared at the tuna ribbons. They were arranged in a flower shape on a bed of smashed avocado and paper-thin slices of radish. They were garnished with micro greens. The effect was ridiculous, the kind of fussy food that Eric had always felt the urge to just push over with his fork.

“What are you talking about?” Sullivan asked. He was frowning, now, his chin jutting out stubbornly. “We both learned that way. That’s how we both made it through all of those years of play. I was constantly teaching myself shit. If I hadn’t, I never would have gotten as far as I did.”

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