Page 11 of Zero Pucks

At that, Boden’s lip twitched, which for him was basically a belly laugh.

“And you?” We hadn’t talked much since I’d been back, but I knew he had a long, long meeting today about the new team coach. Brad was quitting—his wife was from Spain, and I didn’t exactly blame him from wanting to spend his new life fucking her on a private beach in Marbella. But losing him was going to suck.

Finding a coach was hard enough. Finding one who understood sled hockey and our experience was like finding the perfect needle in a stack of slightly less perfect needles. And finding all that for a beer league team that paid basically peanuts was like asking for someone to lasso the moon and stick it in that English museum that liked to display stolen artifacts.

He sighed. “Jacob made an executive decision.”

Jacob Hardt—the owner of the Wolves. He was an asshole and a half, but he had a shitload of money, and while he’d never put his prissy ass in a sled, he was a wheelchair user, so we never had to fight for the things we needed when it came to the rink and equipment.

We just sometimes had to fight for everything else. He seemed to think that throwing money at a problem would solve it, and he didn’t seem to get that we were all a bunch of broke assholes without a lot of employment prospects.

I got paid jack shit to coach the blind peewee team, and I only made my rent because I could do private lessons six days a week. I didn’t really mind all that much, of course. I loved the ice, and sleep was for the weak. I did plenty of it in my coma, and I’d do the rest when I was dead.

But I could see the strain on the others’ faces. We weren’t the professional league, but Jacob treated us like it more often than not.

“You meet this new guy?” I asked.

Boden didn’t get the chance to answer when the server came over, and I sat back and let my precious little control freak best friend order for us. He knew what I liked anyway.

“India Pale Ale,” he said, gesturing at me. “Two very large waters with no ice. Two Cobb salads with dressing on the side?—”

“And an order of wings. Extra hot sauce, extra ranch,” I cut in. He gave me a filthy look. “I’m a growing boy, and I need my protein.”

The server laughed as she took our menus, and I appreciated that Boden didn’t try and mom away my wings in spite of knowing it would, for sure, give me the shits later.

“Brad wasn’t at the meeting,” Boden said when we were finally alone. “But the new coach was.” He did not sound happy.

The server dropped off my beer and our waters, and I gulped down half the water first, then took a long sip of the bubbly ale. “What’s this guy’s deal?Isit a guy?” Not that I cared. Competence was way more important than gender.

“It’s a guy. Hugo Martin.” He said that very, very French.

“Your neck of the woods, eh?”

He flipped me off as he finished off his own beer, then set it aside in favor of his water. “No. He was born and raised in Dijon.”

“Like…the mustard?”

“Like France,” Boden said, now officially irritated. “US education has failed you.”

“It’s failed most of us, babe.” Running my finger around the rim of my glass, I grinned at him. “So what’s this Hugo guy’s deal?”

“Deal?”

“Yeah. Like…spine injury, amputee? CP pal?”

Boden’s face went very still. “No.”

“MS?” He shook his head, and my stomach started to sink. “Stubbed toe?”

“Jacob seemed to think it doesn’t matter that he’s not disabled.”

“Like, at all?” I felt anger rising along my spine, and it was hotter than usual—and I was pretending not to know why. “He’s just some fucking French guy? Do the French even do hockey?”

“They dosomehockey,” Boden said quietly.

I seethed as our food was brought over and viciously ate two wings without ranch before my tongue was pissed and my anger had somehow melded into the heat of the hot sauce. I gulped my water, then used the back of my hand to wipe my nose.

Boden made an annoyed sound and handed me a napkin. “They do ice hockey there, and he’s familiar with it.”

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