Page 25 of Second Shot

We run through power play setups for the next twenty minutes, and I can feel the chemistrybuilding. Not just between me and Jacobs, but across the whole first line. Petrov’s reading our movements better, anticipating where we’ll be. It’s a relief to feel us starting to gel.

Jacobs is communicating more, calling for passes and pointing out defensive gaps. I’m finding space I didn’t know existed, creating opportunities that weren’t there before. This is what I was traded for. The three of us are components of the same machine and we’re finally working in sync.

“Okay, we’ll break early today so you knuckleheads can go watch the Super Bowl. Niko’s been yapping at me for two days about his party.” Coach Donnelly glances at me and Jacobs from behind the bench. “And Caldwell and Jacobs, whatever you two figured out, keep it going.”

I catch Jacobs’ eye as we skate back to the bench, and for the first time since I joined the team, his expression is more open. There’s something in his eyes I can’t quite read, not quite friendship, but maybe the possibility of it.

After practice, as we’re peeling off gear in the locker room, Niko appears at my stall with that mischievous grin. I arch one brow. “Can I help you?”

“Don’t forget, Super Bowl party at my place,” he announces, toweling off his white-blond hair. “Patriots versus Ravens. This is going to be epic.”

“I know. I heard,” I say, shaking my head.

“How could we forget? You remind us every five minutes,” Jacobs mutters, but he’s smiling as he says it.

“You know I’m in,” Foster says immediately. “I’m not watching the biggest game of the year on my shitty TV.”

Niko shoots back, “Hell no. Why would you? Not when I’ve got an 85-inch with surround sound. It’s basically like being at the stadium.”

“Now you’re talking,” Marlowe says, pulling on his street clothes. “Been looking forward to this matchup all season.”

“I’ll bring beer,” Kincaid adds. “Good beer, not the cheap stuff Foster drinks.”

“Hey, Bud Light is a perfectly respectable—” Foster begins.

“It’s piss water with a marketing budget,” D’Angelo interrupts, which gets a laugh from the guys.

“I went all out on the food this year, people,” Niko continues, clearly excited. “I’m talking full spread. I’ve got wings, nachos, sliders, the works. It’s going to be legendary.”

His eyes land on me. “Caldwell? You in? We live in the same building, so no excuses aboutdistance. It’s not like you’ll have to drink and drive.”

“Yeah, absolutely, I’m coming.” I could use the team bonding, and I enjoy watching the Super Bowl. It definitely sounds like Niko will have better food and drink than I’d have sitting home, watching the game alone. “What time?”

“Kickoff’s at 3:30 p.m. Come by a little early, maybe 2:00 p.m. if you want to see the early program stuff. I love all that pregame shit, the anthem, the commercials, the halftime show, everything. I’m a whore for all of it.” Niko slings his bag over his shoulder, grinning. “Oh, and bring ice. I always forget to stock up, and we’re going to need a lot for a party this size.”

“Will do.” I happen to have a big bag of ice in my freezer that was there when I moved in. I have no use for it so I might as well donate it to the Super Bowl party. I glance at Jacobs and as nonchalantly as possible ask, “You going to Niko’s party?”

He pauses, smoothing his hand down the front of his shirt. “I’ll probably make an appearance.”

“Great. I’ll see you there.” The words come out more eager than intended, and my face warms. I’m acting like a fucking rescue dog desperate to be adopted.

He doesn’t say anything, he just heads for the exit.

Way to play it cool, Caldwell.

****

Niko’s condo layout is almost identical to mine, just like he said. The basic floor plan might be the same, but he has a fireplace. There’s another big difference: my place looks sterile, like a hotel lobby, while his looks like someone actually lives here.

A massive sectional couch dominates the living room, covered in colorful throw pillows. There are bold abstract paintings on the walls, and a book shelf at one end of the room. The mantel over his fireplace is crowded with what looks like family photos. A huge TV mounted on the wall shows pre-game coverage, with the volume cranked up so the announcers’ excitement fills the room.

The coffee table has been pushed aside to make room for folding tables loaded with enough food to feed a small army. And the feast doesn’t stop there. The kitchen island has been transformed into a full Super Bowl buffet: wings in three different sauces, loaded nachos, sliders, pizza, and what looks like every snack food known to mankind. Multiple coolers filled with beer and soda line the walls.

“Welcome to Super Bowl headquarters,” Niko says cheerfully, gesturing around with obvious pride. “None of my boys are going to watch the game sad and alone with a bag of chips and a red bull.”

“You have a pretty low opinion of our popularity.” Marlowe laughs. “I’ve been invited to Super Bowl parties lots of times.”

Foster snorts a laugh. “Yeah, but your mom doesn’t count.”

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