Page 12 of Scoring Position

The server dropped off four more vodka shots, and Kitty released Ryan’s arm and pushed a shot toward him. “Drink,” he advised.

Ryan knew better than to argue with a Russian about vodka. He drank.

“Now you tell me again,” Kitty said. “Small words. You drunk.”

Wellsomeonewas projecting. “We’re avoiding each other. He feels like management brought me in to babysit, and it pisses him off. I don’t want to be a babysitter. So. Avoidance.”

Kitty looked at the remaining shots of vodka, then neatly tipped them back, one after the other. He muttered something in Russian again. This was not looking good for Ryan getting any answers out of him. At least not comprehensible ones. “You both mad at management, so you are avoiding each other?”

When he put it that way, it did sound kind of stupid. “It’s complicated,” Ryan asserted. He was sure it was; he just couldn’t remember why. He reached for his beer. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t worry. Why doesn’t he come for drinks? Why didn’t he celly with us?” Why did he perpetually remind Ryan of Charlie Brown right before Lucy pulled away the football?

And why was Ryan fixating on him? It should’ve been so easy to hate Nico. A first-overall pick, the son of a former player. A guy who’d won the lottery, hockey-wise, while Ryan had to scrape and claw his way into the league. Even his parents didn’t think he’d get drafted. They encouraged him to play college hockey instead.

It should’ve been easy to hate Kirschbaum, but it wasn’t. You couldn’t hate a guy who was obviously trying his best and floundering—one who so obviously needed a hug.

“Kolya is good kid,” Kitty repeated, but now he looked troubled. “Is hard for him. Lots expectations, and two seasons now he’s injured. Can’t play like he wants. Now you say team brings you to babysit.”

Okay, that would be hard on anyone’s ego. “But the cellies—”

“You’re so interested,youfind out why he doesn’t celly.Youfix problem.” He gestured down the table. “We all try. He won’t let us help.”

“He hates me.”

“Yes,” Kitty said. “Because you very annoying. Too much questions.” He pushed Ryan’s beer closer to his hands. “Drink, Doc. This too serious talk for celebration.”

And they needed to celebrate while they could. Ryan got it. He lifted his beer in salute. “Cheers.”

He didn’t even realize he kept glancing toward the door until Kitty made an exasperated noise a few minutes later. “Doc. He not coming.”

Ryan snapped his gaze back to Kitty’s, suddenly conscious of how weird he was being. He didn’t need Kitty thinking Ryan was preoccupied with Kirschbaum for anything other than professional reasons. He’d never gotten a shovel talk from an NHL defenseman, and he wasn’t eager to cross that experience off his bucket list.

Kitty had nothing to worry about anyway. Even if Kirschbaum didn’t hate him, he was way out of Ryan’s league. Regardless of his current struggles, he would play in the NHL until he got too old. He was handsome and smart, fluent in threelanguages, two of which were notoriously difficult. And his work ethic made the most fanatical of Ryan’s former Voyageurs teammates look positively lazy.

Ryan, on the other hand, was hanging on in the league by the skin of his teeth. And Josh hadn’t made it a secret that he wasn’t exactly boyfriend material—not serious enough, not stable enough, not good enough. Kirschbaum might be lonely, but companionship wasallRyan had to offer.

BY THEtime the season opener came around, Nico was itching for it.

The preseason had gone better than he expected, with an even win-loss record. He’d gotten a point in every game he played in—only three, but it was progress. Coach was still Coach—Nico doubted anything other than significant brain trauma would change that—and his father was still his father and had somehow found streams to watch preseason games so he could email Nico his critiques.

But some of the dread he’d expected had melted away.

He was walking toward the locker room with his pregame apple when someone called his name. “Oh shit, Kersh! Heads up!”

Nico pulled the apple away from his mouth in plenty of time to catch the soccer ball on his knee, bounce it up, and kick it back toward the two-touch group with his other foot.

“Nice,” Wright said approvingly. “You joining us?”

If he had an ulterior motive, Nico couldn’t tell. Maybe he just sensed how much Nicowantedto.

But he couldn’t yet. When he proved himself on the ice, they’d want him there. Then he could accept their offer. “Um… not this time.” He held up his apple as an excuse. Should he add something else?Have fun? No, that was condescending.

It didn’t matter; the group didn’t waste time trying to convince him. They went back to their game, and Nico went back to his pregame ritual alone.

He’d been zoning out on the bike for most of his usual ten minutes when a sharp curse snapped him out of it.

The only other player in the gym right now was Misha, who was closer to the door the sound had come through. Nico caught his eye and curiosity got the better of him. “What was that?”

Misha shook his head. “I think the rookie just found out he’s scratched.”

---