Page 41 of Scoring Position

Nico flipped him off, and the weird dreamlike fugue state broke. Thank God.

The extra sleep plus the coffee made Ryan almost punchy, and the energy carried him through the usual prewarmup routine. Then Phil ducked his head into the room as they were gearing up to hit the ice and said, “Hey, guys, heads up. Coach V’s mom fell and broke her hip, so he’s with her at the hospital. I’ll be behind the bench tonight.”

The room didn’t erupt into cheers, but the mood lightened. The feeling stayed with Ryan even through to his assigned media availability, which seemed absurd. He was not exactly one of the team’s major players and didn’t have a ton to say, especially within the narrow confines of things hockey media wanted to hear from a gay player. But people were interested in him because of the video he’d done with Nico, or something, so he sucked it up when Felicia told him it was his turn. People asked about his goalless streak, which wasn’t fun, but talking about it wasn’t worse than experiencing it.

“Ryan, the Fuel and Buffalo are both hoping to turn their seasons around tonight. What are you hoping to get out of this game?”

It was a dumb question, but Ryan felt good, rested, ready to go. Coach V wasn’t even in the building. A weight had lifted.

Ryan absently scratched his cheek, chasing a drop of sweat from warmups. “You mean aside from a win, a goal, and a good show for our fans?” The reporter chuckled and Ryan flashed a grin. “I dunno, maybe the number for Kersh’s tailor? Did you see his suit tonight?” He whistled.

Someone behind the reporters tossed a stick of deodorant at Ryan’s head. Whatever, they were just jealous. Once Ryan got that number, he was going to elevate his suit game andcrushthose peasants.

What he didn’t expect was to intercept a pass on the penalty kill late in the first, with nothing but open ice between him and Buffalo’s goalie.

His legs were still burning from the morning’s bag skate, but fuck it. Nothing ventured. He broke for the net, straining his entire body. He faked right, held on….

And squeaked a backhand high gloveside.

Fucking.Finally.

The stands erupted in cheers as Chenner crashed into his side, followed in short order by Kitty and Jamie. The fist-bump line felt like yet another triumph. By the time Grange and Nico combined on the power play late in the third to seal the win at 2–0, Ryan was flying high.

Of course, then Felicia sent him out to do media again.

The same reporter from earlier got the first follow-up question. “So, Ryan—what was it you said? A win, a goal, and a good show for the fans?”

Before he could get anything else out, though, Nico entered the media room, obviously fresh from a shower in his cooldown clothes, and smacked something onto the table next to Ryan.

Ryan glanced at it bemusedly. “What’s this?”

Nico was already halfway back to the door. He didn’t turn around, just shouted back, “My tailor’s number!”

The media cracked up.

Ryan grinned. “Anyotherquestions?”

This time a different reporter got the nod from Felicia. “Slightly off-topic, but I can’t figure it out and it’s driving me crazy. When Kirschbaum put away that goal tonight, Granger yelled something. ‘Attaboy’ and then…. Does Kirschbaum have a new nickname?”

“Ah, new-old,” Ryan said, feeling sheepish. “It’s Grouch, like Oscar the Grouch. I said it in the heat of the moment once, early in the season, and unfortunately it stuck. I’m not sure Nico has forgiven me.”

The woman laughed. Ryan was really going to have to expend some mental effort and start learning the beats’ names. “So if Kirschbaum is Grouch, that makes you, what? Elmo? Cookie Monster?”

“Well I’m definitely no Big Bird,” he joked. “Nah, you know, it’s really more of a Bert-and-Ernie situation. Nico is Bert, obviously.” He gestured to his face. “It’s the eyebrows.”

He knew before he left the media scrum that it was going to come back to bite him in the ass, but he felt too good to be upset about it. People would think what they liked.

He got back to the locker room in time for Chenner to shaving-cream-pie his face, and he wasn’t even mad. “Spring for a real pie next time, asshole,” was all he said, and then he headed to the shower.

His smile only widened when he finished dressing after his shower and found a text from Rees.Never any doubt!it said. He’d added the champagne bottle emoji.

Maybe the Fuel organization was a mess, but Ryan had never played for a GM who’d taken a personal interest in him. It meant something that someone believed in him.Thanks, he wrote back.

Then he shoved his phone back in his pocket and got up to track down his ride.

Igniting Chemistry in the Fuel

By Neil Watson

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