Page 9 of Scoring Position

Kitty chuckled. “Good. Me and Kolya know how to eat. Is our Russian blood.” He clapped a hand on the head of Kirschbaum—apparently the Kolya in question; damn Russian nickname conventions—and ruffled his hair.

Kirschbaum flinched almost imperceptibly. Though his cheeks were slightly pink, he didn’t say anything. But the goaltender, Greenie, was dialed up to eleven to match his gravity-defiant hair. He couldn’t let any sleeping dog lie, so anyone who might’ve been paying attention to Kirschbaum was quickly distracted by Greenie’s squawk of outrage at Kitty’s suggestion that he would effortlessly outeat the rest of the team.

In the chaos that followed, Kirschbaum slipped into the showers, and Ryan made his way back to his stall, laughing and catcalling as Greenie suggested a contest of their mettle.

Fortunately for the sake of everyone’s appetites and Yorkie’s wallet, Greenie and Kitty forewent the hot-dog-eating contest. Ryan wrangled a spot next to Yorkie near the end of the table and gauged the emotional temperature of the group. It had definitely come up a few degrees.

Ryan might have ended up in the NHL by a fluke, but now that he was here, he loved it. He just wanted to play hockey. Maybe he’d never be a superstar, but he was good enough to be on the ice.

A whole year of being on the ice with a team that seemed to be held together with stick tape and a prayer, however, did not sound like a fun time. If he could make it any more bearable, he would. He just had to figure out how.

No pressure. Just a situation twenty-something other guys, plus various management and coaches, hadn’t figured out how to fix in the past two years.

The restaurant they’d invaded was comfortable and homey, with a short menu that promised “home-cooked” meals. They were also accustomed to serving players from the Fuel and had happily extended their lunch hours.

And the mimosas were excellent. Clearly Yorkie had learned how to brunch from someone who knew what they were doing.

“So….” Ryan kept his voice low. No one else on the team needed to overhear this. “How bad is it?”

Yorkie huffed. “Bad enough.” He cut Ryan a sideways glance. “Not, like, Chicago bad.”

So they weren’t in “call the police immediately” territory, but the fact that Yorkie had to qualify it…. He took a long sip of his mimosa.

“Coach is… difficult to please,” Yorkie hedged. “He’s quick to point out what you’re doing wrong—I mean, obviously that’s his job—but it’s also hard to earn his praise. Like, almost impossible. It feels really old-school.” He stopped talking as their server came by and deposited a huge platter of tacos. “If he likes you, you can do no wrong, and if he doesn’t, you can’t win no matter what you do.”

Naturally. Ryan would bet he could guess which guys he’d like too—not the elite players, guys like Grange who could turn the game around in a second, who on their good days couldn’t be touched, never mind stopped. No, he’d like the guys who reminded him of himself—tough guys. Though these days that meant more grit and determination than bare-knuckle brawling.

Guys like Ryan, probably, unless the coach was also a homophobe. Sometimes assholes came with special bonus features.

“Sounds like fun.” Ryan took a taco. Whatever else was going on, he needed to fuel up.

Yorkie copied him. “It’s been like that for a while now. I was pretty surprised we traded for you, actually.” With some effort, Ryan managed not to flinch. “Not because you’re not good, just….” He took the container of guac from Greenie, added some to the side of his plate, and passed it to Ryan. “The, uh,rationalebehind it feels like a softer approach than our GM is known for.”

Well, that was horrifying on every level. Ryan deserved extra guac. “Tell me straight. The light at the end of the tunnel—is it an oncoming train?”

Yorkie nudged him under the table. “Save the negativity. There’ll be enough of it later. The good news is the other coaches are okay. Our mental-skills coach is great. I don’t know Phil well yet—that’s the new special-teams coach—but he seems good so far. And it’s….” He squared his shoulders. “It’s all right most of the time. Coach V will mellow out a little when the season starts.”

Ryan made a mental note to tell Diane not to work at getting him re-signed here. It never hurt to be clear about what you wanted.

“I’ll drink to that, I guess,” he said, and Yorkie snorted and clinked their glasses.

The food was excellent. Ryan tried to enjoy it as he sat back and got to know Greenie and Grange, the slightly-past-prime superstar, who sat at his left. Greenie had a line on a furnished apartment rental in the building where he lived, so at least Ryan could get out of Yorkie’s guest room and into his own space. Living with another single guy was one thing, but Yorkie had a wife, a six-year-old, and a baby. Ryan felt like a third wheel, even if Gabby was adorable. And he had a hard enough time sleepingwithoutsharing a house with a newborn. Between recurrent insomnia and what his dad called “sleep terrors”—a fancy way of saying that he’d sometimes wake up terrified, heart racing, for no reason—Ryan was usually two hours of sleep under par every night.

“They’re like newlyweds,” Grange said, shaking his ginger head in sympathy. “Bro, I don’t blame you.”

Greenie snorted and tossed a napkin at him. “Dude, you’ve got three under three.”

Grange looked pretty satisfied. “My kids are the best.” He obviously spied an opportunity to brag to someone new, because he took out his phone. “You want to see?”

One did not turn down an invitation to bond with one’s teammates, so Ryan dutifully cooed over pictures of Tanya, Casey, and Miles.

The rhythm of the team was different from what he was used to, but at least it didn’t feel like a brand-new pair of skates anymore. He was getting used to it.

Soon it might be almost comfortable.

He could do this—spend a couple weeks settling in, let things with Kirschbaum settle, try again to build a rapport. Despite the elephant in the room, no one was treating him weird. He didn’t know if that was Yorkie’s influence or if they were all too busy worrying about Vorhees, but he didn’t mind having one less thing to deal with. Just find a place to live, find his place on the team… find a balance between pleasing Rees and steering clear of Kirschbaum….

That last part might not be as hard as it should. Down at the far end of the table, Kirschbaum sat between Kitty and one of the rookies—what was his name? Chenner? The kid was still growing out his unfortunate juniors haircut, complete with orange-bleached ends. Kirschbaum looked uncomfortable, and Kitty kept bending his head to talk to him, nudging his arm. Was he giving him a hard time? Ryan couldn’t tell.

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