Page 20 of Call the Shots
“Bear!” Montoya’s high-pitched voice took me out of my concentration. “Great stop!”
I wiped away the sweat. “Are we the only ones out here?”
“No, this is Fridge!”
I didn’t need an introduction for Felix Fowler—the goalie from Florida who dwarfed everybody at six-foot-eight, a clear fan favorite. The first Black goalie for the Southeast Prospect Award, Fridge was known for his uncanny ability to stop record plays. There was a running joke that if you thought you’d go into overtime with Fridge—no, you wouldn’t.
His school wasn’t part of the USAC, but we’d been up against each other a handful of times in other league games. The way I saw it, he was the singular good decision made by Marrs—I was actually kind of surprised to see him.
“Bear,” Fridge greeted. “Want me to drag out the net?”
“Nah, we can do warm-ups until everybody arrives.”
An hour passed and I could feel the rust wearing away. The coldness of the arena didn’t mean anything to me, because I was fucking good at this. But I could only get so good with two guys to practice with, neither of which were defensemen.
“Where is everybody?” I finally demanded.
“I’m here because Denali saw me atGianna’s.” Fridge shrugged, passing the puck to Montoya with a sharp swing. “I didn’t think we’d start since Coach is absent.”
“Does anyone have an update on that?” Nick Kurosawa’s voice boomed over the rink. “Every time I call him, it’s the Muppets.”
I narrowed my eyes. Nick was another great player, like Fridge, but I refused to have begrudging respect for the professional playboy. He proudly proclaimed that he had a natural six-pack—sure—and had a reputation for calling up players’ girlfriends the night before a game to rile them up. I never believed the rumors until it happened to me.
I could still remember it, doing homework on the couch and Paisley walking downstairs in my hoodie, one of her infamous pouts on full display.Beaaaar, you won’t believe this. Do you think Nick sent it by mistake? Beaaaar? Are you jealous? Why aren’t youmorejealous? You should be more jealous.
Jealousy and I didn’t mix, and I earned a forty-five-minute lecture from Paisley over it, ruining my night. I put half the blame on Nick. I narrowed my eyes at him and his slicked-back hair at six in the morning. Like we needed hair gel for goddamn hockey practice.
My lips curled. “Nick.”
“No bad blood from playoffs, Bear.”
“You DMed my goalie’s girlfriend, earned us a penalty and cost us a point in the second period. You’re a scumbag?—”
“Oh, come on, you’ve never hit up somebody’s girl?”
My jaw twitched. “No.”
“You’re missing out.”
A laugh broke the tension and the four of us glanced to see Denali watching June’s laptop while she worked in the bleachers. Great. We were practicing while our team captain giggled with some blonde on staff.
“So, June…” Nick finished tying his skates. “Am I the first one to hit that or did someone call dibs?”
I abandoned practice with the guys. “You fucked June?”
“Not yet, but you know how much fun PR girls are.”
A cold feeling gripped me that had nothing to do with the arena, and I ground my back teeth, holding back every pent-up threat. The walls in our dorm were paper thin, and I didn’t want to hear Nick moaning when I went to take a piss at two in the morning.
“You can’t fuck June,” I decided. “That’s not allowed.”
“What? Why?”
Fridge grimaced. “Seems like a conflict of interest.”
“June’s nice,” Montoya added.
“June’s off-limits,” I warned.
