Page 22 of Good Vibes Only
“Most of the team lives around here,” Brock said. “Especially the married guys, family guys, y’know. Settled guys.”
“Is Showtime married?”
“Nah. He’s just loaded,” Connor said with a laugh.
Sofia was snuggled up with Brock in the back seat. “So, boys,” she began, “McKayla was asking me about Showtime earlier.”
Connor cast a side-eyed glance at me. “Is that right?”
I knewexactlywhat he was thinking. “Don’t get excited. I was asking which player he isbecause you two weren’t much help when I asked you earlier.”
“He plays wing on our line,” Brock said. “He’s sick. He’s got the softest pair of hands in the league.”
“Ah, so he moisturizes?” I asked, only half-joking.
The boys chuckled.
“Oh yeah. He’s always moisturizing,” Connor quipped dryly—so dryly, I couldn’t tell if he was yanking my chain or not. “He actually fills his gloves up to the brim with hand cream. Every time he puts his gloves on, globs of hand cream spill out onto the floor.”
Sofia and I had the same reaction: “Ew!”
Brock laughed but set the record straight. “No, no. Saying someone has soft hands means they’ve got a really good handle on the puck. He’s got dekes and dangles—”
“—dude could stickhandle in a phone booth,” Connor interjected.
“With most guys, if you throw a grenade at them, that’s it, the play dies,” Brock said.
“A grenade?” I asked, confused by more hockey jargon.
“A grenade is a horrible pass,” Connor explained.
“Off target, fluttering in the air, bouncing on the ice,” Brock added. “But if you throw a grenade at Showtime? It literally doesn’t matter because he’s got the magic hands. You can put the puck five feet behind him, and not only does hesomehowstill catch the pass, he’s already spinning around and dangling his way through the defense with some sick toe drag.”
“He makes it look stupidly easy,” Connor said.
“I was kinda asking about what he’s like as a person, not a hockey player,” I said. “But thanks for the scouting report, I guess?”
The boys went“ooooooooh.”
“In that case, he’s a beauty,” Brock said simply.
“A beauty?” I asked.
“Abeauty,” Connor emphasized.
I’d ask, except I understood that these boys were a nesting doll of hockey lingo. Trying to get one clear answer just led to a dozen more questions.
“You know, you two arereallyhard to get a straight answer from,” I said.
“Welcome to my life,” Sofia teased.
“Luckily, we’re almost at his place,” Connor said, and pulled us up to a gated neighborhood. He punched a number into a keypad, and the gates opened with a whirring. “So you can ask Showtime whateverburningquestions you’ve got.” He gave me a wink and a nudge.
“Whatever,” I said and rolled my eyes. “Trust me. It’s not like that.”
We rolled through the street, past all the huge houses in the neighborhood. After a short drive, we pulled up on a house with dozens of cars parked along the curb. Connor pulled over and parked us at the end of the line.
“I can tell you one thing about Showtime that you’ll definitely appreciate, McKayla,” Brock said as we climbed out of the car. “He’s pretty business savvy, so you two have that in common.”
