Page 46 of Puck You Very Much
“Do you wish you could’ve seen more of his playing career?”
“I wish he could have been more successful. He had all the tools, you know? He had lightning speed and he handled the puck so fucking deftly. For some reason, he never got his big break, but I’m telling you he could’ve been a fucking Stanley Cup champion.”
Before, I would’ve sputtered at those declarations. He would’ve been Zane Hirst talking out of his ass for the hundred thousandth time. But I didn’t feel that vibe from him now. Zane not only sounded sane and rational (a major first) but seemed like a completely different person.
“That’s why you wanted to play hockey, huh?” I asked.
“If only everyone had your grasp of the obvious, Jakob.”
I struggled not to blush but didn’t know if I was doing a good job.
“That was why I started playing hockey in the first place. Dad would’ve probably registered me for Little Tyke hockey when I was a kid even if I hadn’t begged him. Iwantedto be there in the worst way.”
“Follow in your dad’s footsteps, right?”
“Yeah, but there was more to it. I want to make up for the lack of success my dad had.”
“Right some wrongs?”
“Exactly! I’m going to be a Stanley Cup champion someday and it’ll be incredible.”
He offered another declaration like winning the big one was a foregone conclusion.
“When I win the Stanley Cup,” he said, “I’m going to give the ring to my dad.”
“That’s real noble of you, Zane.”
“Yeah, well, I doubt he would accept it if I did.”
“It’s the thought that counts.
Yeah, I know how cliché that sounded but I couldn’t help myself. Our server arrived with our wings and Zane’s eyes lit up. He even rubbed his hands together. My mouth watered at the sight, and I couldn’t wait to dig in.
“How about you?” he asked, “what’s it like being a Larkin Lion?”
Since my sarcasm detector didn’t run wild, I decided to go ahead and answer the question.
“Being a Larkin Lion is great,” I said. “It’s even better when we beat the pants off of the Remington Riptides.”
Zane, who’d brought a drumstick to his lips, paused before taking a bite.
“Dude, can you take even one thing seriously?” he asked.
“I’ll try.”
He bit into his drumstick, and I did likewise with my flat. As flavor invaded my mouth, I closed my eyes and savored it.
“I was playing hockey before I could lace up a pair of skates,” I said. “I knocked tennis balls into makeshift nets, anything I could do to play the game. And when I finally did get my first pair of skates?—”
“They read TGIF on the toes?”
“Thank God It’s Friday?”
“No, Toes Go In First.”
I would’ve sputtered had my mouth not been full. Mark that in the record books, folks. Zane Hirst said something witty.
“It always felt like I was going through the motions of playing hockey,” I said. “I might not have been born with a hockey stick in my hand, but that was the closest thing to it. And then there was my dad. He was my biggest hockey influence.”
