Page 50 of Lucky Shot
As I turn from the window, Aidan is running back to the kitchen. Travis is behind him, followed by our teammates Conrad Shepard and August Penn.
“Hey,” I greet them all at once, but go to Shep first. I haven’t seen him since he left after the season to visit his family in Washington. “You’re back. Good to see you, man.”
We slap hands and I pull him in for a quick, side hug.
“You too.” He offers a half smile with the quiet words. On the ice he’s one of the fastest, toughest defenders I’ve ever played with but off it, he’s soft-spoken and happy to fade into the background. Which honestly is easy to do in our group.
I look to Penn next. Our goalie has been with Moonshot longer than any of us. Like Shep, he’s on the quieter side but from him it has more of an edge. Travis says the only one grumpier than me is Penn. Far be it for me to judge, but next to Trav we all probably seem like moody motherfuckers.
“How’s it going? How’s the knee?” I ask him. He had surgery after the end of the season, one of many since I’ve joined the team. The man is a beast.
“Good.” He glances down at his right leg as his mouth pulls into a tight, straight line. “The doctors think I can get back on the ice this week. And your shoulder?”
“Good,” I mimic his words.
Penn is one of the best netminders in the league and our team’s not-so-secret weapon, but he’s also a hell of a guy. There’s no one else I’d want stopping pucks for us, and I know the team feels the same. I might wear the captain’s “C,” but that’s only because he can’t lead while stuck in the net. Plus, he has no interest in it. Either way, we all look up to him. He’s been around long enough that he’s seen it all. The ups and downs don’t get to him the same way they do the young guys, and for the rest of us, we recognize the sacrifices he’s made, body and mind, and the discipline needed to keep playing as long as he has. Realistically he has maybe another three or four seasons, and I want to bear witness to all of them. The man is a legend. His jersey will be hanging in the rafters for sure.
“Is D-Low coming?” I ask at the same time the doorbell rings in rapid succession like someone is repeatedly pressing it.
Shep laughs softly. “That’ll be him.”
“Grab a beer and head on down, if you want,” I tell them as I move toward the front door.
Pulling it open, I smile at the man on the front stoop. His finger is poised on the doorbell like he was considering ringing it again.
“Don’t even think about it,” I tell him, using my dad voice.
Danny Marlowe, otherwise known on the team as D-Low, smirks. At twenty-three he still has a streak of youthful playfulness that sometimes reminds me of Aidan and his friends.
“Just wanted to make sure you heard me, old man.” He steps forward and wraps me in a hug, slapping my back twice, hard, before brushing past me.
“And here I thought you might have grown up during the break. Isn’t there a book on that?” I find myself ribbing him, some of his playfulness rubbing off on me.
“If there is, rest assured I’ve read it and dismissed it as crap.”
A small chuckle leaves my lips. “I don’t doubt it.”
He’s the best-read person I’ve ever met, and an honest-to-God rocket scientist. Most hockey players, especially the good ones, either skip college completely or spend those years focused on getting drafted but not D-Low. Sometimes I think he’d be just as happy if he’d ended up in a lab somewhere. I thought I was smart until I met him. He’s always listening to a book or reading one, spouting facts like a one-man trivia genius.
Seeing him and thinking about books has my thoughts returning to Ruby. Travis must have really gotten in my head because I can’t help but wonder if D-Low’s more her type than me.
Sure, he doesn’t look the part of book nerd with his tattoos and piercings and extrovert personality, but he’s smart, and something tells me Ruby is into smart.
As we walk back through the house, voices drift from the kitchen. Aidan has disappeared, but my dad has joined Travis, Shep, and Penn at the back door. Their backs are to us.
“She’s a looker,” my dad says with a low whistle.
“I always did have a thing for redheads,” Travis adds. He glances back, finds my gaze, and smirks.
I don’t have to look myself to know exactly who they’re watching or talking about.
“I think that’s what they call a string bikini,” Dad says.
“Seriously?” I ask, dryly.
No one moves, but Penn slides his gaze back to us.
“Hey, D-Low. Good to see you.”
