2. MILES

TWO

MILES

I sneak in the back door and wrap my arms around Mom from behind. “I’m nervous.”

Without seeing her face, I know she’s smiling at me in the way moms seem to have perfected. “I’m gonna be supportive because I love you, but I really don’t know how I love you sometimes when you’re such an idiot.” She pats my hand.

I huff and pull back. “You’re supposed to tell me everything will be okay. That I’m so talented and I’ve worked hard for this and everyone is going to love me.”

She goes back to her iPad. “Why would I tell you all that when you’re so good at it yourself?”

Dad laughs, and I swing around to glare at him.

“I don’t hear you being supportive either.”

“You’re a goalie. That alone shows how supportive I’ve been. Do you know how many looks we get when we confess that our son is a … a … crease keeper?”

I scoff. “Goalies are the best.”

“Did your rocks tell you that, buddy?”

“Don’t you drag Stone and Seddy into this. At least they told me I was going to kill it today.”

Mom hums, clearly not listening, and Dad throws his hands up. “A goalie, Lord. You gave us a goalie. What did we do to deserve this horror?”

“Why did I miss you both again?”

Mom doesn’t miss a beat. “Because we’re incredibly charming.”

“Did you finish making your jewelry?” Dad asks.

I hold up the ziplock bag I’m clutching. “Got a baggy full of party favors.” And definitely not something I was working on to keep my hands busy and mind off the huge year I have ahead.

“Someone’s going to think you’re talking about drugs,” Mom says.

“That says more about them than me.” I blow my folks a kiss before grabbing my gear from the back door and heading out to the car.

It’s been a long three years. Longer, really, when I factor college into it. I’ve always been a family guy, super close with my parents and my siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles. None of us had ever moved out of Nashville until I had the wild idea that going to college in Connecticut was a good idea. It was, because I met my frat brothers and had a hockey coach who saw a lot of potential in me, but it was a struggle not to throw in the towel. Homesickness is a very real thing, a thing dudes aren’t supposed to have if you ask people round here, but my frat brothers, they got it. They’re the main reason I stuck around.

Then my agent is the other.

He told me I could get a contract with Nashville, and while I’ve had interest from some other teams, I roughed it out with our farm team in Milwaukee for three years to get to where I am now.

Exactly where he told me I’d be.

Kinda.

My agent probably didn’t envision me living with my parents, but when I’m already nervous about proving the team made the right choice with me and have no clue what this season will be like, moving back home was a no-brainer.

Optimal fam time while I’m at home while not stressing about having to look for a place on top of everything else.

My gut’s in knots the whole drive to training camp. This is my team. I know them; I played with them multiple times last season, but that was only as a fill-in. The greenie stepping into the big man’s pads.

This year, that number one is all mine, and I’ll fight tooth and nail to keep it. All off-season, I’ve been working out, eating my body weight in pasta, and studying game tape until it made my eyes bleed. I haven’t caught up with any of my frat brothers, only saw some of my teammates a handful of times, and other than a few family things I had to show up for—and the broship bracelets I handmade—I lived and breathed conditioning.

I’ve never been more ready.

I pull up in the parking lot at Ford Ice Center, feeling like a fraud compared to the fancy cars that are normally parked here. I’m proud of my truck, but it’s no Merc, and that kinda thing gets in my head easily.

I open the group chat I have with my Sigma Beta Psi brothers.

I’m getting the doubts.

Dooms: You deserve this. You got this. And if your team gives you shit, I’ll fly down there and personally egg all their houses myself.

Robdog:Manifest, baby! You’re gonna be the goaliest goalie to ever goal. Get in there with your brothers, hand out those bracelets, go in for some brohugs, and show them what a love bug you are.

Their enthusiasm boosts my confidence. Even as more of my brothers weigh in, I close out of the message and jump from my truck, ready to own it. This year is gonna be frat as fuck.

There’s no greater feeling than hauling my gear bag into the arena, knowing that I belong here. I’m bouncing. Excited. Gonna tackle the dudes I know in a hug and prepare any new ones for the Olsen era.

We’re a team. We support each other. Ride or die. Stanley Cup or bottom of the barrel, we’re all each other has.

Which is why I’m starting with these goddamn bracelets.

I bounce the ziplock bag in my hand as I walk, memorizing the hall and the smell of cleaning chemicals that do nothing to mask the decades of sweaty meatheads. This is the first day of the rest of my life. The moment I was born for.

The only time I hesitate is when I reach the players’ lounge. I’m earlier than the coaches said, but that was on purpose. It’ll help to get in, get settled, and then see my team one by one instead of all at once. I’m not expecting anyone else here yet, so when I walk in and find a guy I’ve gone face-to-face with a few times over the last year, my footsteps stall.

I’d forgotten about him.

Cody Bilson. Veteran player. Seattle superstar turned Nashville newbie.

I’ve admired the hell out of him for years, and saving all the goals he sent my way last year was one of my favorite moments of my career so far.

My smile spreads wide.

“Welcome!” I throw my arms wide. “Hope there’s no hard feelings about handing you your ass last year.”

He snorts and gets up to shake my hand, but I tug him in for a hug instead. Thankfully, he hugs back, zero awkwardness, and that’s always a good sign to me. You can really tell a lot about a guy by the way he hugs. “Handed me my ass? Tell me again, which team made it to the Stanley Cup final?”

I look around the locker room. “Weird, I don’t see the Cup with you. Oh wait, Seattle lost. Now you’re with us, you might want to aim for more than a failing grade. You’re working with the best goalie in the NHL, after all.”

“Best? Might want to wait to actually play a few games before you go throwing those claims around, Rook.”

“Why wait when it’s inevitable?” I’m talking out of my ass, but it’s easier to warm to people when they act confident. The last thing I want to do is go all rookie on someone with a career like Cody Bilson. Or fanboy. Nope. Nashville is my playground, and I’m never giving it up.

So I’ll do what Robbie said and manifest my way to the record books.

“Oh, hey, I made you something,” I say, dumping my gear bag and yanking open the ziplock. I fish around for the orange band with “MY DUDE CB” threaded on it, flanked by a star bead on either side. My teammates won’t wear these, I know that, so we’re not gonna talk about how long making the stupid things took me. No, the whole point of it is to get everyone relaxed and united right off the bat.

And so they know that I’m the kinda bro who makes other bros bracelets.

That part is important to me. Loads of my frat brothers are queer, and I’m not stupid; there are people in the league who are, too, and haven’t come out for whatever reason. I’m not queer myself, but I sure as fuck love everyone the same. Sadly, that’s not something I learned from my folks, and it’s one of the reasons I’m so glad I did the whole college thing.

I pass Bilson his bracelet, waiting for the ribbing. The teasing. Maybe even him handing it back and telling me I’m an idiot.

He just stares at it though. For longer than is comfortable.

Then he glances up with the goofiest grin I’ve seen in my life and holds it out to me. “Help me put it on?”

Fuck yes.

Look at me and Cody Bilson being besties right off the bat.