3. Wes

3

Wes

“Errrrannnghhhh. Arrrmmmhhh.”

“Babe? You okay down there?” I call down the crowded table.

“Ohhhhrrrgh,” is Jamie’s answer.

Depending on the context, the noises my husband are making might alarm me. But one look at his blissed-out face tells the whole story. We’re at an Oaxacan restaurant in the center of San Jose, with several of my teammates. Since it’s game day, everyone is eating lightly.

Everyone except Jamie. He’s in pig heaven right now. Literally. He’s eating homemade tortillas spread with pork cracklings and bean puree and fresh guacamole. A pile of calamari is waiting its turn in front of him.

And we’ve only gotten to the appetizers.

“There’s no place like home,” Jamie says through a mouthful. “There’s no place like home.”

“Don’t forget to click your heels together,” Matt Eriksson cracks.

“I don’t have to,” Jamie mumbles, taking a sip of beer. “I’m already here. There’s nothing as good as California Mexican food. Nothing.”

“I’ll bet the people serving Mexican food in Mexico might take issue with that,” Eriksson points out.

Jamie shakes his blond head. “It might be as good. But it can’t be better. Seriously. I’m never eating Mexican in Toronto again. There’s no point.”

“Are you harshing on Canada?” Blake Riley gasps.

“Maybe a little,” Jamie admits. “But come on. California is heaven. I went surfing with my dad at dawn. And now there’s a party in my mouth.”

“This really is the best guacamole I’ve had in my entire adult life,” Lemming agrees, reaching for another chip.

I take a sip of the soda I ordered, because nobody drinks before a game. I’m feeling pretty good about myself tonight, and all because I cheered up my guy. Jamie is like a sturdy plant—happy under most conditions, but occasionally in need of some extra sunshine. A trip to California almost always does the trick.

Also blow jobs.

“Excuse me, miss?” Blake says, stopping a tall waitress in a short dress.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“Possibly. But I have a question. The menu says ‘chapulines’ are sautéed grasshoppers. But what are they really?”

The waitress smirks. “Exactly what it says, big guy. Grasshoppers are crunchy and delicious. We flavor them with garlic and lime. Are you ready to try some?”

“Uh…” My teammate blinks.

Jamie raises his hand into the air. “I will. Even if he won’t. Some of us aren’t scared.”

There’s a rumble of laughter at the table. “So will I,” Eriksson says, throwing down, too. “Blake might not be able to handle it, but I’m game.”

“Dude,” Blake threatens. “Don’t give me that macho bullshit. You’re afraid of heights.”

“You’re afraid of sheep,” Eriksson fires back.

“But not deep fried sheep,” someone else adds.

They glare at each other.

“So—one order of chapulines, coming up!” the waitress says. And when she walks away, she’s laughing to herself.

I can’t resist leaping into the fray. “A hundred bucks says Blake won’t eat two grasshoppers.”

“Are you eating them?” Blake demands.

“Sure, dude. Jamie and I will match you bug for bug. They come with dipping sauces. Just pretend you’re eating a crunchy pecan.”

“A pecan with six legs,” Jamie adds cheerfully. Our eyes meet, and his are twinkling. I feel such a rush of love when I see his smile. I want to throat-punch his boss for shafting him on that promotion. I really do.

It’s fun teasing Blake, and we do it on the regular. But Jamie knows that the real measure of a man isn’t whether he can eat a fried grasshopper. The real measure of a man is whether he can be a good partner, a hard worker, and a role model all at the same time.

Jamie is all those things. Why can’t Bill Braddock see that?

“A hundred bucks from me, too,” Eriksson says, tossing some bills onto the table. “Who else is in?”

The betting escalates. And soon the server is back with a new platter of food. She plops it down in front of Blake. “¡Buen provecho!”

“Does that mean—nice knowing you?” Blake grumbles. “Who’s going first?”

Jamie reaches over, plucks a fried brown grasshopper from the plate and shoves it into his mouth. “Mmm. Nice chili flavor.” He grabs a second one, dips it in the sauce and pops that one in his mouth too. He chews, smiling.

“Let’s go, Blake!” I prod. “There’s seven hundred dollars on this table that says you won’t eat two of them.”

“Seven hundred dollars, and your manhood,” Eriksson taunts, picking up a grasshopper and dipping it in sauce. “But no pressure.” He eats his in one bite.

“Fine,” Blake says with a scowl. “Just a second.” He takes his phone out of his pocket and holds it up to frame his own face. “J-babe, if for some reason I don’t make it back, I just wanted you to know that I love you. I know you’ll raise Puddles to be a fine dog. Oh, and your birthday present is in the bottom drawer of the bedside table.” He taps the screen and looks up at us with a serious expression. “Make sure she gets that video, fellas.”

“Will do,” I say with as much gravitas as the moment calls for. Which is none.

Blake reaches toward the plate as if it might bite him. But he grabs a grasshopper between his big fingers. No—two of them. He’s going with the all-at-once strategy.

“Do it! Do it!” I chant. And then everyone else starts chanting, too.

Suddenly we’re that table—the loud, obnoxious one that other diners despise. And we’re not even drinking.

Blake closes his eyes and opens his mouth. The grasshoppers go in. He chews…

We all lose our minds.

He swallows. Then he grabs Jamie’s beer out of his hand and chugs it.

Our table erupts with applause.

I have the best job in the whole damned world.

* * *

We haveto be at the rink pretty early. But they let Jamie into the players’ entrance with me so that he can pick up comp tickets for himself and his parents.

“What are you going to do until game time?” I ask him.

“Heading back to the hotel. Returning some calls.” His eyes dip.

“What kind of calls?” I hear myself ask.

“That scout wants to talk to me again.” He sighs. “He’s here in San Jose.”

“Really?” I freeze, my hand on the locker room door. “Is that a coincidence?”

He shrugs uncomfortably. “I’m not sure. He wanted to meet me tonight, but I told him I was spending some quality time with the family.”

“You’re blowing him off?” I laugh. “Harsh.”

“My head is not in a great place to listen to him,” Jamie admits. “I need a couple of days to sort out my shit.”

“I bet.” I put a hand onto his shoulder and squeeze. “Sure love having you here, babe. This has been fun.”

His brown eyes grow warm. “It’s the best. I got a video of Blake eating the grasshoppers. That’s getting edited later. If you have any soundtrack suggestions, I’m listening.” He rubs his belly. “I’m never eating again, either. But the pain I’m feeling now was totally worth it for that mole sauce.”

“Take it easy.” I lean forward and plant a quick kiss on his jaw. “See you after the game?”

“Knock ’em dead, babe.” He gives me a quick hug, and then heads down the hallway, looking for the GM’s assistant and her stash of tickets.

* * *

Spirits arehigh while we stretch and suit up. I need a goal tonight. The Cannings will be in the stands, and I like to impress my in-laws. The Canning clan is the best thing that ever happened to me. They love me whether I score or not.

Still. Let’s get some points on the board. I’m in the mood to win.

I’m taping up my stick when Coach lets out a whistle. “Gather round, kids! Starting lineups are posted. There’s two things we weren’t expecting. San Jose put Murray on the first line. And they’re playing Pitti in the net.”

“Yeah?” I perk up. I’d rather be firing on their number-two goalie. “That’s an interesting choice.”

“Go get ’em,” Coach says, slapping me on the shoulder. “Warm-ups start in two minutes.”

I snap on my helmet and do a set of slow squats to keep my quads warm. Then I follow my teammates out onto the ice. The clock has sixteen minutes on it—regulation warm-up time. It never feels like enough. I take my first quick lap. I’m watching the opposing goalie, and visualizing my shot. I mentally snap one into the upper left-hand corner. And then I think through my approach on the right.

I’m in the zone, which means I’m not paying attention to anyone outside the plexi. You learn to tune out the sounds of the stadium.

So it takes me a minute to notice that the name they’re calling over the sound system is familiar to me.

Veryfamiliar.

“Jamie Canning, please identify yourself to a security staff member. Jamie Canning.”

What the hell is up with that?