10. My Suit

Hollis

Down by one.

The clock is ticking. Nine minutes left in the third period.

The Vegas team's defenders are a wall around their net here in our arena. But I have a plan.

I flip the puck to Rhys, or so they think. My guy, Fisher, sneaks up and takes the puck from me instead, swiftly maneuvering it through the chaos of sticks and skates. While Rhys lures the defenders toward him as Gavin fends them off, Fisher slaps that little black disc through the five-hole. A clean, see-you-later-sucker shot.

The lamp lights and the score is tied. The sound of the horn blares as the crowd erupts in cheers, our hometown audience going wild.

"Yes! Fuck yes," I shout as Rhys speeds past me, giving a congratulatory shoulder bump.

"That's how we do it." He grins, and I can't argue with him there.

"You know it, bro."

He shakes his head, laughing as I call him that.

"C'mon, bro! Say it!" I goad.

Another shake.

Rhys has adapted so many Americanisms after playing here for so long. But he's never picked up bro. Maybe someday. I am nothing if not optimistic.

I jump over the boards, snatching my water bottle from the bench, and take a quick swig during the line shift.

The sound of skates scraping against the ice fills my ears as guys like our captain and star winger handle the puck now. We're always in good hands when they're leading the charge. We lost our last game. Gavin blamed the fish tacos. But we had banh mi for lunch today since I insisted we just needed to mix it up.

A couple minutes later, I'm back out there. And a few minutes after that, I'm delivering another assist.

Yes!

We hold them off and end the night with our fox mascot hitting the ice for a victory lap as a W flashes across the scoreboard.

"And now, more than a week off," I say to Gavin and Rhys as we reach the tunnel. It's Wednesday night and I'm not even annoyed I wasn't selected for the All-Star game this weekend. I have the stats—but our team is stacked and we're already sending a guy better known than I am and one with a more storied career, our captain, Stefan Christensen. Our goalie, Dev Ryland, is a star too and he got the fan vote.

My time will come. It'll absolutely fucking come.

For now, I've got sore muscles and a date with my favorite pillow, my sleeping mask, and some smooth waves on my sleepy time app. I fucking love sleep. I can't wait to crash.

At the end of the tunnel, I say, "Banh mi. Was I right or was I right?"

Rolling his eyes, Gavin says, "You were right."

"What did you say?"

"You were right," he repeats louder.

I cup my ear with my glove on. "Can't hear you."

"Your ego requires so much stroking, Bouchard," Rhys says, shaking his head.

I wiggle my brows. "That's not the only thing that requires stroking."

"Ah, fuck off," Rhys says with a laugh.

Gavin tips his chin toward me. "And I guess now we've got a new streak, so we'll be eating banh mi every night after the All-Star break."

Rhys groans but even Gavin's superstitions can't get me down. I am going to enjoy the fuck out of several days off.

Twenty minutes later, I'm showered and suited up. I pass the guys at their stalls, clapping each of them on the shoulder. "Catch up with you tomorrow. I'm heading up to Lucky Falls tonight."

"See you then," Rhys says.

"Good luck with the meeting," I say, just to him.

Rhys gives a quick nod. His expression is mostly stoic, but the dude's been stressed for the last week. The rumor mill is working overtime, speculating he'll be part of a trade, so he's seeing his agent tomorrow morning to strategize about whatever might come next.

I'm too young to have a no-trade clause, but I don't worry about that stuff. I can't control where I play. I can control how I play. My goals here are simple—make the coach and the owner happy and cause zero trouble.

Had enough of that growing up. Don't need it now.

Once outside, I hop in my matte black electric ride, toss my suit jacket on the seat, and loosen my perfunctory tie.

I turn on the car and beat the rush out of the players' lot. As I weave through city traffic, I call my mom. She answers right away and I launch right into the post-game recap like we do after almost every game. "How'd I do?"

"Love a good fake out," she says proudly. "I taught you well."

"Yeah, you did."

She used to play hockey in college and she taught me pretty much everything I know. But there wasn't a feasible career path for her in the sport, so she became a nail technician, then worked her way up and bought into a nail salon in a strip mall with a couple other ladies.

After we talk shop, we catch up on my little sisters and their upcoming college tours. The twins are applying to school in the fall and it's pretty much all-consuming at home. "I just want them to get into decent schools, so we need to see a lot," she says.

"We'll get them in someplace good, Mom," I try to reassure her.

"I hope so," she says, but I can hear the nerves in her voice. Since that's not her real worry.

The cost is.

But I've told her a million times, I've got it covered.

She raised three kids on her own. Least I can do is handle the big bills for her now that I can. But sometimes it helps to take other worries off her plate too. "Can I send you dinner, Mom? I know you like that Thai place in the city and it delivers late."

"It's late, Hollis. And I already ate. But thank you."

"Then lunch it is tomorrow."

She laughs. "You're relentless."

"Did you say I'm wonderful?"

"Same thing."

We say goodbye, and I ask my phone to set a reminder to deliver Mom some lunch tomorrow. Before I know it, I've reached the rental cottage the festival organizer set us up with. It's dark out since it's nearly eleven, but all the lights on the wraparound porch are on.

Nice.

I appreciate that touch from the property manager.

After I turn off the car in the driveway and park just outside the garage, I grab my duffel from the backseat and toss it over my shoulder, stretching my neck as I go, trudging up the steps. Everything in me aches. Back is sore too. Shoulders are cranky.

I don't even bother to go in the front door because the hot tub advertised in the property listing has been calling my name since my shoulder sent the I'm fucking sore alert.

I walk across the porch around the side of the cottage, so I can turn on the hot tub before I even go inside.

Why get distracted by anything else?

And damn…

That's some courtesy for you. The tub is already bubbling, with steam rising into the early February night. It's like a goddamn invitation. The service here is immaculate.

"I approve," I say to no one in particular but my beat-up body. I'm always this way after a game. That's just how it goes with pro sports. You take a pounding every night.

I drop my duffle on the back deck, toe off my shoes, undo my shirt, and peel off my suit pants, socks, and boxer briefs.

As I stride over to the steps leading into the hot tub, the back door swings open. Out of nowhere, a long dog shoots like a bullet across the deck, barking hello.

Wait.

Why is there a dog here? A dog I know.

I snap my gaze up, and I'm staring at an absolutely gorgeous blonde who is staring back at me in my birthday suit.