Page 6 of Slap Shot Surprise
“Thanks.”
“Sucks you didn’t win the cup. I was rooting for Chicago over Florida.”
“We’ll get it next time.”
The bartender shook his head. “Fucking Florida, man. Do they even have ice?”
I laughed. “They do.”
He shrugged. “Anyway, good to meet you. Beer is on the house.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Bottle in hand, I walked back to my brother and puffed up my chest. “Sorry that took a while, I had to sign a few autographs at the bar.”
“Fuck off,” he said good-naturedly. “Did you really?”
“Nah.” Laughing, I tipped up my beer. “The bartender recognized me though. I got a free beer.”
“Like you can’t afford to buy a beer.” Paul shook his head. “Man, your life is something else.”
“Hey, I worked my ass off to get where I am. And I have to work even harder tostaywhere I am.” It was the truth. Competition for roster spots in the NHL was tough, and at thirty-two, I wasn’t a young phenom anymore. Every year, a new crop of rookies came up, every single one of them hungry for their shot. They were fast, aggressive, and talented as fuck.
It only made me fight harder to stay in the game.
The Stanley Cup was the greatest prize in any sport, and I wanted that ring before I hung up my skates. I’d worked my entire life for it. Sacrificed blood, sweat, and tears. Spent thousands of hours on the ice—not to mention thousands of my parents’ dollars on training, travel, and equipment. I didn’t just want it for me—I wanted it for everyone who’dever believed in me, from my family to my coaches to my friends and teammates.
I also wanted it for every naysaying asshole who’d scoffed at my dreams and told me I didn’t have what it took. If I didn’t have something, I worked on it until I got it, for the sheer love of the sport. For the rush I got from the win. For the unbeatable thrill of being one of the best in the game.
For as long as I could hang on to it.
“How’s that shoulder?” Paul asked.
“Fine. It was only a partial tear. All I needed was some PT this summer.”
“How many more years do you think you have in you, old man?”
I tipped up my beer. “As many as it takes.”
“And then what?”
“Fuck if I know. I don’t think about it.”
“Well, you can always come back home and play on our rec team.”
“The Dad Bod Squad?” I laughed. “No thanks.”
“Come on, we have a good time!”
I gave him a smirk. “We have a better time in the NHL.”
He shook his head. “Sometimes I still can’t believe you got there. You’re so damn lucky. I mean, I had the exact same genes. Why did I get the skinny legs and the crap eyesight?”
“We can’t all be winners, Paul. Somebody has to sit in the stands and cheer when I score.”
If we were twelve, he’d have tackled me. Now he just laughed.
“Is Alison here?” I asked.
“Yeah.” His eyes scanned the crowd for his wife. “Over there on the couches talking to some of the bridesmaids. Ijust can’t take any more wedding talk. I swear all women lose their minds about this shit. And none of it matters! Like, who cares about the fucking tablecloths or centerpieces? Footsie told me last week Lisa cried about the weather forecast and didn’t speak to him for two days over some bullshit about who’s sitting where at the reception. Also, she told him she doesn’t want to have sex until they’re married. Even though they’ve already been having sex for years.”
