Page 22 of The Call-Up
He shudders.
“And you’d be a Stanley Cup champ had you gone to the Blizzards.”
“Yeah, right.” He laughs some more. “I’ve barely cracked into the Mules lineup. Do you honestly think I’d have a chance to get on theirs? Hell no.”
“Fair point,” I say. Even though I don’t necessarily think that it’s fair. Brandon has proven to be a great player. He’s already elevated our team. We’re crushing it. Having won six of our last seven games.
“Besides,” he says with a sigh in his voice. “I love my brother. You know I do, but I had to get out of his shadow. Being drafted by the Blizzards would have kept me in the shade for my entire career.”
“You’re not the first set of brothers to ever make it to the league.”
“True,” he says, stopping near a large set of windows that look out to the city’s train tracks that run underneath the building. “But Ander and I have been playing against each other our whole lives, even if it was only in our driveway. I’m not sure we would make good teammates. Plus…” He turns his gaze to look at me. A conspiratorial grin spreads across his face. “No one knows my brother’s weaknesses as a goalie better than I do.”
A wave of excitement flows through me. “Well, haven’t you turned out to be a wicked little thing.”
His face falls. “I’m not that little.”
My excitement is quickly replaced with guilt.
“I’m five eleven,”he continues.
Despite my guilt, I can’t help myself, and my eyebrow raises.
He tips his head. “Fine. Five nine.”
I dip my chin towards him and lift my other eyebrow.
“Five eight and a half.” He lightly laughs.
“I knew it.” I loop my arm over his shoulders, pulling him close so I can rub the knuckles of my other hand into his scalp. This time, his laugh is so loud it echoes across the quiet, cavernous space.
Everyone in our vicinity turns to glare at us.
I let go of him, and he steps away, smiling and breathless.
“I think it’s about time we got out of here.”
TEN
Brandon
I know Ryan says he needs his pregame nap but despite not getting one today, he’s playing like a god out here. I swear, every time his stick touches the puck magic happens. He is an assist machine. Evident in how the pass he just sauced to me lands perfectly on the tape of my stick. All I need to do is flick it into the top corner of the net where Chicago’s goalie isn’t looking.
With that, the score is now three–nothing.
“Damn, Baby!” O’Shea yells as he rushes me into the glass and wraps me in a hug. “That’s two for you tonight!”
“Nah,” I say, laughing as I throw my arm around Ryan’s shoulders when he joins our celebration. If it wasn’t for Ryan’s impeccable ability to read the ice, I’d be useless out here. Just doing cardio instead of producing points. “It’s all thanks to this guy. He keeps setting me up.”
“Fuck that,” Ryan says and rubs my helmet. “You’re officially on hatty watch.”
I shake my head and my gaze drops to the ice. “It’s only beginner’s luck.”
The three of us start to skate back to the bench.
O’Shea points at me with his thumb over his shoulder. “This fucking guy!” he says to the team. “He thinks he’s got beginner’s luck.”
“Baby, no,” Danton says.
