Page 24 of Dangle

Ilkovitch waved his hand, and Aiden’s mouth snapped shut. The former defenseman turned hockey coach was freaking humongous. He towered over us all and looked as if he could kit up for tonight’s game without an issue.

“The starting unit for the Manchester Maulers,” he said.

“They’re a great bunch, Coach. No doubt,” Aiden said, leading the way into the locker room with Gavin and Shane going with him.

Coach Ilkovitch stood to the side, and Ryan moved to walk past him only for the coach to extend his hand to Riordy. “Ryan Riordan—starting goalie with a nine-fifty-three save percentage. Best in the nation. But that’s no shocker considering what your numbers looked like in Boston.”

He patted Riordy’s shoulder, then turned to Zane next. “Zane Tyler, thirteen goals and nineteen assists across forty games. Good job, son.”

He continued shaking the hands of the guys quoting stats for the twins and Ethan when it was their turn. With every interaction, my nerves ramped up, and my palms grew increasingly damp, and then he got to me. I swallowed several times to dislodge the lump in my throat.

“Captain Malachek, son, you are one of the most beautiful players to set foot on the ice. To switch from center to wing back to center back to wing back to center in a single season is damn impressive. And according to Aiden and Storm, to do so completely voluntarily? You don’t see that every day. You are the kind of player coaches dream of.”

“Um,” I stopped, cleared my throat, and tried again, “Thank you, Coach.”

His big, meaty palm planted itself between my shoulder blades, guiding me into the locker room where Aiden, Gavin, and Shane were showing the boys their gear and cubbies.

“Alright, boys, I gotta go get ready for the game. It’s been a pleasure to meet such an impressive group of players, gentlemen. You had an impressive season, and that doesn’t account for the upheaval you guys faced. You should be very proud of yourselves.”

Umm… What…the actual…fuck…was that?

He disappeared from sight, not realizing he’d dropped a fucking atomic bomb in my fucking lap.

Aiden and his boys moved us through the rest of the Nighthawks locker room, introducing us to everyone we passed. It didn’t matter whether they were the janitorial staff or the team doctor.

And they all had something nice to say about us.

“Nice to meet you, Trey,” Jason Evans, one of the stats guys, said. “I’m a huge fan. Been following you since juniors. That game against Michigan in December when you moved back to center while Aiden was out? A fucking beaut, man. You blockedfive shots on goal, all while scoring a hat-trick and getting two assists. All thirty-two teams in the league are gonna be bawling when you get on the ice in New York.”

Then there was the trainer, Eddie Lukowich, who shook my hand and said, “I could praise you for days, kid. It’s always a pleasure to watch you skate. You also rarely see a player at your level who so easily plays both ways—the explosiveness of a winger, the physicality of a defender, and the playmaker skills of a center. If someone said they were trying you out as a goalie, it wouldn’t shock me. You seem to excel no matter where you are on the ice.”

By the time we left the rink, the ‘What the fuck?’ that struck me after Coach Ilkovitch greeted me had grown into a monster of ‘Holy fucking shitballs!’ and ‘Where’s this been all my life?’

SEVEN

SLONE

“Ineed better friends,” I said when Ewen was still laughing an hour later as we walked into Cam and Priest’s loft at EDGE.

“What has him braying like a fucking donkey?” Cam asked me, pulling me into a hug, since Ewen was red-faced and gasping for air.

“He’s a fucking asshole,” I said with a sigh, knowing I would become the butt of this weekend’s jokes in the next few moments.

“How’s that different from any other day that ends in a ‘y’?” Cam asked with a laugh.

Ewen pointed at me and said, “I think our morose boy has found some happy juice.”

“I fucking hate you,” I told my best friend as I moved into the open-concept living area.

Priest and Bauer stood at the kitchen island. Priest’s arm snaked around Bauer’s waist, his face tucked into Bauer’s neck while Bauer attempted to uncover platters of Mexican food. Asher, Bauer’s fraternal twin, stood near the table, setting out plates and flatware. Pitchers of margaritas and buckets of Corona on ice sat on the island between Bauer and AlexSvartstrom. Hawk, Alex’s service dog, lay at his feet, watching the door, his ears and nose twitching.

Seeing so many of the people I knew, loved, and trusted in one space felt good. The tight band wound so tightly around my chest I felt trapped and stifled, loosened.

“Who do we hate today?” Priest asked.

“Who else?” I said, gripping Sasha’s shoulder before motioning to Hawk and asking, “Can I?”

“I see how it is. You say hi to the dog first.”