Page 34 of Pucking Bad Boys

Talia’s eyes widen, as if she’d just come to a realization. “So you’re a hockey player?”

“Yeah, duh,” Tucker rolls his eyes. “That’s why I was pleased I didn’t have to tell him to look out for you. Becks’ already on the same page.”

“For some reason, it didn’t register then. So you’re a Cove Knight?”

My brother blushes. Interesting. I’ve never seen him blush before.

“Guilty as charged.”

Tucker gives him another friendly slap on the back. “He’s our new right winger. It was our weakest spot, and with Becker Shayba, we might have just hit the jackpot. We’re gonna be back-to-back champions, mark my words.”

Surprise is written all over Talia’s face. But it has nothing to do with Tucker’s declaration that we’ll take the championship again this year.

“Shayba?” Her eyes go from Becks to me.

“Yup.” It’s my turn to slap my brother’s back. “Becks is my little brother.”

He stiffens at my words.

I seriously don’t understand what his fucking problem is. Sometimes he acts like he’s embarrassed to be associated with me.

But I don’t get the opportunity to ask him what’s crawled up his ass, because Gen slides her arm into the crook of Becks’s elbow, practically wrapping herself around him like a skinny boa constrictor.

“You didn’t know Becks is the latest bright star in a family that’s practically hockey royalty?” She beams. “Our dads were rookies together. They won four Cups with San Francisco and an Olympic gold medal. Mack and Becks are the heirs of that amazing legacy, and I bet they’ll do even greater things than our fathers.”

My brother’s face foes from red to crimson. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Gen.”

She bats her eyelashes at him in her typical flirty way, but her eyes flit to me. If Gen thinks I’m going to be jealous of her talking my brother up, she’s even more delusional than I thought.

“Don’t mention it,babe.” Again, she looks at me as she cups his jaw. “And don’t worry, we’ll fix your ID problem pronto. I’ll call my fake ID guy and we’ll get you something that looks better than real just in time for this weekend’s rally.”

For once in her life, Gen’s bragging is justified. Her fake ID guy is a real artist. We might not need fakes anymore since, aside from Becks, we’re all twenty-one, but she hooked up most of the team with fakes and they never failed to get us served in town or on the road.

“Great, thanks.” Becks grumbles, attempting to free himself from Gen’s poison ivy grip but failing miserably. “I can’t say I’m gonna be sad to leave Beavis Rawbottom behind.”

“Nah,” the smile on Tucker’s face is evil. “We can’t let Beavis Rawbottom fade into obscurity. We needed a good nickname for you on the ice, and I think Beavis is perfect.”

Becks begins shaking his head before Tucker is even done announcing his decision. Rookie mistake. My brother has played hockey long enough to know that once a nickname has been chosen, there’s no use in trying to fight it.

“Yup.” I chuckle. “As team captain, I second that.”

“Oh, come on, Mack,” Becks whines. “Can’t you choose something a little more dignified?”

I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t feel a little bit of perverse satisfaction at lording my captaincy over him. “No can do,Beavis. You know better than me that nicknames are often funny. What did they call you in Bridgeport?”

“Nothing. We didn’t have nicknames.”

“What?” Tucker snorts. “Another fact that proves that the Bridgeport Tigers were a bunch of psychos. What team doesn’t have nicknames? And Mack is right. Most of our nicknames are funny.”

Becks doesn’t look convinced. “Yeah? What do they call you, then?”

“I’m T-Bone.” Tucker offers. “Because I almost missed my first starting game after I spent the night before boning a bunny after a party. And obviously T is for Tucker.”

Before Becks can keep arguing, Colsen backs Tucker up. “They call me Pinky. Because I wear a pink t-shirt under my jersey for good luck. It began after a laundry accident. And since I scored a hat trick the night I was stuck with the pink t-shirt, it became my nickname.”

“What do they call you?” Becks glares at me.

“Tweety,” I offer. “Because of my incessant chirping with our opponents. As you can see, it’s just funny. If I can be Tweety, you can be Beavis.”