Page 51 of Puck, Marry, Kill

“First, get off my bed,” I snap. But I’m grinning, glad he’s comfortable with me, but truly not wanting his germs where I’m going to sleep tonight. “Group meeting in the lobby in fifteen, then dinner.” I hold up my phone where I just texted the team group chat tonight’s agenda.

He nods respectfully, climbing up from the bed and even dusting it off. “On it.” But he pauses at the door, glancing over his shoulder, “Think Kipson will come?”

I don’t know.

Kipson and Anderson have had it out since the season opener, with some pushing and shoving in the locker room, but also a lot of harsh words, and I’m not sure whatever friendship—and I’m using the word loosely—they had will ever be repaired.

“Hope so. He’s gotta eat, so there’s a chance.”

Rodney holds up his crossed fingers as he steps into the hall, and I swing the door closed behind him.

With a sigh, I look to the ceiling for divine intervention, telling myself, “Keep at it, Lee.” I’m doing my best to create some camaraderiein this team, but it feels like using a plastic spoon to dig up concrete with how set in their ways these guys are.

I pull on jeans and a button-down and head downstairs, hoping to not have dinner alone. When the elevator doors open, I’m shocked at the gathering waiting there—Rodney, Tomville, Bill, Sabine, Pacholek, Anderson, Kipson, plus several other players. At least half the team is sprawled across the couches and chairs and sitting on the coffee tables and end tables. I scan the group, shocked to my core.

“Hey ... everyone,” I say haltingly.

“Hope you made reservations,” Kipson tells me. Thedumbasson the end is silent, but there all the same in his tone.

Considering I was reasonably sure only a few guys might come, I most definitely did not make reservations. Still, I nod cockily, feigning confidence I don’t have. “Yeah, let’s check out the hotel restaurant.”

Surely they can get us in?

Thankfully, they do, leading us to a table in the out-of-sight back corner since we’re not dressed to fit their jackets-required dress code. The waiter’s face stays perfectly stoic, giving no reaction to having this many large, already too-loud guys at his table.

“Chicken breast, seasonal vegetables, light sauce,” I order. I notice that Rodney, Tomville, and Bill are all listening to me and then repeat the same order, though Tomville requests a double serving of chicken. Afterward, they glance at me and I reward them with a small dip of my chin, acknowledging their good choices.

“They just do whatever you tell them to, don’t they?” Anderson sneers. “Like little puppies on a chain, following the big dog around.”

My face hard and jaw set to stone, I cut cold eyes his way. “Woof. Woof,” I say flatly, letting my voice go low and dark.

The air charges between us and I take the measure from me to him on the other side of the white tablecloth–covered surface. He knows I’m the one who told Kipson what he said about Sofia, and since he has less than zero chances of winning against a brokenhearted beast with nothing to lose like Kipson, Anderson has decided that redirecting hisanger toward the messenger—yours truly—is the next best thing. Only problem with that plan is, he can try to start shit with me, but I’m more than ready to dish it back out to him.

As far as I’m concerned, if Coach is problem number one, setting the tone for the team, Anderson is problem number two, enacting Coach’s missives.

“I’ll have the chicken too,” Pacholek says, holding up a hand to get the waiter’s attention. He’s trying to insert himself and slow this runaway freight train. But this standoff has been coming since that first night at O’Neal’s. It’s not about Kipson. It’s about the whole team.

I’m changing things around here, which means I now hold a power Anderson mistakenly thinks I took from him. Newsflash: He never had real power because he treats this team like a frat, never taking anything seriously until it’s time to hit the ice. His influence has existed in a vacuum, a vacuum that I’m filling. I take it all seriously—practices, games, on the ice, off the ice, and most importantly, every single man sitting around this table.

I send text messages in the group chat, have conversations that go beyond “good game, bro,” and offer some guidance about our beloved sport, especially to the new guys who are acclimating to a whole different level of hockey. And the mere fact that this many teammates showed up tonight speaks to how well it’s working.

Unless they’re here to watch Anderson kick my ass. Admittedly, that’s a possibility too.

The waiter clears his throat and Anderson grunts in annoyance, breaking our staredown to order, “Steak, rare. Fries on the side.” The waiter arches a brow, as much of a tell as he can probably give in fine dining, before disappearing.

The momentary reprieve lets me do a quick check of the table. Most everyone is watching Anderson with wariness, like he’s the loose cannon they’re worried about. I don’t think they would jump to my defense if push came to shove, he’s been here too long for that, but they’re startingto see what I see in our goalie—immaturity, unpredictability, volatility. He’s the poster child for what’s wrong with the Blizzard.

Food ordered, Anderson returns his narrowed eyes to me, glaring angrily. He feels the change, too, both in the team and at the table. Unbothered, I let an evil smirk lift my lips, and give voice to the situation. “Feel that shift? Come over to the dark side, man. We’ve got snacks and braid each other’s hair on Sundays.” I shake my head a bit, letting my hair rise and fall back into place.

Should I poke him this way? Probably not. But it’s so easy and he takes the bait so readily, which only highlights his inability to emotionally regulate better than a toddler.

“You’re supposed to fix Kipson, not fuck the whole team up,” he bites out.

“I don’t need fixing,” Kipson snarls, sounding on the verge of grabbing Anderson by the neck and tossing him to the ground,Mortal Kombatstyle.

Finish him.

There’s a small piece of me that wants Kipson to do it. It would definitely make things easier without Anderson. Might even help Kipson get out of this mental state he’s in. I won’t deny that, but he’s a product of the team’s rotten roots, too, living up to the standards Coach sets. Which means, in theory, I should try to save him too. But maybe I could let Kipson at him first? Nothing serious, a few punches resulting in a little blood, ideally internal, or an unimportant bone break that won’t affect the season, like a couple of toes that could be buddy taped, but would be an annoying reminder with every step?