Management announced today that it had signed legendary goalie Ryker Evans to the team. The Brick is indeed an active legend and at the ripe old age of thirty-one—which is indeed old in this league—he’s still damn good. He has three Stanley Cups under him as well as four Vezina Trophies for being the best goalie in the league.
The sad part is that he’s probably on his way out of the league. Although he’s coming over from the starting position with the Boston Eagles, he won’t be a starter here because our starting goalie, Max Fournier, is killing it right now. No, Ryker will be our backup goalie, which is a sure sign that he’s definitely on his way toward retirement.
Still, he’s a fantastically solid goalie who will add depth to our team as well as maturity, especially since it looks like we’re going to have a great shot at going far in the playoffs. My guess is that Ryker will probably only be with us this season and next, but I’m excited to meet him. I’ve heard nothing but great things about him so far.
“Shit,” I hear Claude Amedee, one of the young defensemen on my line, say with a laugh, “they’ll probably have to replace his goalie stick with a cane.”
The other two guys, Sam Larson and Mikkel Erat, both defensemen on the third line, snicker. Normally, ribbing one another is a part of the camaraderie we all have going, but knocking on a dude’s age in this league is not cool. While thirty-one is pretty damn young by society’s standards, it’s advanced age for a professional athlete. Fuck, I’m almost there at age twenty-seven, and I’m well aware I don’t have many more years left in hockey. The wear and tear on a body ages a person fast. It’s not funny, because we all have that hanging over our heads.
As I walk in, I shoot Claude a chastising look. “Don’t fucking go there, dude.”
Sam and Mikkel immediately stop laughing, but Claude gives me an amused grin. “Come on, Grantham. We’re just fucking around…it’s not like the Brick can hear us.”
“And you’re lucky he can’t,” I say as I walk over to the free weights. “That dude would pound you into the ground.”
Claude loses the grin and gets busy on the leg press.
There is a reason they call him the Brick Wall. The guy is massive for a goalie, topping out at six-six and built almost as wide. He takes up most of the net just by sheer size alone, yet has the flexibility and agility of a fucking thirteen-year-old gymnast. I’ve always enjoyed watching him play and he sure as shit made it hard on me over the years to score goals on him.
“We’re fortunate to get him,” I add on. “He’s going to be a leader on this team, so you need to show him some respect.”
“Got it, man,” Claude grumbles as he pushes against the steel plate with his feet.
Yeah, I remember what it was like to be in Claude’s shoes. I think he’s only nineteen or twenty, but that’s a baby in this sport. You think you know everything and that you’re invincible. I want to shake them and tell them that life is fragile and we can never take anything we have for granted.
It would probably fall on deaf ears, anyway. I know there was a time in my life I didn’t want to hear shit like that, and it wasn’t until I lost what was precious to me that I started to appreciate it all.
—
As I climb the stairs to the second floor of my house, I am immensely grateful to Kate that there is no awkwardness between us because of that kiss four days ago. And that is due solely to her.
When I came down to breakfast the next morning, I expected things to be weird and tense. There’s no doubt in my mind that no matter how fucking good that kiss was, it was absolutely wrong. I had no business crossing that line and confusing Kate with my actions.
But fuck, what a kiss.
It’s been hard to think about anything else since then.
When I met Kate’s eyes the next morning as she sat at the table with Ben, eating breakfast, I tensed and waited for the recrimination from her. Instead I got a bright, cheerful smile and she said, “Good morning, sunshine.”
“Uh…good morning,” I mumbled back to her as I headed toward the coffeepot.
Kate then did what Kate excels at. She started rambling on at a hundred miles an hour about the most inane thing ever…her loathing of beets. I’m not sure if she was talking to me or to Ben, but I submerged myself into the conversation, grateful that she didn’t seem bothered by what happened between us.
Okay, grateful but also a little perturbed that she apparently had dismissed it completely from her mind. It was clearly not as shattering for her as it had been for me.
The one thing that did make me sad, however, was Kate’s hair. She had it pulled back from her face and wrapped it snugly at the back of her head. Once again, Kate had gone into hiding and the message was clear. She didn’t want me looking at any part of her that I found to be beautiful. It made me have an achy feeling in the center of my chest all day.
I reach the top of the staircase and turn right down the hall, heading toward the strains of Limp Bizkit’s “Nookie” coming out of one of the bedrooms. The girl has some good taste in music for sure.
Kate has her back to me when I turn into the doorway. Hair still completely under wraps, although she traded in a baggy sweatshirt for a baggy yellow T-shirt she wears over some old jeans. Her feet are bare, though, and just that peek of some part of her that normally was hidden from sight causes longing to sweep through me.
I shake my head, mentally slap the thought away, and square my shoulders.