The Play (Briar U, #3)(15)

I don’t know what happened to Eastwood’s defense, but the D-men didn’t show up to play tonight. Kriska is all alone in the net batting off pucks like Neo dodging bullets in The Matrix. Any time a Briar player gets a breakaway, the goalie’s face turns snow white behind his mask, because he knows he’s in trouble. The Eastwood D-men are either scrambling to keep up with us, or tangled up in the corners providing endless rebound opportunities for Briar.

Our fans scream their approval. This is a home game, so our school colors, black and silver, make up a massive expanse of the stands. Damn, it feels good to be back, to be breathing the crisp air in the arena. The chill tickling the back of my neck only heightens the adrenaline coursing in my blood.

I’m on the bench. Two minutes left in the third period, but there’s no way Eastwood is scoring five goals in two minutes. I glance over. Con’s beside me. We’re on the same line this year, along with Matt, and the three of us are a forced to be reckoned with. This line is going to take us all the way to the finals.

“Je-sus, that was a crazy crosscheck,” I praise him.

We’re both out of breath. Our last shift was a penalty kill, during which Conor landed a bone-jarring hit on an Eastwood forward.

“Dude, my ears are still ringing from it.” His grin gives off a toothy, wolfish vibe thanks to the mouth guard half dangling from his mouth.

“We needed you last season,” I admit. “We didn’t have a lot of goons.” Meanwhile, our biggest rival Harvard had the goon of all goons, Brooks Weston.

But Conor only transferred this year from a college on the West Coast. He’s a California boy, with his surfer hair and laidback attitude. Yet there’s nothing laidback about him when he’s smashing other dudes into the boards.

Coach keeps us on the bench as the clock ticks down, letting our third and fourth lines enjoy the action. We’re in no danger of losing the game, and the extra ice time helps to develop them as players. The boys manage to hold Eastwood, and our first game ends in a shutout.

Everyone’s in a celebratory mood as we file into the locker room to shower and change. Arrangements are made to go to Malone’s, the bar in Hastings where the hockey crowd usually gathers.

“You in?” I ask Bucky.

“Yeah. Just gimme a couple minutes. Gotta make sure Pablo gets his dinner.”

I choke back laughter.

On the top shelf of Bucky’s locker, the team mascot is tucked away in its brand new coral-pink drink cozy. With the utmost care, Bucky reaches for Pablo Eggscobar.

Jesse, who’s wandering by in a towel, spots the egg in Bucky’s hand. “What the hell, man! Can’t you see Pablo’s hungry?”

“Feed me,” a singsong voice drifts from across the room, courtesy of Velky, our international student from Sweden.

In the day and a half since Pablo joined us, things have taken an evil turn. A few of the guys decided to be dicks about it and fuck with Bucky, texting him at random times throughout the day and night from the egg’s point of view. Usually in all caps. Messages along the lines of: FEED ME! PET ME! LET ME OUT TO TAKE A DUMP!

However, like my friend Mike Hollis, Bucky is rubber and we’re glue, and nothing anyone says or does ever bothers him. The fucker decided that sticking to a care schedule actually makes sense. Then he discussed it with Coach, and now we’re all sworn by the honor system to treat Pablo like a real pig. Reasoning being that if we don’t, then any time he’s in our custody we’d toss him in a drawer and forget about him.

Bucky’s the only one treating it seriously. The rest of us are just excited to mess with each other.

“Here, Pablo, eat your dinner,” Bucky tells the egg.

The egg says nothing because it’s a goddamn egg.

“I feel like I’ve traveled back in time to pre-school,” Matt remarks. He shakes his head. “I’m not pandering to an egg, dude.”

“Aw, well, that’s too bad,” Bucky answers smugly. “’Cause tonight’s your turn with him.”

“No, it’s not. It’s Conor’s,” Matty protests.

“Nope. Refer to the schedule.” Bucky did a random draw this morning to determine who has custody of the egg and when. My turn is next week.

“This is fucking balls.” Matt grabs the plush egg container from Bucky. “Swear to God, I’mma get wasted tonight and eat this motherfuckin’ thing.”

I’m chuckling as I leave the locker room, with Matt and Bucky in tow. Conor and the others are already gone. We meet up with them again at Malone’s, my favorite place in town. Mostly due to its roomy booths, cheap beer, and sports memorabilia all over the walls, which at the moment are shaking from the classic rock song blasting through the bar.

Matt says something, but the loud chatter and blaring music drowns him out. He switches to sign language, nodding toward the bar and making a drinking motion with his hand, signaling he’s going over there to order.

My gaze gives the main room a quick sweep, but doesn’t land on anyone familiar. I weave through the crowd toward the arched doorway to the adjoining room, which houses the pool tables and some more booths along the wall. I spot a blonde head and then a brunette one. The Betty and Veronica of Briar University.

“There’s Brenna and Summer in the middle booth.” I raise my voice so Bucky can hear me.