Page 4

THREE

Earbuds in, Bellamy sat on the bench press in the workout room inside Sport U Arena, Burlington’s NHL arena—and sometimes concert venue—Coldplay singing about a sky full of stars loud enough to damage his eardrums. The leather seat of the bench was warm under his thighs as he cooled down from his workout and Insta-stalked Ryland Zervudachi.

Ryland’s latest post was a shot of him standing on the ice in full hockey gear under the jumbotron, which read Columbus: 4, Vermont: 3.

Too bad Bellamy Jordan wasn’t in the game so I could beat him in person.

Bellamy rolled his eyes. As if Ryland had single-handedly won the game for his team. Bellamy had watched; Ryland had scored one goal, and it hadn’t even been the game-winning one.

Bellamy hadn’t responded yet, mostly because he’d been stuck on a different post for the past five days.

In it, Jason and Ryland stood side by side, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. It had clearly been taken in the summer, as they both wore shorts and T-shirts. Nobody would mistake them for anything but brothers—they looked a lot alike—and their smiles were identical. But where Ryland’s smile was all cockiness, Jason’s was open and warm.

Perhaps that was why there’d been something familiar in Jason’s smile when Bellamy had seen him at the pub. He was a little embarrassed that he hadn’t recognized him, but it wasn’t like he’d expected to run into his rival’s sibling in the middle of Vermont.

Jason had clearly known who Bellamy was though. So why hadn’t he said anything? Instead, he’d let Bellamy join his little group and throw darts and introduced him to his friends...

Why? To make Bellamy look like an idiot?

He’d certainly felt like one as he’d left the pub and headed back to his grandparents’ house. He’d almost felt included in the twenty minutes he’d hung out with Jason and his friends, and then boom! He’d been hit with a dose of reality that had made it feel as though he were trying to skate on running water.

Did Jason hate Bellamy too, like Ryland did?

Probably. Judging by Ryland’s Instagram, the brothers were close. Jason probably hated him in solidarity.

Lovely. And here Bellamy had tried to flirt with the guy.

He scrolled back up to Ryland’s most recent post and contemplated how to respond. Could he use Jason in some way to get under Ryland’s skin?

Ugh. Just the thought made him feel like a smarmy douche-canoe. His and Ryland’s rivalry had always been about them. They’d never brought another person into it.

Something touched his shoulder and he jumped, startled into dropping his phone.

His team captain said something that looked like sorry , based on Bellamy’s limited lip-reading abilities.

Bellamy ripped his earbuds out.

“Sorry, man,” Kyle Dabbs said, his ginger hair giving the room a shock of color against black floor mats and black-and- stainless-steel equipment. He settled onto the second bench press. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s all good. I lost track of time.” Since sleep had evaded Bellamy, he’d taken himself to the arena for an early morning workout just to do something productive—and get out of his own head. Five days of stewing over Jason’s motivations was quite enough, thanks.

The downside—or upside, depending on how one looked at it—of arriving at four in the morning was that he’d had the space to himself for two hours. The sweat on his body had dried in the few minutes he’d been doom scrolling, and he suppressed a shiver as he cooled.

“Are you usually the first one in here?” he asked Dabbs as he picked up his phone.

“Depends on the day.” Dabbs brought his legs up onto the bench and crossed them underneath him, clearly settling in for a conversation. At six foot four and with the thickest thighs Bellamy had ever seen, he looked like he was balancing on a twig. “Sorry we haven’t given you a proper welcome. And that we left without you.”

“No worries. It gave me a chance to visit my grandparents in Maplewood.”

“No idea where that is, but I’m glad you’ve got family nearby. That makes being traded easier. Is the townhouse you’ve been set up in okay?”

Bellamy narrowed his gaze on his captain. “Why do I get the feeling there’s something else you actually want to talk about?”

Dabbs’ grin was wry. “Straight to the point. I can work with that.” He gave a chin nod at Bellamy’s phone. “Caught a glimpse of what you were looking at. Have you responded yet?”

“To Ryland? No. Why?”

“What if you didn’t?”

“What if I didn’t... respond?” Was Dabbs suggesting he let Ryland get the last word?

Dabbs leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Look, can I be real here? You weren’t Ramsey and Madolora’s first choice.”

Bellamy reared back, hurt constricting his lungs until it was difficult to breathe. The general manager and head coach hadn’t wanted him?

“I don’t say that to make you feel bad,” Dabbs went on quickly, no doubt accurately reading the pain on Bellamy’s face. “The only reason they were leery despite your record was because you’ve been traded so many times. They weren’t sure you’d fit in here. But I told them you would fit in here because you’ve been traded so many times. You’re just looking for somewhere to finally hang your hat, and why not hang it here?” Dabbs shrugged. “I’ve been you, bouncing from team to team. I know what it’s like to want one place to settle into. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the Trailblazers don’t actually trade their players all that often.”

Bellamy hadn’t noticed, but he didn’t know the goings-on of every team in the league.

“You can thank our director of player engagement for that,” Dabbs said with a small laugh. “Roman’s obsessed with making sure everyone wants to be here. He believes motivated players train harder and work through difficulties better, making them therefore more committed, but only if they form bonds with their teammates. But they can’t form those bonds if their teammates are only here for a few months.” He laughed again. “Honestly, I think the man is building himself a mini family. Or a massive family, I guess.”

“Okay,” Bellamy said, struggling to take it all in. “But what does this have to do with Ryland?”

“Your rivalry tends to lead to fights on the ice, and since neither of you are enforcers, it looks bad for the team. I want you to stay, okay? I think we can do great things with you here.” Dabbs rose to his full height, towering over Bellamy where he still sat on the bench press. He clapped one large hand on Bellamy’s shoulder. “Do yourself a favor and put the rivalry to bed.” Dabbs chuckled when Bellamy grimaced. “Consider this—you look like the bigger person if you don’t stoop to Zervudachi’s level.”

He walked away, pausing at the refill station to fill his water bottle.

And leaving Bellamy with a lot to think about.

I think we can do great things with you here, Dabbs had said, and Bellamy tried not to let those words get to his head as he got ready for his first game as a Trailblazer.

“Gather ’round, everyone, I’m taking bets!” Sean Gaffney stood in the middle of the locker room, right over the Trailblazers logo on the carpet, and brandished a notepad. “How many times do we think CC is going to cry tonight?”

“Fuck you sideways,” Colter “CC” Clarke said, laughing. He gave Gaff a shove as he walked by him, making the bag of chips tucked between his ribs and elbow crinkle.

“Aw, don’t tease him.” Michael Hughes slung a beefy arm around CC’s shoulders. “Our CC’s a sensitive soul.”

“Belster!” Gaff shouted, making Bellamy jump. “You’re the new guy, so you’re up first. How many times?”

“Uh...” Bellamy looked around the room, hoping for some kind of explanation from any of his half-dressed teammates. Since most of them had gone back to their own conversations or to their pre-game rituals, none would be forthcoming. “What is he crying about, exactly?”

“What isn’t he crying about is the better question,” said someone that Bellamy couldn’t see around Hughes’ gigantic body.

“Our first goal,” Gaff said.

“Every subsequent goal,” Hughes added.

“Getting sent into the boards.”

“Every time he falls.”

“Every time the other team scores.”

CC shrugged off Hughes’ arm with a mock scowl. He jabbed a finger first at Gaff, then Hughes. “You’re both assholes.”

Unrepentant, Gaff hovered his pen over his notepad. “So? Bel?”

There was probably no correct answer to this, but Bellamy tried anyway. “Um. Zero?”

CC grinned at him. “You, sir, are my new best friend. Here. Have some chips.”

“Hey.” Hughes pouted. “You usually share your chips with me.”

CC popped a chip in his mouth and chewed loudly. “Go on,” he said to Hughes. “Make your bet.”

Scratching at the scruff on his chin, Hughes frowned in concentration, bushy eyebrows pulling together, and gave CC an up-and-down inspection. “At least four.”

“And that’s why Bel gets to share my chips.” CC held the bag out toward Bellamy while Gaff went around the room with his notepad. “Go ahead. They’re ketchup chips. A Canadian classic.”

“Ketchup are my favorite,” Hughes said, sounding like a big baby.

Swallowing a laugh, Bellamy took a handful of chips from the bag. “Thanks.”

“Want to come over later, new bestie? We can braid each other’s hair.”

The proverbial record scratch sounded in Bellamy’s head. He didn’t even know how to make a braid. He started to tell CC exactly that, only to notice the gleam in CC’s eyes. Bellamy looked from CC to Hughes and back. “Can we have a pajama party too?”

CC made a sound in the back of his throat. “Obviously. Hughes isn’t invited.”

“You’re a riot, CC,” Hughes deadpanned. “We both know I’m the life of the pajama party.”

“Ignore them,” Dabbs said from Bellamy’s left as CC and Hughes continued to playfully snipe at each other. Sitting in front of his cubby, Dabbs looked up from tying his skates. “Most of us do. They have the combined maturity of a ten-year-old, so they’re well-suited to each other.” Before Bellamy could reply, Dabbs continued. “How are you feeling about this game?”

“Fine.” Bellamy crunched on a ketchup chip and frowned at the remaining ones in his hand, unsure if he liked them or not. “I wish I’d gotten more practices in with the team first, though.”

“The reality of being traded, huh?”

“You can say that again.” Bellamy stared at his last chip, then waggled it at CC. “I’m not sure I like these.”

CC nodded sagely. “They’re an acquired taste.”

“Not sure my tastebuds want to acquire this taste.”

“Give it time,” CC said, patting Bellamy’s head like a parent soothing a child. “I’ll bet you fifty bucks they’ll be your favorite flavor by the end of the season.”

“Does everybody bet on everything on this team?”

Gaff scoffed. “Obviously.”

Coach Madolora came into the room, flanked by one of his assistant coaches and the team’s skills coach. Madolora was big and imposing, with a receding hairline and a skinny mustache. Wearing a tailored pinstriped suit, he looked like an organized crime boss.

If Burlington had organized crime.

Hell, maybe it did. What did Bellamy know?

Despite his Godfather -like appearance, Madolora had greeted Bellamy with a smile when he’d first arrived in Burlington, and he’d given Bellamy a personalized tour of the organization’s head office and the Sport U Arena.

“I’m reluctant to shake up our usual line combinations,” Coach had said earlier today as they’d sat in his office after the arena tour. “They’ve worked for us so far, and the chemistry of my guys on the top two lines can’t be matched by any other team.”

Bellamy had been on enough teams to know what on-ice chemistry looked like, and although the guys on the Trailblazers’ first and second lines gelled so smoothly they hardly needed any direction, Bellamy wouldn’t bet on that “can’t be matched by any other team” part. Owen Cotton, Billy Honeybun, and Sandro Zanetti—veteran players who’d been with the Trailblazers since the team’s inception—kicked ass on the first line, but the league was full of spectacular players.

“I’m going to put you on the third line tonight,” Coach continued. “But I might shake things up mid-game, depending on how it goes.”

“I’ll go wherever you want me, Coach.”

Besides, the third line was Bellamy’s bread and butter.

Now here he was, walking down the chute in his new green, white, and red Trailblazers uniform for the pre-game warm-up.

Dabbs tapped his stick against Bellamy’s, his grin halfway feral. “Kick some ass tonight, Bel.”

Bellamy grinned back, the familiar surge of adrenaline that hit at the start of every game making his blood swim. There was nothing quite like stepping onto the ice to the cheers of thousands of fans.

They were playing Boston tonight, and given its proximity to Burlington, the stands were filled with a mix of Trailblazers and Boston jerseys. It was nearly half and half, if Bellamy had to guess. He supposed it’d be the same when they played Montreal next week.

The game itself was more or less like other games Bellamy had played, except for the fans. He’d met some intense fans before, but Trailblazers fans were a step above. Everyone had signs, and everyone was obsessed with Dabbs.

Dabbs, care to “dab” your lips on my face? one sign read.

“Hey, Mr. Popular.” Bellamy nudged Dabbs in the ribs as they sat on the bench between shifts during the third period. “You’ve got an admirer. Several, actually.”

“Yeah.” Dabbs winced, a flush spreading over his cheeks. “I don’t get it.”

“I do. You’re a tall hot ginger who knows how to handle a puck. What’s there not to get?”

Gaff leaned forward from Dabbs’ other side. “Don’t tell me you’re crushing on our favorite captain too.”

“Like I said.” Bellamy shrugged and pumped his eyebrows. “He’s a tall hot ginger who knows how to handle a puck.”

Dabbs’ shoulders hunched. “Shut up, both of you.”

“I’m kidding,” Bellamy said, bumping their shoulders. He hadn’t meant to embarrass the guy. “You’re not my type.”

“What is your type?” Gaff asked.

Bellamy thought of Jason and grimaced. “Men who like to toy with me, apparently.”

“You could toy back.”

“Meh. Not my style.”

“You guys know we have a game to win, right?” Dabbs said. “Maybe save the chit-chat for later?”

Gaff gave a mock salute. “Sure thing, captain.”

On most hockey teams Bellamy had played for, the third line was made up of forwards who were more defensive. Bellamy wasn’t a defensive forward, but he could sure as hell make a pest of himself for the sixty seconds or less he was on the ice for his shifts, playing hard to tire out the opposing team’s players. The Trailblazers were up by one, and when he hopped off the bench for his next shift, it was to Coach Madolora’s, “Don’t let them score.”

So he didn’t. He stole the puck when he could, got in everyone’s way, and generally made it impossible for Boston to complete a perfect pass.

When he sat back down forty-five seconds later, sweat dripping down the back of his neck, Coach gave him a nod of approval.

That nod stayed with him after the game, mixing with the high of winning until he felt buoyant enough to float into the air. That happiness bubble threatened to pop though, when he returned to the dressing room after his shower and began changing into his suit. The team’s victory song—“A Bar Song (Tipsy)” by Shaboozey—played on repeat over the speakers, and Bellamy’s teammates gave each other shit loud enough to be heard two hallways over.

And Bellamy felt one step removed from it all, like the outsider he was. He was good at making friends—being traded from team to team meant he had to be if he didn’t want to spend his time there lonely as hell—and he already had a good rapport with Dabbs, CC, Hughes, and Gaff. He could insert himself into their conversation and be welcome, but he found he didn’t have the energy for it. Not right now.

Interestingly, he hadn’t felt like an outsider in the few minutes he’d played darts with Jason and his friends. And he couldn’t explain why.

“Earth to the Belster,” Gaff said. “You with us or what?”

“Huh?” Bellamy finished tucking his shirt into his pants and looked over. “Sorry, what?”

“You coming to the pub with us?”

Bellamy should want to. The answer to fitting in was right here—a direct invitation to join the group. But all he wanted was to soak in the jacuzzi bathtub that came with the townhouse the organization had temporarily set him up in, and then he wanted nine hours of sleep. Actually, first he wanted to say hi to his grandparents before they headed back to Maplewood—he’d given them his comp seats for tonight’s game—and then he wanted a bath and a bed. But with four pairs of expectant eyes looking at him, Bellamy said, “Sure. Give me ten minutes,” and headed out to find his grandparents to the tune of Hughes and CC debating who was going to be designated driver.