Page 5

Chapter

Five

André

This was their rink. Their damn house. And yet, here they were, tied three to three in the third period against Mills Hoodie, a team that had no business hanging with them this long.

André dug his blade into the ice, heart hammering with every rattle of the boards. This was when hockey got good. When the game stopped being about systems and started being about who wanted it more.

The Snowballs were on the kill, twenty seconds left on a bullshit hooking penalty against Ryan Vargo. Mills Hoodie had their top unit out, their big defenceman quarterbacking from the point, waiting for an opening.

Sean anchored the PK like a brick wall, stick active, eyes locked in. Mike was with him, covering the low slot, ready to eat a shot if he had to. Country and André were up front, running the chaos.

The puck cycled back to the point with a bad bounce, and that was all Country needed. He read it like he was sniffing out a storm. Country jumped the lane, chipped the puck past their D-man, and suddenly, they were flying up the ice—two-on-one, short-handed.

The crowd exploded. André caught up fast, the rush unfolding perfectly. Country had the puck, dragging the defender toward him, waiting, waiting?—

Then he flipped a saucer pass over the guy’s stick. It rolled head over tits to the top of the net, but André caught it on the tape and flicked it back. Their goalie snatched at it with his glove, but it ricocheted. He dropped and lunged right, Country flicked left.

The red light flashed, and the crowd roared. André collided with Country against the boards, grunting when Mike and Sean joined the huddle.

They skated back to the bench, Country pumping his fist. Up one. Now they only had to lock it down.

They played out the next ten, but with five minutes left, Mills Hoodie was getting desperate. Their forecheck had gone full kamikaze, throwing everything at the net. Boyd was blocking faster than a twenty-two-year-old blonde on Hinge. Brett chirped a guy in front of the net, cross-checking him lower than the refs could see.

André loved this shit.

Finally, Mills Hoodie pulled their goalie, and in the chaos, he poked the puck free. Tyler grabbed it. No hesitation—he launched it from just past their own blue line.

The puck glided in slow-motion perfection. Dead centre.

Five to three. Game. Over.

The buzzer sounded, and the benches emptied onto the ice. They smacked backs and rapped their sticks against each other’s shin pads as they rushed Boyd.

Electricity flooded André’s veins. He turned toward Country, who was laughing as he shoved his helmet back, sweat dripping down his face.

“Shit, Maddox,” André panted. “You ate your Wheaties this morning.”

Country grinned. “Farm fresh eggs, bud. I’ll get you some.”

“Don’t announce it or you’ll trigger a tariff.” Ryan slapped his back as he glided past.

“Don’t ruin my good mood!” André called back. On the ice they didn’t have to think about real life, and he wanted to keep it that way.

As they skated off, the high started to wear off, the adrenaline settling into a low buzz. They poured into the locker room and stripped off their gear. Boyd stopped mid-change to pound on the walls, adding percussion to Country’s victory chant.

André grabbed his towel, but when someone started playing Thunderstruck over a Bluetooth speaker, he couldn’t help himself. He climbed up onto one of the benches on his way to the showers, slung his towel over his shoulder and free-balled it in an air guitar solo.

Curtis groaned from across the room, pulling his jersey over his head. “Hell, Leclerc, can we go one game without seeing your dick?”

André lunged deeper. “Don’t be jealous, Curt. Your balls will drop sooner than you think.”

Tyler laughed as he toweled off his hair. “Someone film this and send it to Grace.”

André straightened and gave his best “The David” pose. “Just wait a second. It needs to get?—”

Country snapped his ass with a towel. “Take your own boudoirs. Or hire Polk. I hear he gets great angles.”

“You would know.” André laughed as he stalked to the showers. He waited for the water to heat, then stepped in and threw his head under the stream. Grace. He’d thought about her non-stop since the night before. He hadn’t meant to rile her up as well as he had, but everything he did seemed to rub her the wrong way.

That scratched an itch. Maybe he was a glutton for punishment, but he’d never been interested in the girls who wanted him. He liked the chase. The challenge. And as much as Grace pushed back, she’d gotten into her car wearing his coat and hadn’t even noticed.

She might’ve been cold.

Or she might’ve liked it.

He was going with the latter. “Tyler, can I get Grace’s number?” he yelled.

“Hard pass,” Tyler called back from the locker room.

“She took something of mine. I need to get it back!”

“Hate to tell you, but you can’t ever get your virginity back, bud!” Ryan shouted.

André grinned. He soaped up and rinsed, then towelled off and strode back into the locker area to change.

Tyler slung his bag over his shoulder. “You walked with Grace to her car after the game?”

André nodded, the metal door creaking as he pulled open his locker.

“You better not have done anything Jenna’s going to find out about.” Country shoved his arms into a cotton pullover.

“Nope. Perfect gentleman.”

“That’s what worries me,” Country muttered.

André pulled on his boxer briefs. “Grace doesn’t know what she wants.”

Brett laughed. “So you’re going to show her?”

“She needs to loosen up.” André straightened his jeans and stepped in. “She’s here for another couple of months. Jenna should be grateful, she’s been worried about her holing up in her condo?—”

Country snorted. “Jenna made one comment.”

“And I listened. I’m a sensitive, thoughtful, altruistic?—”

“Panty chaser.” Tyler shook his head as he walked past them to the door.

“And you can talk?!” André gave him an incredulous look. “You’re with Emma now, and suddenly you’re a saint?”

Brett grinned. “That’s what love does, bud. The whole world you knew tips on its head. It’s the death of the old self.”

“Ah, thank you, Dr. Jung. I’m so glad you stopped by to enlighten me.”

Tyler shrugged and ran his fingers through his damp hair. “I get it. I didn’t think I’d ever settle down. But when it’s right . . . I didn’t know what I was missing.”

André pulled his shirt over his head, then opened his bag and started shoving in his gear. Over the last two years, he’d watched half his teammates drop roots. If he was being honest, he resented it a little. Their celly’s after wins looked different now. Especially since Country and Jenna got married and adopted Hope. He was happy for them, but he missed their nights at The Dusty Rose. He missed his wingmen.

“If this is an intervention, I’m going to need beer and a recliner.” He zipped up his bag.

Country leaned against the lockers. “If you want Grace’s number, you’re going to have to come up with some reason to get it. One I can justify to Jenna.”

André chewed on this. “What if I get her to sign up for the charity game?”

Country shook his head. “She shot that down already.”

“Maybe she didn’t have enough information.”

_____

By the time André pulled up to the curb, the post-game high was wearing off, replaced by the usual ache settling into his muscles. He dragged his bag from the backseat of the truck and walked up the steps to the house, let himself in through the front door, then dropped his hockey bag near the front closet. He unzipped it and hung up his gear to air out. The skates went on the rack, and his game jersey went straight into the washer with the rest of his stuff.

His eyes flicked out the window to the detached garage that he’d turned into a workshop. Housing prices in Calgary were brutal, but this place had been worth every penny. Having a heated space to work had doubled his productivity in the winter.

He wandered into the kitchen and sat down at the counter to check his messages.

J. Mitchell

Did you get a chance to adjust the hinge layout? Need to confirm before we finalize the post dimensions.

André rubbed a hand over his jaw. He needed to finish that custom gate by Monday, and he’d left Sunday wide open besides Sunday supper to do it. He sent a quick text back, promising measurements and pictures by the next night.

He set his phone on the counter, circled the island, and pulled chicken out of the fridge. He heated a pan with olive oil on the stove, seasoned the chicken, then tossed the chopped veggies he’d prepped that morning—sweet potatoes, zucchini, and red peppers—onto a tray with a drizzle of oil. He slid it into the oven and cooked the chicken. He plated everything and walked to the living room, then pulled out his phone, dialed, and propped it up on the coffee table.

The screen flashed, then connected.

“Tiens, le voilà!” Luc’s voice boomed through the speaker, and the knot in André ’s chest immediately loosened.

His older brother was propped up on the couch in his apartment back in Montreal, wearing a hoodie way too big for him, his dark curls a mess.

“You eating?” Luc eyed André’s plate like he could smell it through the screen.

André smirked, holding it up. “Real food, no takeout.”

Luc whistled. “Damn. What’s the occasion?”

André shrugged, shoving a bite of chicken into his mouth. “Don’t need one. Just fueling a masterpiece.”

Luc laughed. “A Picasso, maybe.”

André gave him a cheesy grin, then took another bite. “You go to therapy today?”

Luc’s eyes dropped. “I slept in. Had a bad headache.”

There was nothing he could say to that. All of the therapies he’d encouraged Luc to sign up for were experimental. They didn’t have enough data to prove that they worked, and both of them knew it. He couldn’t blame him for being unmotivated.

“How’s work?” André asked.

Another shrug. “I missed a few days last week. I should go in tomorrow, but now I think they’re mad?—”

“They’re not mad.” He didn’t know if that was fully true, but he did know they wouldn’t fire him. Legally, they had to work with him because of his disability status.

André stabbed his chicken hard enough to scratch the plate. It had been years, but the anger still lived in him, simmering under the surface. One bad hit. That’s all it took. One blindside, one reckless charge into the boards when Luc was playing Juniors, and just like that, his career was gone.

Worse than that? So was a part of him. The migraines never stopped. Neither did the memory problems or depression.

André hated it. Hated how unfair it was. Hated how Luc, his big brother and hero, had been robbed of everything he’d worked for.

But he’d become an expert at hiding that over the years. Tonight was no different. André smirked, pushing away the heaviness in his chest. “Don’t tell me you’ve gotten soft. You’re not scared of a boss, are you?”

Luc snorted. “I’m not scared of my boss.”

André grinned. “Then get your ass to work in the morning.”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

André filled his fork with roasted veggies. “Mom and Dad come by this week?”

Luc nodded. “Mom did. Dad was on a work trip.”

André had to work hard not to scoff. It was always a work trip. At some point, he’d have to get more creative with his excuses. “Did she look good?”

“She brought me cookies.”

“You little bastard, you didn’t send me any?”

Luc laughed, dragging a hand through his curls. They bantered back and forth for a few minutes more, and when Luc ended the call, André sat in silence, staring at his empty plate. He hated that he couldn’t do more. That he couldn’t fix this.

He was running a charity game and doing all he could to raise money for Heads Up Alberta, but that seemed like it was too little too late.

André took his plate into the kitchen, that old guilt niggling at him. He should be there. He should bring Luc here, let him stay in the guest room. He’d chased both of those arguments round and round like a dog chasing his tail, forgetting every time why neither option would work.

He turned on the faucet, and the water ran warm over his hands. He rinsed and scrubbed the sheet pan, then moved on to the other dishes. He worked until the only evidence of his dinner was neatly stacked in the drying rack. He liked clean counters, an empty sink, and everything in its place. It made his head feel less cluttered—or at least, that was the theory.

He wiped down the stove, slung the dish towel over the oven handle, and stretched, rolling his shoulders. The game left his body aching in the best way. Not sore, not tired—just deep, bone-level satisfaction.

He stalked into his room and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it into the laundry hamper in the closet. His socks and jeans followed, leaving him in just his boxers as he brushed his teeth. He then dropped onto the edge of the bed, reaching for his phone on the nightstand.

The screen's glow lit up the room, the only illumination now that the kitchen lights were off, the city outside muted behind closed curtains. He scrolled out of habit, then flipped over to his calendar, thumb hovering over the screen.

Sunday supper at the Thompsons. Monday, ten a.m. training session. Optional, not a full team practice, but one he planned to attend. Tuesday, poker night at Country’s. Then Wednesday he had a meeting with Heads Up Alberta to hammer out a few logistics.

He stared at the calendar entry, the wheels in his head spinning. They didn’t need a lawyer present, but it sure as hell wouldn’t be a bad thing. Maybe Grace didn’t want to be involved in the entire process, but would she consider coming along as a consultant? A one-time advisory favour?

André exhaled, flipping his phone over in his hand. He swiped to his messages and pulled up Jenna’s number. Couldn’t hurt to ask.