Page 40

KAYDEN

I needed advice, and no way would I go to Ryan Detenbeck.

He was about as clever as a sack full of doorknobs anyway.

Braxton Wilson was a hockey player, obviously, but I was as sure as I could be that he had more brain cells than Ryan Detenbeck, so I caught up with him after practice.

I asked him if he wanted to grab a beer at the campus pub, and he paused at first but changed his tune instantly when I said it was on me.

When we plopped down on our stools, he said, “Hey, Kayden, is this like a farewell beer or something?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean when you get drafted and you’re driving a sports car while getting a blow job from a hot model, you’re not gonna have time for bums like me.”

“Come on, Braxton, I’ve always had time for bums like you.”

He smiled widely like the joke had sailed right over his head. I might have to take back that comment about him having more brain cells than Ryan. Still, Braxton might have more insight in this case.

“But it’s gonna be huge,” he said. “It’s not often anyone gets drafted from a rinky-dink school like this.”

“I know, but this Larkin Lions team is no average squad.”

And I’m no average hockey player, I wanted to say. Even I knew how arrogant that would’ve sounded—even if it was one hundred percent true—so I didn’t say it.

“You don’t look happy about it,” he said.

“I don’t?”

“I’m not saying you’re sitting there with a perma-frown, but someone like you should be happier about the potential for getting drafted.”

“Because my time has finally come?”

“No, because you’re the cockiest hockey player I’ve ever met. You should be jumping up and down, rubbing it in everyone’s faces, but you’ve been subdued. You’ve almost been modest.”

“Do I really do all that stuff?”

He didn’t answer, but his eyes never left me. Sometimes the stuff you don’t say speaks louder than the things you do.

Then Braxton said, “All I know is if the Toronto Maple Leafs came knocking, I’d be so happy I’d shit my pants.”

“If only it stopped there.”

That only widened my teammates’ smile. For the first time ever, I didn’t want to talk about myself. I actually had another subject to discuss.

“Hey, what do you think the odds are of Erik De Ruiter getting drafted?” I asked. “Like, honestly. You can tell me.”

“What, would your feelings be hurt if I gave you the wrong answer?”

“No way, dude. Just asking an honest question.”

“I mean I think he has a shot at it. Maybe.”

“But not absolutely?”

“Dude, what the hell do I know? I’m not a scout.”

He raised his hands in surrender, but the wide smile remained. Only then did I realize I might’ve come on a little strong with my question. Obviously, he hadn’t given the topic much thought. That made sense. Why would he even care?

“Sorry,” I said, “I was just wondering.”

“Just wondering, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Did something happen?”

I paused and scrambled for a decent answer. It was stupid to think even a lackwit like Braxton Wilson wouldn’t see through me, so I gave up.

“Since you asked, I think seeing me draw so much interest from the Leafs had set him on edge. It has lit a fire under him, but not in a good way, if that makes sense.”

“Like, it’s made him insecure?”

“Yeah, that’s the word!”

“But he’s a great hockey player too. Why the hell should he feel insecure?”

“I dunno. Maybe it’s because, on the Larkin Lions, we’re co-captains. We’ve basically been equals, even when we’ve butted heads. And now…”

“And now that a scout has come along and shown you what’s really possible—and not giving Erik the time of day—you’re worried he’s jealous.”

I know for a fact he’s jealous , I wanted to say.

And, for that matter, it’s been a hell of a lot more than us being co-captains.

It’s about the fact that we’ve known one another like no other guy has before.

It’s about the number of times we’d woken up naked together.

It’s about the feelings we’d never experienced for another guy before.

It’s about the future we could have but couldn’t plan for because of our hopes and dreams…

and the fact that I can’t come out of the closet if my life depended on it.

If I could’ve trusted Braxton to handle it, I might’ve told him the truth. Okay, not the whole truth, but enough to create a strong suggestion.

“I guess you could say that,” I said. “I’m just worried that it could hurt the team. You know, us being co-captains and all.”

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

“What, seriously?”

“Kayden, come on, you guys were at each other’s throats. We even had to physically separate you two one time. And guess what: It didn’t hurt the team.”

That was because we’d also been down each other’s throats, but I definitely couldn’t tell him that. Also, that had been before the regular season began, not in the playoffs.

“Let me ask you something,” I said. “What was it like being the son of an NHL player?”

“You’re actually asking me that?”

“Yeah, don’t act all surprised. I know how booboo-faced you get when no one asks you about your pop.”

Only that comment could’ve put a dent in the guy’s perma-smile.

Braxton told anyone who would listen about how his dad had been drafted by the Montreal Canadiens before he’d been born but never actually played for the team because of a trade.

His dad owned a Stanley Cup ring from playing as a backup for the Dallas Stars.

Braxton had grown up in Texas and had plenty to say about the life of a hockey player’s family—usually just the good parts, of course.

I just hated the way he always flaunted it like no one else on the planet’s dad had played in the NHL.

“You’ve got to be willing to pick up and move at a moment’s notice,” he said. “And my mom knew that before I did.”

“Right, right, he was drafted by Montreal before you were born.”

“Yeah, I’ve told you that a hundred times.”

“You’re telling me.”

He half-smiled, saying, “I thought you wanted to hear this story.”

“I do.”

“Then shut up and let me finish, huh?”

Braxton didn’t sound irritated—mostly joking, actually—but it was enough to shut me up.

“Dad was never home,” he said. “It didn’t matter if the team was in town or on the road. The few years he played with Columbus was the worst. We were back in Texas, so I saw more of him on TV than I ever did at home.”

“So, what did your mom do?”

“She divorced him.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Not right away. I was just little when she first started getting fed up. She just stuck it out for the longest time because she didn’t want me to get caught up in a divorce.”

“You didn’t tell me any of this stuff.”

“It didn’t come up.”

I rolled my eyes and nearly pounded a fist on the table. Because I didn’t need others noticing, I cooled my jets. Before we go on, I want to point out that if Braxton could’ve mentioned every other possible thing about his dad’s career, he could’ve mentioned that stuff, too.

“It was actually toward the end of his career, too,” he said. “Like, she’d gotten over the hump, and weathered the hardest parts, but she couldn’t stay in that kind of life forever. She needed someone who could stay home, have a regular job, and be a dad.”

“So, she dropped your dad completely because of his hockey schedule?”

“The schedule was a huge strain on our family, yeah, but the lifestyle sure as shit didn’t help.”

I didn’t want to know what “the lifestyle” meant. Sure, it might’ve just meant that he was always either on the road or his commitment to the team kept him constantly occupied even when at home. Family time would’ve taken too much of a backseat.

On the other hand, it could also have signaled that his dad had succumbed to temptation. It must’ve been harder than hell to be around beautiful women all the time, especially as a hockey player, and not jump on any of the opportunities before him.

But I didn’t want women. I didn’t want any other guys either. I just wanted Erik De Ruiter. I wanted things to be the way they’d always been for us—only while basking in the glory of being the greatest NHL player that’s ever lived. But I couldn’t tell Braxton that because he would never get it.

“So, what the hell does a guy do?” I asked.

“You don’t have to worry about anything,” he said. “Not yet anyway. You’re single.”

That comment struck me like a gut punch. Maybe I should’ve felt relieved that he’d mentioned that. It pointed to him not knowing about us. On the other hand, his vagueness bothered me.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Think about it. If you’re single now, you should stay that way, bro. Get married after your career is over. Enjoy all the tits and ass you can get your hands on as a pro hockey player now. You can save yourself a shitload of pain and heartache that way.”

I stopped to think about that. He wasn’t wrong, but I didn’t want him to be right.

“Come ooooon,” my teammate said. “I know that look. But think about it. You don’t have to be tied down to anyone.

It’s the perfect excuse to play the field for as long as possible.

When beautiful women throw themselves at you—and they will—you won’t have a nagging wife at home to accuse you of cheating on her. ”

Braxton sounded so much like a used car salesman when he said it that I couldn’t help laughing a little. I had to get back to my original topic, though.

“I guess I would just feel bad,” I said. “You know, leaving De Ruiter behind and all.”

“Why would you worry about De Ruiter? You in love with him or something?”

Beer sprayed out of my mouth, all over him. He pulled back and stared down at his chest. Then I wiped my mouth with my forearm and passed some napkins to my teammate, for what good it would do.

“Holy shit, dude,” he said. “Say it, don’t spray it, huh?”

“It’s not what you think,” I said. “Can’t a guy care about his teammates?”

“Yeah, sure, you can care about them, but draw the line somewhere. You’ve got to admit he’s a big boy, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Just about kicked your ass one time, right?”

“In your dreams.”

“But he’s got to fend for himself sometime, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Then that settles it.”

Only I knew it didn’t really settle anything.

Sure, you practically had to draw Braxton Wilson a picture, but he’d caught on about Erik and me eventually.

He might’ve been joking, but he’d drawn far too close to the truth for comfort.

But that wasn’t the point. If even a moron like him could be right about a hockey player’s life, maybe Erik and I really would be screwed.