Page 21 of Sin Bin (BU Hockey Season 2, #1)

Ollie

“ W e had to fuckin’ dress up for this?” Mickey asks, indignation woven into every word. “No one told me we had to dress up for this.”

From my vantage point in the kitchen, I can see him standing in the entryway of the house.

Mickey’s got three looks: a game day suit, gray joggers and a Wolves t-shirt, and buck-ass naked.

He went with option two tonight, and I think it was a good call.

He’s not ready for the runway, but he looks like half the population of Bainbridge U right now, including me.

“You look great, Mick,” JT says. “There’s no dress code. It’s just dinner.”

“Then why is he wearing a button down?” Mickey asks, pointing at Blue.

“Because it’s a fucking team dinner, not the goddamn dining hall,” Wagner says, taking a seat next to his bestie.

They’re even dressed alike in slacks and collared shirts.

They look good, even if it pains me to admit it.

He’s wrong on one count, though. It’s not technically a team dinner.

I figured we’d start start out with the guys who live in the house, and if this dinner doesn’t turn into a total bloodbath, I’ll invite the rest of the team next week.

With the way Mickey’s glaring at Wagner, though, a bloodbath is not yet out of the question. “JT’s got the same shirt on as I do. And Ollie’s wearing a t-shirt, and this whole thing was his idea, so that means the dress code is casual and you two look like try-hards. Imagine that.”

Mickey’s face is getting red, and I should intervene, but I’ve got lasagna under the broiler and these fuckers aren’t burning my mozzarella. No fucking way.

Wagner doesn’t take the bait. He never does, especially when Mickey’s the one dishing it out. “Ollie’s cooking and JT’s holding his baby. And look, both of their shirts are stain-free. So what’s your excuse?”

Mickey stretches his shirt out as he glances down at it. “There are not—okay, fine. You want me to change? I’ll fucking change.”

“Your first mistake was thinking I give a shit what you do, Mouse.” Wagner’s tone is bored, but his words hit their mark. One of these days, those two are going to come to blows and none of us will be around to stop it. For now, though, JT puts a calming hand on his best friend’s shoulder.

“Dude, your shirt’s fine and I guarantee that stain probably came from Calla anyway, so don’t bother changing. She’ll just drool or spit up on whatever you put on next.”

At the mention of his niece, Mickey’s whole expression changes. He and JT aren’t blood related, but they’re as close as any brothers I know.

The timer on my watch buzzes, and when I open the oven, the cheese is bubbling away, just like the internet said it would.

I’m grateful for the distraction, and I busy myself with getting all of the dishes out on the counter so the guys can eat buffet-style.

Fallon’s idea of a family dinner was pure genius, but these guys are acting more like a couple on the verge of divorce than a happy family unit.

Hopefully, the food I made will taste so good they’ll all forget we used to be rivals.

That’s a big ask for a meal made entirely out of recipes from two-minute videos on QuikTok, but I’ve always been a risk-taker.

Here's hoping this one pays off.

“You need help with anything?”

I turn to see Leo Santos, Pete’s middle brother, walking into the kitchen. He’s a little shorter than Pete, not quite as hairy, and a whole lot quieter. But the kid’s a hell of a hockey player, and I want him to feel like he’s part of a team, not part of a war.

“Yeah, you want to slice some of that bread?” I ask, gesturing to a couple loaves I picked up at the bakery downtown. I didn’t even think about getting them sliced. Now I’ll know for next time, if there is a next time.

Leo slices the crusty Italian bread, and by the time we’ve got the counter covered in trays and dishes, everybody else has arrived.

The guys go through four pans of lasagna like they’ve never eaten before, and I’m glad I made plates for Fallon and Liza and stuck them in the fridge.

If I waited until dinner was over, there’d be nothing left.

Once everybody’s gone through the line, I fill my dish and take my seat at the table. It’s too quiet and that’s either because everyone’s busy eating or because the tension is still so thick you could cut it with that serrated knife Leo was using earlier.

I’ve got a mouthful of food, but I’m trying to swallow it without choking so I can get the conversation started.

“Is there more sausage? Mason, can you hand me that plate?” Wagner reaches for the platter, but Blue smacks his arm.

“That’s not Mason,” he corrects. “That’s Mason—the one with the curly hair.”

Two of the freshmen look at each other and then at Blue and Wagner. “We’re both named Mason,” they say in unison.

“Well, that makes it easy,” Wagner says, shrugging as he hands the platter back to Mason with the straight hair.

“The fuck it does, Sparky.” Blue ignores the bird Wagner’s flashing in his direction. “We can’t have two guys named Mason, especially if they’re both freshmen. They need nicknames.”

“Fine,” Wagner grumbles. “When’s your birthday?” he asks Mason with straight hair.

“I turn nineteen in March,” the kid answers in between bites of pasta.

“What about you?” he asks, turning his attention to the curly haired Mason.

“I’ll be nineteen in January.”

“Perfect,” Wagner says in a monotone voice. “You’re Mason Number One and Mr. March, you’re Mason Number Two.”

“Oh my fucking god,” Blue mutters as he walks to the fridge for another drink. “Where did I go wrong? We’ve been best friends our entire lives and you think Mason Number One and Mason Number Two are acceptable nicknames?”

Wagner just laughs. “Yeah, they’re acceptable.”

“False,” I say, unable to keep my mouth shut any longer. All eyes turn toward me, but I’m not staying quiet. “Nicknames are part of hockey, and I can’t believe someone else on the team finally sees the light like I do. I also can’t believe it’s you, honestly,” I say, only half joking.

Blue shakes his head. “I know the importance of nicknames all too fucking well, don’t I, Sparky?”

“You call me that one more time and I’ll knock that stupid smirk off your face.” Wagner’s voice is cold as steel.

“You can try,” Blue laughs.

Shit just got interesting. “Wait, did I hear you right? Wagner, should we have all been calling you Sparky this whole time?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “If you all want to die.”

Blue rolls his eyes. “He’s all talk,” he assures us. “Well, you should probably sleep with one eye open, Mickey, but the rest of you are safe from Wagner’s wrath, I promise. He’s just pissy because he gave me the most predictable nickname in the world, and I gave him the best one.”

Wagner rubs his temples. “Dude, we were five. You need to get over that shit.”

These two fight like an old married couple, and if they didn’t annoy me so much, it’d be funny.

“How am I supposed to get over it? Literally everyone except my father calls me Blue because you have the creative capacity of an ice skate.”

Wagner sighs. “You kept buggin me for a nickname, so I gave you one. Your name’s Grover, so the first thing I thought of was Blue. Fucking sue me.”

“I should,” Blue bitches.

“Wait,” JT says, propping Calla up on his shoulder and rubbing her back. “ That’s why your name is Blue?”

“Yep,” our teammate answers. “And to add salt to my fucking wounds, Wagner scoffs at the nickname I bestowed on him even though it’s genius.”

“Sparky is genius?” Dean asks, his eyebrow raised.

“Again, we were five,” Blue explains. “But allow me to explain. His last name is Wagner, and a dog wags its tail and dogs are named Sparky. See? Brilliant. ”

I laugh. “One hundred percent agree. Sparky is perfect. But the Masons still need actual nicknames.”

“True,” Blue says, and I can’t help but think we’re wearing twin expressions as we size each of the guys up.

They’re pretty nondescript looking. They’re both around six feet tall, and neither has facial hair or any distinguishing marks that are visible.

They’ve both got brown hair, but one’s is short and straight while the other’s hangs past his shoulders in waves.

“What’s your last name again?” Blue asks Mason number two of the straight hair.

“Tenerovich,” he answers.

Without missing a beat, I christen the freshman with the perfect name. “Dime,” I say at the exact same time that Blue says it.

We look at each other, totally aware that the whole team is staring at us.

“How the fuck do the two of you get Dime?” Wagner asks, looking at the spread of food on the table. “Is there a bag of weed I’m missing?”

Before Blue can answer, I shake my head. “It’s easy. Tenerovich is Ten?—”

“And Ten is a dime,” Blue finishes.

“This is some freaky twin shit. Maybe you two were separated at birth,” Wagner quips. “All right, Mason number one with the curly hair, what’s your last name?”

“Bergeron,” he answers, looking a little like he’s about to piss himself.

“Relax,” I say. “This will be painless.”

Blue looks at me to see if we’re on the same page. We are.

“Flow,” we announce in chorus.

“The hell? That’s an old lady’s name,” Mickey protests.

“My high school teammates call me Burger,” the kid adds, but we pay no attention because those guys clearly suck at the nickname game.

“Yeah, Flo makes no sense,” Deano adds.

I nod at Blue so he can offer the reasoning because no one else in the room understands the complexity of nicknaming people.

“Look at his hair,” Blue says, pointing to the kid’s shoulder length curls because that’s all the explanation necessary. “That’s some high-quality flow.”

The guys at the table just stare at us, but they all know we’re right and the Masons seem happy with their monikers.

“Who else needs a nickname?” I ask.

No one volunteers until Dime hoists Leo’s arm up in the air.

“He’s got a nickname already,” Deano says. “That’s Baby Santos.”