Page 29 of Slew Foot (Scoring Chances #3)

As the team boarded the plane a week later for a road trip, Mickey was feeling much better.

The entire team had been hit by the illness. Even the staff and coaching hadn’t been spared and the last of the guys were recovering at home.

The Harriers were still a little light on NHL caliber talent at the moment but thankfully, most of their bigger pieces were back.

At the moment, Coach Hoyt was staying in Boston—an inner ear infection making it unsafe for him to fly—so Aksel Rasmussen was filling in.

“It’s so weird! I never even felt sick, you know?” Tanner said cheerfully to Rafe as they passed Mickey. He muttered dire curses under his breath at Tanner’s attitude about the whole situation, when he’d been patient zero for the whole team’s outbreak.

Coach Rasmussen, who’d walked past Mickey as he grumbled under his breath at Tanner, shot Mickey an amused look as he passed by, clearly understanding enough of his German to get the gist of what he was saying.

Mickey gave him a sheepish look, but Rasmussen shrugged and murmured, “My son has said much worse about him. And vice versa.”

Rasmussen said it in very rusty-sounding German and, honestly, Mickey was surprised he had understood him at all. Despite both being Germanic languages, Norwegian and German weren’t really that similar.

But as Mickey climbed the steps to board the plane, he remembered Rasmussen had played in Germany for a while during a lockout that had dragged on and on for months until the league and the players union had finally agreed on terms.

That explained it. But what had he meant about his son?

As far as Mickey knew, he only had one. Leif was a very talented forward for the New York Rockets—like his father had been—and Mickey had a vague memory of some kind of altercation between Tanner and Leif during the game they’d played against New York last fall.

Mickey had chucked it up—no, chalked it up, he mentally corrected himself—to it being part of the usual divisional rivalries. But perhaps there was more to it.

Mickey took his usual seat and Rafe slid in beside him. They worked like a well-oiled machine now as they quickly got comfortable, stowing their bags and getting out what they’d use on the flight ahead.

Once he was done, he sent a message to Tanner. What do you have against Leif Rasmussen? That seemed very unlike Tanner. He wasn’t a grudge holder.

Who says I have anything against him??

His father.

Mickey glanced behind him to see Tanner’s head pop up over the seats. He looked a little bug-eyed and crazy before he slumped down again.

Mickey’s phone vibrated. Why was Coach talking shit about me and Leif??

Mickey explained the earlier situation and Tanner sent him a mad emoji.

Dude, what a stuck-up prick.

Coach Rasmussen? Mickey shot back, a little shocked Tanner would say something like that. Tanner got feisty in games, but nothing ever got under his skin. He was always the one pestering other people until they snapped.

No!! His son. I like Coach fine. Leaf’s a dick though.

*Leaf.

*Leaf.

MOTHER FUCKER. L-E-I-F. Stupid autocorrect.

And stupid name. Oh, I’m named after a fucking Viking. NBD though.

Mickey laughed under his breath at the barrage of texts because he could practically hear everything in Tanner’s sarcastic tone. Still, he couldn’t get over the feeling this was very unlike Tanner.

Rafe leaned in, peering at his phone with a smile. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Mickey said, hiding his screen against his hoodie.

Rafe pulled back, his happy expression dimming. “Oh. Sorry. I’ll give you privacy if you want.”

“Oh, no,” Mickey said hastily. “Dude, I’m texting Tanner .”

He handed his phone over for Rafe to see. He brightened, laughing as he passed the phone back when he was done.

“Why do they hate each other?”

Mickey shrugged. “I don’t know if they hate each other but there’s definitely some strong dislike.”

“But why? Is it a rivalry thing?”

“That’s what I was wondering,” Mickey admitted. “But honestly, I’m not sure.”

He sent another text to Tanner. Is this a divisional rivalry thing?

No. He’s a dick.

Okay but why do you think he’s a dick? Mickey pressed. Because while he had to admit he found Leif a challenge to go up against—he was fast and an absolute sniper—Mickey couldn’t say he’d ever heard anything bad about the guy personally.

I don’t wanna talk about it.

Mickey stared at his phone in confusion. When had Tanner ever not wanted to talk about something?

But the plane was ready to take off and Mickey had to scramble to get himself buckled in before the attendant came around to check.

After they were in the air and given the all clear, Mickey reached for his laptop. He was about to ask Rafe if he wanted to watch something when Thad Racine—twin brother of their general manager, Gavin—slipped into the seat across the aisle from Rafe that was usually empty.

“You mind?” he asked, flashing Rafe a bright smile. “I wanted to talk to you about your social media presence if you have a minute, Rafe.”

An alarmed look crossed Rafe’s face. “Oh shit. I’m not in trouble, am I?”

“No. Not at all.” Smiling, Thad planted his elbow on his armrest and leaned across the aisle a little. “Actually, we’d like you to do more of what you’re already doing. Really use what you’ve got to your advantage.”

“What I’ve got?” Rafe tilted his head.

Mickey, who had pulled out his phone again and been trying to look like he wasn’t eavesdropping, scowled down at it.

“Yeah, you know.” Thad gestured up and down Rafe’s body. “You’ve got the looks that really, uh, draw people in on social media. We’d like to do some shoots for the team with you and Tanner and Jesse and Graham. We tried to get Connor to agree too but he, uh, wasn’t up for it.”

Mickey bit back a snort because he could imagine it. Connor O’Shea was many things—a great player, a great leader, and by all accounts, a great father to his kids and boyfriend to Jesse—but a media hog he was not.

He had no problem promoting the team, if the focus was on the team as a whole or him representing it but ask him to do anything one-on-one and he shut it down fast.

Connor had the looks—if you were into the whole tall, brooding auburn-haired thing, which apparently Jesse was—but anything that focused too much on him individually clearly made him uncomfortable.

“Oh. Well …” Rafe scratched the back of his neck, nearly knocking his elbow into Mickey’s head. “Sure. I could do that.”

“You post great content on your social media,” Thad continued earnestly.

“I mean, the photo Tanner took the other day of you with the team mug?” Thad whistled under his breath and mimed fanning himself.

“That was great stuff. We’d love to give you more of the team gear to use at home and then do some filming at the arena to promote the merch. ”

“Uhh yeah, I mean, I could use some mugs and stuff.” Rafe shrugged. “I’ve been meaning to ask about it.”

Thad brightened. “Yeah, exactly. I’ll get you as many as you want.”

“We have plenty of them at home,” Mickey snapped, belatedly realizing he’d inserted himself into a conversation he’d been trying to pretend like he was ignoring.

A puzzled look crossed Thad’s face. “Well, every guy on the team gets some. Somehow Rafe got missed until now.”

Rafe glanced over at Mickey. “Yeah, it’s like a team thing. They’re personalized for every guy. I never got much in Minnesota.”

And Mickey deflated because damn it , all Rafe wanted was to feel like he belonged to the Harriers. And if some branded and personalized team gear would help, how could Mickey refuse?

And then he cursed himself because it wasn’t his call anyway. Rafe wasn’t his . And even if they were dating, Rafe could totally tell him.

Mickey was trying to ignore how much he disliked the way Thad looked at Rafe, disliked the way he leaned in close as they discussed details. Thad was a flirt, everyone in the organization knew that. And he was bi or pan, from what Mickey understood.

He was … well, he was actually probably a better choice than Mickey, prison record notwithstanding, Mickey thought with a sigh.

It had been a robbery charge when he was eighteen which had derailed any chance of him making it to the NHL.

Mickey wanted to hold it against the guy but …

well, that had been a long time ago and Mickey didn’t believe someone’s past mistakes should ruin the rest of their life.

Especially not something like that. Thad had done his time and, from what Mickey knew, had turned his life around.

That was something he admired.

Thad was good at his job, handsome and charming and … most of all, not Rafe’s teammate.

Though, maybe Rafe’s rule applied to anyone working for the franchise. Mickey wasn’t sure.

It suddenly hit Mickey that at some point, he might actually have to watch Rafe date someone else, and his heart clenched.

Every time he closed his eyes, he thought about Rafe’s head in his lap, the feel of his soft hair sliding between his fingers, or the heat of his bare skin as Mickey rested a palm against the spot revealed when Rafe’s shirt rode up.

Mickey’s fist tightened at the thought of Thad touching Rafe, pressing him down into the mattress and?—

“Hey, you okay?” Rafe asked, nudging Mickey with his elbow. “You look …”

Angry, probably, Mickey thought with a rueful twist of his lips.

Thankfully, Thad was gone.

Mickey forced a more genuine smile onto his face and bumped his shoulder against Rafe’s. “All good,” he said. “Just a little bit of a headache.”

It wasn’t even a lie.

“Oh, do you need something?”

“No, I’ve got some medicine in my bag. Hey, do you want to watch a movie now?”

Mickey finished setting up his laptop, then handed an earbud over to Rafe. He took it, then pulled out his knitting. Mickey hit Play and, as they watched the movie, the soft clack-clack-clack of Rafe’s needles was familiar and comforting.