Page 6 of Slew Foot (Scoring Chances #3)

Rafe settled in his stall and began stripping out of his gear on automatic pilot, half-listening as the guys gave out the prize to the star of the game.

It went to Anker Henriksen, one of the top line forwards, and Rafe cheered for him, not only because he’d gotten the game-winning goal but because he was Rafe’s new teammate.

Because this was Rafe’s new team. His new home.

He’d been traded before, so this wasn’t his first time in a new NHL locker room, but this time was easier. This time it had been his choice.

Just because it was easier didn’t mean it was easy.

The fierce hawk on the logo in the center of the carpet and the red, orange, yellow, and black color scheme … they felt strange. Unfamiliar.

But the benefit of having spent his whole life playing hockey was that the rest of it was familiar. The sound of guys laughing and joking, the smell of sweat, and the bump of his stall mates’ elbows against his as they stripped down, was comforting.

Thanks to Anker, they’d won tonight, and Rafe hadn’t totally fucked anything up, so it had all gone better than it could have. Mickey had a point about both his lack of sleep and practice too.

It was a comfort to think he and his new D-partner hadn’t even had a single practice together yet.

They could get better.

After Anker had hung a weird-ass wall hanging around his neck—which was a strange prize for the game—and given a little speech, Jesse Webber stood.

“Okay!” he shouted. “It’s New Year’s Eve and you know what that means, boys!”

Rafe stared blankly at Jesse for a moment, then shook his head. “Uh, I don’t,” he called out.

Jesse grinned. “It means we’re celebrating! Team party at O’Neill’s!”

The goaltender kept talking, but the words rushed over Rafe in a haze of white noise. None of it stuck and he grimaced and glanced over at Mickey, who was stripping out of his gear too.

“Uhh, so who’s O’Neill?” Rafe asked, glancing around.

He damn well knew their captain was named O’Shea. Everyone in hockey knew about the O’Shea family. But who the hell was O’Neill? Maybe he was a call-up from their AHL roster in Concord?

Though it seemed weird someone like that would be hosting a team party, especially on a holiday.

Mickey smiled. “Not who. Where . O’Neill’s is an Irish pub. We go there a lot as a team.”

Mickey must have seen the look on Rafe’s face because he gave a vague wave. “This isn’t a crazy party team or anything, I promise. People have a few drinks, hang out, play pool. And no one gives you problems if you choose something nonalcoholic.”

His expression tuned thoughtful. “Tonight might be a little bit crazier since it’s New Years, but still. No pressure if you’re not a drinker.”

Rafe shrugged. “Oh, no. No, I drink some. Just not feeling like a wild party tonight, you know? Not if anyone wants me to stay upright, anyway. A couple of drinks might knock me out when I’m this tired.” He shot Mickey a rueful glance.

Mickey nodded, grinning. “Hey. Uh, would you like to go with me tonight?”

“Uhm,” Rafe said, scratching the back of his still-sweaty neck. “No offense, but I just got out of a relationship and?—”

Mickey gave him a quick, amused smile. “Not like that. I thought you might want a buddy to stick with tonight since you have no idea where we’re going or anything. I figured I could help you get oriented.”

“Oh. Shit.” Rafe dropped his head, feeling embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have?—”

“No, it’s cool.” Mickey shot him another smile. “I get it.”

God, Rafe shouldn’t have assumed . He had no idea what Mickey’s sexuality even was. And he shouldn’t have assumed Mickey was hitting on him. Clearly the relationship with Logan had warped his brain. He’d forgotten guys just … hung out. As teammates and buddies.

Ones who didn’t go from that to madly in love.

And Rafe definitely planned to stick by the promise he’d made to himself after the breakup. All teammates belonged in the ‘do not date’ category from now on.

Rafe hung up his shin pads and had reached for the hem of his base layer shirt when someone called out, “Five minutes until media!”

He groaned and Mickey’s look was sympathetic. “Yeah, you’re up tonight.”

“Damn it,” Rafe muttered under his breath, letting the hem of the shirt fall before shoving a new, much too stiff Harriers’ cap on his head to hide his tangled mess of hair.

He took a seat in his stall again and mentally braced himself.

A PR guy who had introduced himself before the game—Tyson something—arched an eyebrow at him. “You ready?” he asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Rafe answered with a tired grin.

He was never going to be a media hog and preferred to be a behind-the-scenes kinda guy. But there was no way he’d get away with that tonight.

Sure enough, a few reporters made a beeline for him as soon as the doors opened.

They greeted him and introduced themselves, nodding when he told them to call him Rafe.

“Rafe, you had quite the journey from Minneapolis to Boston,” one man—whose name Rafe had already forgotten—asked. “How do you feel that impacted your play tonight?”

“Uhh, well,” he said with a small laugh. “I’m definitely a lot more tired and jet-lagged than I expected to be. I don’t know that tonight really showed what kind of player I can be, but I did what I could.”

Another reporter—he’d also forgotten her name—said, “You were thrown out on the second PK unit tonight at one point. Do you feel like you were prepared for it?”

Rafe tugged at his cap. “I’ve been playing at the NHL level for seven years, so like, a penalty kill is a penalty kill.

Every team has their own system, and I’ll have to learn the Harriers’ PK as I go, but the guys filled me in the best they could on the bench.

I’m sure I’ll feel more ready and be better once I’ve gotten some sleep and had time to practice with the team. ”

He hadn’t been trying to be funny, but everyone laughed anyway, and he was glad they’d gotten their little soundbite.

There were a few more questions about his general game play tonight, and then someone asked how he felt about the trade.

“Do you think you’ll play better here, without the distraction of your breakup with Logan Walker hanging over you?”

Tyson stepped forward, holding up a hand. “Personal questions are not allowed in the locker room. You know that, Les.”

The tension that had immediately tightened Rafe’s shoulders at the question eased.

Les shrugged and shot both Rafe and the PR guy a half-hearted grin. “Had to try.”

Looking unamused, Tyson snorted. “Try again and we’ll see how long you have media privileges.”

The reporter—Les—didn’t seem particularly worried, like this was a long-standing argument or something. He turned back to Rafe. “Let me reword that. Do you have anything you’d like to say about the trade?”

“I’m looking forward to playing here in Boston,” Rafe said, trying to be careful about how he worded this. “It’s a great franchise with an incredible history, and I’m excited about what I can learn from playing for an organization like this.”

“What do you think you can contribute to this team going forward?” Les asked.

“Well, I hope to be a strong presence around the net. I have the body size they’re looking for and Gavin has made it clear he brought me here to use that to my advantage.”

Mickey let out a little choking noise and Rafe glanced over to see him red-faced and sputtering into his arm, a water bottle in hand.

Poor guy , Rafe thought, reaching out to pat his back. Water must have gone down the wrong pipe.

“Not to mention teach this guy how to take it,” he joked, turning back to the reporters. “Apparently, he’s no good at swallowing.”

It wasn’t until he saw several reporters’ eyes widen that he realized how it had come across. Shit .

“I guess they don’t teach guys how to drink water in Germany,” he hastily added, then wondered if he’d made it worse by accidentally insulting an entire country.

Mickey shot him a vaguely dirty look and past him, Tyson winced.

Ahh fuck. Rafe wasn’t that bright to begin with. Why in the hell had anyone let him speak to the media when he’d had no sleep?

“Uhh,” he said, scrambling to cover his mistake. “Look, that all came out wrong. What I was trying to say is that I plan to use my size and skill around the net. I’ve been an effective shutdown defenseman in the past and that’s the plan going forward.”

He rattled off a few more things he knew were safe and was relieved when they thanked him and turned to someone else.

Finally .

“Where are you staying?” Mickey asked Rafe, his breath steaming in the cold night air.

Rafe stuffed his hand in his pockets as they followed a trail of their teammates to the small convoy of vehicles lined up to take them to the pub.

One of the equipment guys had been nice enough to offer to drop Rafe’s luggage off at the hotel on his way home, so Rafe didn’t have to lug it around all night, and he was grateful.

He’d honestly already forgotten about the bags and would have wound up at a hotel with none of his stuff.

“Uhh.” Rafe pulled his phone from his pocket because he was blanking on the name. “The team took care of it all. I have an email about it. I haven’t looked at it closely.”

He pulled his phone out, tapped a few things in, then handed it over to Mickey, like he’d done with the equipment guy. Seriously, names were not sticking in his head right now.

Mickey studied the info, then passed his phone back. “I stayed there for a couple of weeks until I got settled too. Nice place.”

“Good to hear. Where are you now?”

“Oh, I’m in an apartment with Tanner. It’s not too far from the practice facility, so that’s convenient.”

“Nice.”

They climbed into the vehicle and Rafe was squished up against the window as more guys piled in, talking and laughing, their happy mood washing over him as they pulled away from the curb.