Him

We’re looking at a quiet night in the hotel—a fact I’m sure half my teammates are extremely unhappy about. Particularly the freshmen and sophomore players, who are at the Frozen Four for the first time and were expecting to party like crazy this weekend. Coach squashed that notion pretty quick, though.

He laid down the law before anyone could even pick up their menus at the team dinner—ten o’clock curfew, no alcohol, no drugs, no shenanigans.

The upperclassmen know the drill, so none of us are especially bummed as we ride the elevator up to our block of rooms on the third floor. Tomorrow is game day. That means tonight is about taking it easy and getting some sleep.

Terry and I were assigned room 343 near the stairwell, so we’re the last ones in the hallway as we head for our door.

The moment we reach it, we freeze.

There’s a box on the carpet. Pale blue. No wrapping except for a white notecard stuck to the top reading Jamie Canning in flowery cursive.

What the shit?

My first thought is that my mom shipped something from California, but if she had, there’d be an address, postage, her handwriting.

“Um…” Terry shuffles before planting his hands on his hips. “You think it’s a bomb?”

I snicker. “I don’t know. Go put your ear on it and tell me if you hear ticking.”

He snickers back. “Uh-huh, I see how it is. Such a great friend, Canning, putting me in the line of fire. Well, forget it. That’s your name on the fucking thing.”

We both stare at the package again. It’s no bigger than a shoebox.

Beside me, Terry scrunches his face in mock terror and wails out, “What’s in the box?”

“Dude, nice Seven reference,” I say, genuinely impressed.

He grins. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to do that. Years.”

We take a moment to high-five each other, and I squat down and pick up the box because as entertaining as this convo is, we both know the thing is harmless. I tuck it under my arm and wait as Terry swipes his keycard to open the door, and then the two of us stride into the room. He flicks the light and heads for his bed, while I flop down on the edge of mine and lift the box’s lid.

Wrinkling my forehead, I unwrap the white tissue paper and pull out the soft bundle of fabric inside.

From across the room, Terry hoots. “Dude…what the fuck?”

I have no idea. I’m staring at a pair of white boxers with bright orange kittens all over them, including an ill-placed tabby right at the crotch. When I hold them up by the waistband, another card flutters out. This one has one word on it.

MEOW.

And holy shit, I recognize the handwriting this time.

Ryan Wesley.

I can’t help it. I snort so loud it sends Terry’s eyebrows soaring up his forehead. I ignore my friend’s reaction, too amused and bewildered by the significance of this gift.

The box. Wes has resurrected our old joke box. Except for the life of me, I have no idea why. I had been the last one to send it. And I remember feeling pretty damn smug about my choice of gifts—a package of Blow Pops. Because, well, how could I resist?

Wes hadn’t sent anything back. He also hadn’t called, texted, snail mailed, or courier pigeoned. Not a single word from him for three and a half years.

Until now.

“Who’s it from?” Terry is smirking at me, visibly entertained by the ridiculous gift in my hands.

“Holly.” Her name leaves my mouth so smoothly it surprises me. I don’t know why I lied. Easy enough to say the boxers are from an old friend, a rival, whatever. But for some reason, I can’t bring myself to tell Terry the truth.

“Is this an inside joke or something? Why would she send you kitten boxers?”

“Uh, you know, because she calls me kitten sometimes.” Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Terry pounces on that in a heartbeat. “Kitten? Your girlfriend calls you kitten?”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

But the point is moot because he’s doubled over in laughter, and I want to kick myself for giving him embarrassing ammo he’ll no doubt use against me until the end of time. I should’ve just told him it was from Wes.

Why the hell didn’t I?

“Uh, excuse me,” he says, still chuckling as he marches to the door.

I narrow my eyes. “Where are you going?”

“Don’t worry about it, kitten.”

A sigh gets stuck in my throat. “You’re going to knock on every door and tell the guys, aren’t you?”

“Yup.” He’s gone before I can protest, but honestly I don’t care all that much. So the guys will ride me about the kitten thing for a few days. Eventually one of my teammates will do something ridiculous and it’ll be his turn to take the heat.

After the door swings shut behind Terry, I stare at the boxers again, an unwitting smile reaching my lips. Fuckin’ Wes. I’m not sure what this means, but he must know I’m in town for the championship. Maybe this is his way of apologizing? Extending an olive branch?

Either way, I’m too curious to ignore the gesture. I reach for the phone and dial the front desk, then wait on the line to an awesome elevator rendition of Katy Perry’s “Roar.” Which only makes me chuckle, because, you know, roar. Meow.

When the desk clerk answers, I ask if there’s a room number for Ryan Wesley. I’m pretty sure the sea of green-and-white jackets in the lobby means he’s at this hotel.

“I can’t provide another guest’s room number, sir.”

That stops me for a second, because clearly Wes was able to learn my room number. But this is Wes we’re talking about. He probably offered some woman at the front desk a look at his abs.

“Sir? I could try to connect you by phone.”

“Thanks.”

It rings, but nobody answers. Shit. But there’s one more thing to try. I scroll through my phone to see if his number is still in my contacts. And it is. Guess I was never quite pissed off enough to delete him. I shoot him a text, just three words: still a smartass.

When my phone chimes a second later, I expect it to say my message bounced. That Wes changed his number a long time ago, fuck you very much.

Some things don’t change, it says instead.

I can’t help answering him in my head. But some do. Eh. Listen to me getting all bitchy. What’s the point of that? So I tap out something else: So was this a hello present or a fuck you, loser, we’re gonna kick your ass present?

His reply: Both?

Sitting there on the hotel bed, I’m grinning at my phone. Seriously, my face is about to crack in two. It’s really just nostalgia for a simpler time in my life when the biggest decisions were pizza toppings and what bit of ridiculousness I should mail in a box to my buddy.

But I like it anyway, which is probably why my next text says: I’m probably heading down to the bar for a bit.

His reply: I’m already there.

Of course he is.

I pocket my phone and open my duffel. Heading into the shower, I take a few minutes to wash the long day off me. I need to regroup. And I could really use a shave.

Or maybe I’m stalling.

I don’t know what to expect from Wes. With him, you never know what to expect, which was one of the reasons I always liked him so much. Being his friend was a goddamn adventure. He’d drag me into one crazy situation after the other, and I was happy going along for the ride.

I did that so loyally. Right up through the crazy part at the end.

In the hotel shower, I take a deep breath of steamy air. Holly was right. I am still mad. Because if Wes and I had had a fight or something, then his turning his back on me would at least have made sense.

But we hadn’t fought. He’d just challenged me to a shootout. And that day—the second-to-last afternoon of camp—we’d lined up the pucks with perfect fairness. He shot five times at me, I shot five times at him.

Shootouts are never easy. But when you’re defending the net against Ryan Wesley, the fastest skater I’ve ever played with? It’s intense. Still, we’d done this often enough for me to be able to anticipate his flashy moves. I remember cackling after I stopped the first three shots. But then he got lucky, deking me once and then winning one on an unlikely bounce off the pipe.

Maybe another guy would have panicked a little when he realized he’d let in two. But I was a cool customer. Ultimately, it was Wes who’d choked. He wasn’t used to the goalie gear, but neither was I used to firing on goal. I sank my first two shots. Then he defended the next two.

It was all down to one shot, and I saw it—fear in his eyes. In my gut, I knew I could do this.

I’d won, fair and square. The third shot went past his elbow and landed with a swish in the back of the net.

For the next three hours I let him twist—all through dinner and the bullshit awards ceremony they held at the end of camp. Wes was uncharacteristically mute through all of it.

I waited until we got back to our room to let him off the hook.

“Think I’ll collect my prize next year,” I’d said with as much nonchalance as an eighteen-year-old can muster. “June, maybe. Or July. I’ll let you know, ’kay?”

I’d wanted some kind of relieved gasp. Making Wes sweat for once had been fun. But his face gave nothing away. He’d pulled out a stainless steel flask and slowly unscrewed the top. “Last night of camp, dude,” he’d said. “We’d better celebrate.” He took a good gulp and then passed it to me.

When I took the flask, his eyes flashed with something I couldn’t read.

The whiskey was rough going down. The first swallow, anyway. Up until now, we hadn’t drunk more than a beer or two, squirreled away in our footlockers. Getting caught with alcohol or drugs would have meant real trouble. So I didn’t have any kind of tolerance back then. I felt the liquor’s warmth slide through my chest just as Wes said, “Let’s watch some porn.”

Almost four years later, I stand there shivering in a hotel bathroom. I shut the water off and grab a towel off the stack.

I guess it’s time to go downstairs and see if our friendship is fixable. What had happened on that night was a little crazy, but not exactly worthy of the record books. I’d shrugged it off easily enough.

But Wes had not. There’s really no other explanation for why he’d cut me loose.

God, I hope he doesn’t dredge that up. Sometimes it’s better to just let shit lie. The way I see it, one night of drunken stupidity shouldn’t be the defining moment in a six-year friendship.

Even so, I’m oddly nervous five minutes later as I ride the elevator downstairs, and I hate the itchy feeling in my spine, because I don’t get nervous often. I’m probably the most chill person you’ll ever meet, which I’m sure has to do with the fact that my family is the walking definition of laidback Californians.

The bar is packed when I enter. No surprise. It’s Friday night and the hotel is booked solid because of the tournament. Every table and booth is occupied. I have to turn my body sideways to move through the place, and I can’t see Wes anywhere.

Maybe this was a stupid idea. “Excuse me,” I say. There’s a clot of businessmen blocking the thoroughfare between the bar and the tables. But they laugh at someone’s joke, ignoring the way they’re making the whole room impassable.

I’m probably seconds from going back upstairs when I hear it.

“Suckers.”

It’s just one word, but I recognize Wes’s voice instantly. Deep, kinda raspy. I’m suddenly transported back to high school, to all those summers I heard that voice mocking me, challenging me, ragging on me.

A communal snort of laughter follows his comment, and I turn my head to search him out in the group of hockey players against the far wall.

He turns his head at the same time, almost as if he senses my presence. And shit, I’ve traveled back in time again. He looks the same. And different. He looks both different and the same.

He’s still got the messy dark hair and scruffy beard growth, but he’s bigger now. Solid muscle and broad shoulders, more lean than bulky, but definitely bulkier than his eighteen-year-old self. Still has the tribal tattoo on his right biceps, but now there’s a lot more ink on his golden-toned skin. Another piece on his left arm. Something black and Celtic-looking peeking from the collar of his T-shirt.

He’s still talking to his friends as he watches me approach. Of course he’s surrounded by people. I’d forgotten how magnetic he is. As if he burns with higher test fuel than the rest of us.

A barbell pierced through his eyebrow catches the light as he turns his head, a wink of silver just a shade lighter than his slate-gray eyes. Which narrow when I finally swim through the sea of people to arrive at his side.

“Shit, man, did you get highlights in your hair?”

More than three years since we’ve been in the same room together, and that’s the first thing he says to me?

“No.” I roll my eyes as I slide onto the stool beside his. “It’s from the sun.”

“Still surfing every weekend?” Wes asks.

“When I have time.” I cock a brow. “Still pulling down your pants and flashing your junk for no conceivable reason?”

His teammates erupt around us, their laughter thundering in my chest. “Shit, he was always like this?” somebody says.

A grin tugs the corner of Wes’s mouth. “I’ve never deprived the world of my God-given masculine beauty.” He reaches out to put a big hand on my shoulder. He gives it a squeeze. It’s gone again in a split second, but I can still feel the warm spot on my shoulder. “Guys, this is Jamie Canning, my friend from way back and goalie for those punks at Rainier.”

“Hey,” I say stupidly. Then I glance around, looking for a waitress. I need a drink in my hand, even if it’s just a soda. But the place is mobbed, and the only server in view is nowhere nearby.

I glance at the glass in Wes’s hand. He’s drinking something fizzy—Coke, from the looks of it. No, root beer. He’d always preferred root beer. And obviously his coach gave him the same no-drinking spiel.

Wes raises his hand in the air, and the waitress abruptly turns in our direction. He points at his glass and she nods as if commanded by God to do his bidding. Wes flashes her a smile, his favorite currency for favors. And I notice another flash of metal.

His tongue is pierced. That’s new, too.

Annnd now I’m thinking about his tongue. Jesus fuck. And the last four years of silence between us suddenly make a bit more sense. Maybe there are drunken antics capable of wrecking a friendship.

Or maybe that’s crap, and if we’d stayed friends we could have gotten past an hour’s worth of stupidity a long time ago.

Meanwhile, it’s really too warm in this bar. If that waitress brings me a root beer, I’m going to be tempted to pour it all over myself. And the silence between my ex-friend and I is growing longer by the second.

“Crowded,” I manage. Just barely.

“Yeah. Need a pull?” He offers me his glass.

I take a greedy gulp and our eyes meet over the rim. His confidence has slipped a millimeter or two. His gaze asks a question. Are we going to make it through the next half hour?

Swallowing, I make a decision. “Shame the Bruins got punished by the Ducks last month.”

I see the flash of arrogance return at lightning speed. “That was a fluke. And a terrible call in the third. Your wing tripped over his own duck feet.”

“With a little help from your D-man.”

“Oh, fuck that. Twenty bucks says the Ducks don’t make it past the first round this year.”

“Twenty is all you’re willing to bet?” I gasp. “Sounds like you’re afraid. Twenty and a YouTube video proclaiming my greatness.”

“Done, but when you lose, you make that video in a Bruins T-shirt.”

“Sure.” I shrug. And just like that, the night gets easier.

The waitress appears with two glasses of root beer and a hungry smile for Wes. He slips her a twenty. “Thanks, doll.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” she says, overselling it by a shade. Christ. Hockey players don’t have a lot of trouble getting laid, but my old friend obviously enjoys his pick of the litter. She’s hot, too. Great rack and a sweet smile.

He doesn’t even spare a glance at her perfect ass as she sashays away.

After she disappears, Wes opens his arms and grins at the group of hockey players standing around him. “Shit, we’re just a bunch of pussies, aren’t we? Root beer and ginger ale on a Friday night. Someone call the cops. We need a game of darts or something.”

“Table hockey!” someone calls out. “Saw it in the game room.”

“Cassel!” Wes thumps the guy standing next to him. “Who won our last game, anyway?”

“You did, you prick. Because you cheated during the shootout.”

“Who, me?”

Everyone laughs. But my mind snags on “shootout.”

Of course it does.