Shots on Goal (Stick Side Book 3)

by Amy Aislin

“He’s coming to visit you?” Mitch’s surprise wasn’t uncalled for; Cody’s dad hadn’t visited him once since he’d moved to Vermont for college.

  And, to be more specific, his dad’s text said that he was heading to the Hamptons to visit Cody’s mom, but that he’d like to take a couple of days to visit Cody in Glen Hill if Cody was free since he was going to be in that neck of the woods anyway.

  Cody didn’t consider the six and a half-hour drive between Glen Hill and the Hamptons to be the same neck of the woods, but it was closer than Texas, so he guessed it counted.

  His dad. Here. What the hell for?

  “Hey, Codes.” Mitch poked him in the shoulder. “You can say no.”

  Cody huffed an unamused laugh. “Except I’d feel bad for disappointing him, and how stupid is that?”

  “Not stupid. You’re just too nice.” When Cody didn’t answer, Mitch said, “Besides, how many times have you asked him for something and gotten a no?”

  “I haven’t asked him for anything in a really long time.” Not since he’d begged his dad to come home for Christmas when he was eleven—and every year prior. Instead of his presence, Cody had been gifted, via mail, the hottest toy of the year.

  “I know.” Mitch rested his chin on the back of Cody’s seat. “Do you have to answer him right now?”

  “No.”

  “Sleep on it, then. See how you feel tomorrow.”

  Cody released a loud groan, removed his glasses, and rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah.”

  A tap on the window. He put his glasses back on and found Chuck Yano, one of Mitch’s teammates, waving at them. Cody turned and pushed against Mitch’s shoulder. “Get out of here. Go impress Boston’s scouts.”

  Mitch’s smile was toothy. “As if I know how to do anything else.” He shoved the door open with a “Dude, get out of my way” to Yano.

  “Hey, Cody!” Yano called before Mitch could shut the door.

  “Hey, man. Good luck tonight.”

  “See you inside?”

  “Yup.”

  And then they were both gone, their voices carrying back to Cody as they trudged up the walkway.

  Ignoring the shadow that had fallen over his evening, Cody parked the car, double-checked his ticket was in his coat pocket, pulled on his gloves, grabbed his paperback from the center console so he’d have something to do while he waited, and went inside to claim his usual seat.

  If that seat gave him a good view of the entrances so he could keep an eye out for Roman, that was purely coincidental. Not like he’d show up. Or maybe he would. Cody didn’t know him well enough to say one way or the other.

  He saved a seat for him anyway. Just in case.

  The problem was that once the arena started filling up, it became more and more difficult to spot individual people among the crowds. Ten minutes until puck drop, and there was no way in hell Cody would ever spot him. Roman might’ve slipped in behind a throng and hidden himself away somewhere at the top of the stands.

  Cody gave up trying to look for him—he’d ask him about it when he saw him at the library next week—and took his phone out.

  Kid—

  His dad’s texts always started with Kid, as though Cody was still that eleven-year-old asking him to come home for Christmas so they could be a family.

  Kid, I’ll be visiting your mom in a couple of weeks. I thought I’d take a couple days to visit you over the weekend if you’re free since I’ll be in that neck of the woods.

  If he was free, huh? Sure, he was free. Outside of readings and assignments and studying and hanging out with Mitch—given Mitch wasn’t traveling for an away game—his weekends were usually free.

  His dad didn’t need to know that, though.

  Sorry, I’ve got plans he started to type out, but what kind of person didn’t reschedule plans when their father came to town? And if his dad was actually asking to see him for once . . .

  A knock on the glass startled him, and he looked up to find Mitch on the other side, sticking his tongue out at him. Leave it to Mitch to make him feel better simply by reminding him he was there.

  Pocketing his phone, Cody returned the gesture. He’d take Mitch’s advice and sleep on it and see where tomorrow left him.

  Instead of going to Cody’s friend’s college hockey game, Roman stayed home and made comfort food while watching YouTube.

  The apartment the Trailblazers had put him up in was on the top floor of a seven-story building on Main Street in what he supposed was downtown Burlington and had a view of Lake Champlain in the distance. It was nice. Freshly painted a neutral light gray, a fully equipped kitchen with white cabinets and granite countertops, a living room with two recliners and a leather couch, huge picture windows, two furnished bedrooms, and two and a half baths. It was owned by the Trailblazers, and he’d been told he could buy it off them if he liked it.

  He liked it enough, sure. But what was the point of buying if the NHL was going to move their team elsewhere?

  Roman stood in his kitchen chopping celery. On the stove behind him, the potatoes, carrots, diced tomatoes, green beans, and corn were boiling in vegetable broth and tomato juice. At his right elbow, a YouTube video recapped the highlights of Wednesday night’s game on his laptop. He’d watched the same clip three times—Ritz passing to Vause.

  Dumping the celery into the pot, he lowered the temperature of the burner to a simmer and turned back to his laptop to watch the clip in slow motion. And there it was. Ritz went to shoot the puck to Vause, changed his mind, and aimed the puck at his left winger, then ultimately ended up passing it to Vause.

  Roman had known what he’d seen, but here it was. On YouTube, no less, in perpetuity. Or until Skynet took over, whichever came first.

  What was he supposed to do with this information now? Talk to Ritz about it, maybe.

  It smelled amazing in his kitchen. Poking at the vegetables in the pot with a fork to test their readiness, he called his soup done and turned off the burner. After ladling himself a bowl and spreading a handful of saltines with butter, he sat on a barstool at the counter and dragged his laptop closer. In YouTube’s search bar, he typed Glen Hill College hockey and clicked on the first result: highlights from last season’s Frozen Four.

  Having never watched a college hockey game before, he didn’t know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t the level of skill both teams demonstrated. And that was stupid—they’d made it to the championships. Besides that, college hockey players often got drafted by the NHL, so obviously they were talented, a fact that became inherently obvious as he got sucked into the black hole that was YouTube. An hour, three bowls of soup, and a package of crackers later, he’d moved on from Frozen Four highlights to regular season Glen Hill College hockey highlights. Many years’ worth.

  And was incredibly jealous.

  The closest he’d gotten to a college or university campus was when his major junior team had played a game at the University of Ottawa’s Minto Sports Complex. The campus had seemed massive to his sixteen-year-old self.

  His life had been all about hockey since he’d first picked up a stick; everything else was a distraction. He’d never had dreams of higher education. Yet watching college hockey made him feel like he’d missed out on something. Not the education part—it was never too late to go back to school—but the experience: going to classes, studying at the library, eating bad cafeteria food, hanging out with friends in the quad.

  University and college campuses had quads, didn’t they?

  And sure, he might’ve sworn off friendships but that didn’t mean he didn’t envy a tight-knit group. Didn’t trust it, but he did envy it.

  Everyone’s motives were suspect.

  Even Cody’s, no matter how attractive he was. Not in the traditional sense. Roman had met enough athletes in his life to recognize what was attractive in the sports world—sharp features, broad shoulders, chiseled abs, defined arms. A beard didn’t hurt.

  Cody was different. He was slender—R
oman would almost call him skinny except he’d noticed definition where Cody’s teal polo shirt hugged his biceps. His forehead was slightly too high, one front tooth was a tiny bit crooked, his ears stuck out a touch, his glasses were enormous, and his hair couldn’t decide if it wanted to be dark blond or light brown. He shouldn’t have been good-looking. He should’ve looked like a mishmash of parts thrown together. But after years of being surrounded by tight bodies in the locker room, Cody was . . . fresh. Like a strawberry cupcake with sprinkles in a sea of uniform vanilla. Roman would’ve taken a chance and made a move had he not already decided that he was going to stay firmly in the closet until he retired.

  Speaking of coming out, one of his suggested videos on YouTube was an interview with Ashton Yager—his former teammate who’d come out as bisexual a year and a half ago—and his boyfriend, Dan. The positive commentary—and the changes in the NHL that had come about because of it—still surprised Roman. People accepted Yager. The league, the fans, sponsors, other athletes. And the three NHL players who’d come out after him? Same thing.

  Roman clicked his tongue ring against his teeth and rose to put away his leftovers. If he were to come out? There was no way he’d get the same reception. Yager and those other guys? They were well-liked. And Roman? He wasn’t on social media. He wasn’t vocal about gun violence or gender equality or the state of the environment. He avoided the press. He ducked out of every public event he could get away with. He wasn’t active in the community.

  His own parents had kicked him out. His teammates had turned their backs on him. If they didn’t want him, why would his new teammates be any different?

  His phone rang as he was washing the dishes a few minutes later, and he leaned across the counter to look at the caller ID. Alex Dean, it said.

  “What the . . . ?”

  Dean—another former teammate from Tampa—had been traded to Toronto the day before Roman had been traded to Vermont. They weren’t friends, so why was Dean calling? He almost let it go to voicemail, but curiosity got the better of him, and he dried his hands before answering.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, man,” Dean said. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine. You?”

  “Okay.” It sounded like there was a shrug in his voice. “Still adjusting. You must be too.”

  He’d called to . . . commiserate? Dean had called him to commiserate? Why hadn’t he called Yager, his best friend on their former team? Roman could count on one hand the number of times he and Dean had had a conversation, and he wouldn’t need every finger. Hell, he was fairly certain Dean didn’t even like him.

  Two summers ago, Dean had published a non-fiction book and his publisher had held a book launch in Toronto, to which Dean had invited the entire team. Most of the team. He’d left off the rookies he didn’t know—Dean was extremely private—and Roman, despite their having played on the same team for two seasons.

  Roman had tried not to be hurt by it—it was his own fault for keeping everyone on his former team at arm’s length—but he had been. Which went to prove that emotions made no sense.

  “Did I lose you?”

  Roman grunted. “Still here.”

  “So? How’s it going there?”

  “It’s going.”

  A pause, then, “You’re so eloquent.”

  A snort-laugh escaped Roman.

  “I feel like I’ve been cast out of my family.”

  Whoa. Amusement fled. “Yeah, that’s a good way of putting it.” Roman hadn’t made the comparison, but now that Dean mentioned it, that was exactly what it felt like. And Roman had been cast out of his family. You’d think he would’ve recognized the feeling.

  Compartmentalization, maybe? An unwillingness to acknowledge the sensation of being thrown away again?

  “What are your new teammates like?” Dean asked.

  “Young. Not that I’m much older at twenty-five, but these guys just seem so much younger. What about you? You were already friends with some of the guys on the Toronto team, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah. Things have been pretty good here, but I still miss my old family. Not Florida, though.”

  Roman removed a plate of leftover chicken from the fridge—he was still hungry—and popped it in the microwave. “You don’t like Florida?”

  “I grew up in Toronto; I like four seasons.”

  “I grew up in North Bay.” About four hours north of Toronto. “I like my seasons too, but Vermont is fucking cold after having lived in Florida for so long. It’s so dry here. I swear to God, everything itches.”

  Dean laughed loudly.

  “Don’t even have a winter coat,” Roman muttered. It was on his to-do list, but he couldn’t be bothered. It was mid-January; winter wouldn’t last that much longer, would it?

  “No?” Dean said. “I visit my mom in Toronto and some friends in Vermont whenever I can, so I’ve still got mine.”

  Right. Dean had gone to college somewhere in Vermont.

  “Actually, that’s one of the things I was calling about,” Dean went on. “I’m visiting some friends in Glen Hill next week. It’s a little town southeast of—”

  “I know Glen Hill,” Roman cut in. The microwave beeped and he pulled out his chicken. “I was there earlier this week. I’m volunteering at the library.”

  “You’re volunteering?”

  Roman’s shoulders stiffened. “I can volunteer if I want to.”

  “No, I know. I meant . . . well . . . You don’t really like people.”

  In general, he had nothing against people; he just didn’t want them in his life. Getting a fork and knife out of the drawer, he put his phone on speaker and sat again. “It’s a Trailblazers community engagement thing.”

  “Oh. Cool. Anyway, I’ll be in Glen Hill next week. Wanna grab a drink or something? I can come to Burlington.”

  First Dean called out of the blue and now he wanted to hang out? Roman frowned into his chicken. “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  What kind of answer was that? “I don’t want to take you away from your friends.”

  “It’s fine. So? What do you say?”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “I’ll text you when I’m there and we can figure out the details.”

  “Okay.”

  “And hey, since you’re there,” Dean said, “make sure you take in a hockey game at Glen Hill College. The Mountaineers are killing it this season.”

  “Is that the college you played for?”

  “Yeah.” Dean’s tone was wistful. “Graduated a few years ago. Feels like a lifetime ago. I’ve got a friend on the team who was a first-round draft pick in last year’s draft, fourth overall.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit. The Mountaineers have a home game against the University of New Hampshire next week while I’m there. You should come.”

  “I . . . maybe.” Dean was now the second person to tell him that he had a friend on the Glen Hill College hockey team. Small world, that Glen Hill.

  They hung up shortly after, and Roman stared at his phone for so long his chicken got cold and he had to reheat it.

  Alex Dean. Wanted to hang out with him because . . . Because what? Roman honestly had no fucking clue.

  The library was in chaos.

  And by chaos, it meant that Eileen, two of the part-time circulation desk employees, and the admin assistant stood together in the back corner of the employee office area, talking in harsh whispers. Cody went through a doorway into the staff lounge where he left his winter coat and changed out of his boots and into his indoor shoes. When he stepped back into the office, the ladies were still at it.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Oh, Cody!” Eileen threw her hands up. “Mr. Wallace is at it again.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Wallace.” Eileen shooed the other women back to work and came over to him. “He’s such a curmudgeonly old man. I wish he’d move out of Glen Hill.” She stalked past him, through the larg
er administration office, and into her own small one on the other side.

  The hell? “What’s going on?” he repeated to the room at large.

  Kate, the admin assistant, said, “A few years ago, Mr. Wallace was very vocal about getting the library shut down since there’s a bigger one in Montpelier. At yesterday’s board meeting he very pointedly hinted that he’ll be making the same proposal again at Glen Hill’s next town meeting.”

  “Okay, but . . .” To Cody, it didn’t make any sense. “Will the town actually listen to the suggestion of one old guy?”

  Shut down the library. What kind of bullshit was that?

  “Mr. Wallace is right about the library in Montpelier,” Kate pointed out on her way past him to the photocopier at the back of the room. “It is bigger. Not to mention that this is an old building, and it costs a lot to maintain. Those are two very valid points to bring up to town council.”

  “Is Mr. Wallace on the library board?” he asked. “The name’s not familiar.”

  “Nope. Just a ‘concerned citizen.’”

  Under different circumstances, the air quotes would’ve given him a chuckle. “How do we stop it from happening?”

  “Eileen’s going to revise the budget,” she said as the photocopier whirred. “One of the board members has volunteered to write grant proposals. Another has volunteered to speak with some of the people in town who have clout, whether wealth or history. Beyond that?” She shrugged.

  The answer was obvious to Cody: they had to prove that the library provided value to the community. And that meant that they needed more programs. Tiny Tot Storytime and the occasional craft session weren’t enough. Ever since their program and development coordinator had moved to Seattle last fall to be nearer to her daughter, the library had suffered a lack of activities. They needed someone to come in and host sessions on quilting and cooking, gardening and genealogy. They needed book clubs and kids’ camps.

  Grabbing a cart filled with returned books, he wheeled it into the library common area, his mind whirling with ideas. Shelving wasn’t his responsibility, but he enjoyed it every now and again. The task was tedious and required little thinking, leaving him free to contemplate ideas on how to save the library. Not that he had the first clue what would help, but he could certainly try.