Page 63 of Puck, Marry, Kill

I’m not saying we’re a true brotherhood yet, but we’re closer than we were a few short weeks ago.

“What about the rest of them? Howe, Krivosky, Jack Off?” He throws out players’ names like he’s reading from a roster, but I think the most important one is the one he listed first—Howe, who happens to be the Hawks’ goalie.

“Howe is like that mean old bull on the verge of being put out to pasture. He’s mostly chill, but occasionally grumpy as hell, so you don’t fuck with him too much because you’re pretty sure he could still mow you down before you made it to the fence. Goalies tend to set the tone for a team. Like how Anderson does for the Blizzard.” I add that little tidbit as a teaser, jerking the line I’ve got Kipson hooked on.

Two steps forward, one step back. It’s a dance, getting me closer to figuring out exactly what he wants to know. But he doesn’t so much as blink at the comparison. Is his lack of reaction, a reaction? Or does he truly not care?

“Krivosky is the comic relief of the locker room, annoying the fuck out of everyone. But make no mistake, any one of them would go to bat for him. I would too. Jacofovich isn’t only the captain on the ice. He’s Coach’s right hand and keeps the rest of the motley crew in line. And if you want any more insider information, you have to tell me why the fuck you’re suddenly interested in the Hawks. You looking for a team trade?”

“No,” he answers quickly. Too quickly.

“They’ve got their right defense handled, so you’re shit out of luck there.” I give him a sideways glance. “But that’s not why you’re asking anyway, is it?”

He’s quiet for a long minute. Long enough that I consider that I might’ve pushed too hard, too fast. But nah, that’s not like me. Maybe he’s just not ready to face the ugly truths I’m shining a too-bright spotlight on.

“You said we’re not a team.”

It’s not a question, so I don’t answer and instead, wait him out.

“How did they become a team?”

And there it is. Finally. I don’t feel victorious because it’s not about me. I feel proud of him for realizing there’s a problem.

“Honestly? I have no fucking idea,” I reply smoothly. “They were a well-oiled machine when I got there. It’s been a generational thing with the Hawks, one group passing on the culture as rookies become veterans, and new rookies come into the nest.”

“Motherfucker,” he spits at me, then takes a healthy swallow of his beer.

“Buuut,” I drawl out, “I saw how it worked, how it got passed down. I was that baby bird once, and I know that the culture is reproducible. Or at least I think it is.” I nod, pretty sure.

“And that’s what you’ve been doing here?” he asks, seeming not altogether sure of my motives or intentions despite me being crystal clear since the beginning.

“Yep. And I think it’s working. The pregame dinners have been great. Minus Anderson, but I’m calling him a phase two project. The zoo event had zero bloodshed and significant teamwork. As far as I can tell, we’re this close to having our periods synced up.” I cross my fingers and close my eyes like I’m hoping it happens soon.

Kipson nods slowly, like he’s thinking over my assessment of our progress, but I stand by it. We’re eons away from where we started. Bill even divulged a secret that he swore he was going to take to the grave since he knows Coach’s rules. What’s more, we’re all hiding that secret with him now and Coach has no idea, nor will he.

“Where does Briar Johns fit into this plan of yours?”

My heart stops beating in my chest, drops down to my ass, and then climbs back up to my throat. “What do you mean?”

He looks at me like I’m stupider than he thought I was. “I know you’re fucking Coach’s daughter.”

“You don’t know shit,” I snap.

I am not fucking Briar. I’m falling in love with her. Not that I’m going to tell Kipson anything of the sort.

“I know that you were navigating all over that zoo like you could lead a damn tour,” Kipson tosses back easily. “Yet you’ve only been here a couple of months?”

“I’ve been exploring the city, tourist style,” I counter. “Especially since I didn’t have any friends to hang out with.” I try to make it sound like a jab, but it deflects off him with zero reaction.

“Or you’ve been going there to see Coach’s daughter. Playing, animal-style.” I really hate that he’s calling her “Coach’s daughter” like that’s all she is. Even worse, I hate that he makes what Briar and I are doing sound dirty, and not in the good way. No, he makes it sound like ... the Blizzard way.

I grit my teeth, refusing to answer even though it wasn’t a question in the first place. I was expecting a trap about team dynamics, not about my personal life, and I’m feeling unprepared, a sensation I don’t particularly enjoy.

Reading people is what I do, but as I stare at Kipson, I can’t tell what he’s thinking at all. Is this the gotcha moment? Is Coach about to jump out from the next booth and fire me? Or is Kipson going to use this intel to blackmail me into leaving him alone? That seems more likely, I think. At this point, I’m not sure what his angle is, but I need to suss it out ... quick.

“I know that she was making eyes at you the whole time we were at that fundraiser shindig. I know that every time Anderson spoke to her, you looked like you wanted to murder him with your bare hands.” He chuckles, admitting, “Though if Anderson had said one word to Sofia, I would’ve done the same. Still might.” There’s truth in the words. Even now, he’s one too-sharp verbal barb away from attacking Anderson.

Maybe I can use that?