Page 85 of Over the Line

Chris’s eyes widened. “You think we’ll be bag skating tomorrow?”

“Nah.” I shook my head. “Coach wasn’t happy after the game, but it wasn’t that big of a blowout. And we were pulling it together in the third period. That’ll go a long way.”

“He still might make us bag skate,” Temo said with a smirk. “Just to make his point.”

Everyone at the table groaned. Chris looked a little alarmed, but I bumped him with my elbow. “Relax. Coach isn’t big on doing that. Not even if we’re a complete trainwreck.” I paused. “Well, unless you’re Temo, and then you just make him bag skate because⁠—”

“Fuck you, Saints.” Temo threw coaster at my head, and I laughed as I batted it away.

Beside me, Chris started to relax again.

Tossing the coaster back to Temo, I told Chris, “Trust me, it’s all good. We had a rough night, and Coach is going to expect us to play better. But we’re still in the playoff picture. Even if we weren’t, it’s not all on your shoulders.”

“Damn right,” Craws said. “It takes a whole team to play that bad.”

Everyone chuckled, including Chris.

“I guess that’s true.” He worked at the label on his beer bottle with his nail. “I think I’m just still feeling the pressure. Of being up here, I mean. On the Phantoms.”

I smiled and clapped his shoulder. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t belong here. A bad night here and there—especially when it’s not just you—isn’t going to get you sent back down.”

“Thank God for that.” He chuckled almost soundlessly. “I’ve gotten spoiled by the charter jets.”

That had the guys laughing again, and suddenly they were all comparing stories about traveling with the minor league teams. That usually entailed buses, commercial jets, and less-than-spectacular hotels, especially compared to the places the Phantoms stayed.

I couldn’t contribute much to that. The only time I’d ever played in the minors had been when I was on a conditioning loan after an injury. Otherwise, I’d been on the Phantoms roster practically from the day I was drafted.

Admittedly, sometimes I envied the guys who spent time developing on the farm teams. The shift from major juniors to major league was huge. Yeah, it was great to have enough talent and skill for the club to put me right on the roster, but it had absolutely been overwhelming for a damn teenager. It had taken years to settle in completely because I’d just been a kid. I hadn’t had the time in the minors to bridge the gap between juniors and the Phantoms. One minute, I was playing alongside sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds. The next I—a just-nineteen-year-old myself—was getting slammed into the boards by thirty-something defensemen with hundreds of League games under their belts.

I knew Chris had been frustrated that he’d gone from being selected twelfth overall to—in his mind—languishing in the minors. I knew he’d thought he’d follow in my footsteps, leaping right into action from day one.

And what he didn’t know and would never know was that I was part of the reason he’d spent so much time on the farm team. The club had been ready to put him on the same trajectory as me. Who in their right mind would toss a first-round pick—a possible generational talent—into the minors?

Our coach and GM, that was who, and it was after I’d sat down with them to discuss it.

“He’s going to be a superstar,” I’d told them. “He’ll be setting team and League records—I can feel it.”

“But you still think we should send him down,” our GM had said incredulously.

“Yes.” I’d glanced back and forth between them. “Because I know what it’s like to be in his skates. We let him develop a bit more and cut his teeth on the farm team. Bring him up whenever we’ve got an opening so he can get used to League speed. Then, after a couple of seasons, when we bring him up for good, he’ll be confident and ready.”

“He seems confident to me,” Coach had countered.

“He’s eighteen. That’s not confidence—that’s teenage hubris fueled by media attention. Ask me how I know.”

In the end, they’d agreed to put him on the farm team for one season. Throughout that season, he’d been called up three times, and he’d definitely been intimidated and overwhelmed, though he still played remarkably well. By the time he’d led our minor league team to back-to-back championship titles, the powers that be had decided some more time would do him good. In the end, he’d spent almost four seasons there until late last year, when one of our forwards had gone on LTIR, Chris had come up and stayed up. He’d been ready. Confident. Poised. Fearless. Everything I hadn’t been as a rookie.

I sipped my beer as I watched him and the guys laughing about their experiences traveling with the minor league team. Maybe someday, I’d tell him that I was the reason he’d spent so much time down there. Or maybe that was something I’d take to the grave.

Did that make me an asshole? Keeping something else from him? And would telling him now make me an even bigger asshole? Man, I didn’t know how to navigate stuff like this. Especially when it was one of two significant secrets I was keeping from him.

Well, great. That was something to keep me awake tonight.

“Those girls really want your number, don’t they?” Craws said, drawing me out of my thoughts. I realized he was talking to our waiter.

The waiter laughed as a blush rose in his face. “They do.” He grimaced playfully and glanced back toward another table before whispering, “Sorry, ladies—I play for the other team.”

“What?” Temo straightened, almost dumping his beer. “You play for Washington?”