Page 7 of Man Advantage

“I’ll call him.”

“You said that Tuesday.” Russ shook his head, not unkind about it. “Best rent in town, heat included, and you’re sitting on it like it might bite you. I don’t get you.” He pushed off the bench and clapped Cole’s shoulder. “Call the man. Before you talk yourself out of your own good luck.”

He meant to call. He’d meant to all week, hadn’t, and couldn’t have said what kept stopping him.

His phone had the family chat going when he thumbed it awake, a stack of Thanksgiving messages he read through twice. Britt was hosting. Their mom wanted a head count by the weekend. Nobody had asked whether Cole was making the drive up. They knew the season had him, and nobody up there ever worried over Cole anyway. They were used to hockey keeping him out of town during the holidays. He thumbed back road trip that week, can’t swing it, true enough, and easier than the rest of it, and inside a minute he had three thumbs-up and a next year, Cole! from his mom. He put the phone away.

“Penalty Box,” Vargas said to the room, already pulling his jacket on. “Four minutes. I’m not waiting on anybody.”

Half of them went because a hard skate left a man starving, and because a practice that brutal was easier to shake off with the guys who’d shared it rather than alone.

Ford came down the row, moving carefully enough that you’d only have caught it if you were already looking. Which Cole was, because he couldn’t stop himself. “You coming? Beers are on Riggs. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

“I’m in,” Cole said.

He was more surprised that Ford was going. He almost always begged off, most likely so he could get home to take care of his aching body without Cole noticing.

The Penalty Box sat on Main, and Gunnar had the first round poured before they’d cleared the mat. He set fry baskets down without asking. They crammed into a booth built for six average-sized people, Cole on the inside with the wall at his shoulder and Ford wedged in beside him. Russ sat across from them, stealing fries from whichever basket was closest. Beaudry grabbed a chair to put at the end of the table when he finally arrived.

“Novo, we’re voting on the mustache,” Riggs said. “I move we shave it in his sleep.”

“It’s coming in fine.” Novo dragged a hand over his lip.

Poor guy sucked at growing facial hair. Not many on the team knew it, but he’d recently started putting some sort of cream on his face to hopefully help him grow a respectable beard by the time playoffs rolled around. Cole kept that information to himself.

“It’s three weeks old, and it looks like something you’d find under a couch cushion.”

“I kind of like it,” Beaudry said.

The whole bench turned on him. Four weeks up from juniors, and this was the first time he’d willingly voiced an opinion on anything. Cole was proud of him. Hopefully, that meant he was finally settling in and felt like he belonged on this team.

“Rookie, you don’t get opinions on facial hair till you can grow it,” Vargas said. “House rule.”

Beaudry took it and grinned into his beer. Riggs leaned over and scrubbed at the top of Beaudry’s hair. Cole pretended he didn’t see the way Beaudry’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Ford’s arm came up along the back of the booth. Cole felt the heat of Ford’s arm against his back and lost the thread of what Vargas was saying about some bar up in Duluth.

Then Ford reached over and plucked a fry off Cole’s plate. He didn’t ask. Novo narrowed his eyes. Cole’s stomach churned, and he prayed Novo wasn’t getting too close to the truth in his head.

The door let in a gust, and Leo and Dawson with it, Dawson’s hand already at the back of Leo’s neck, steering him toward the booth.

“You started without us,” Leo said.

“Riggs is buying,” Ford said. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

“I’m what?”

Leo dropped onto the end of the far bench, and Dawson muttered something about grabbing another pitcher.

Leo caught Cole’s eye. “You surviving him?” He tipped his head at Ford.

“Barely,” Cole said.

Leo was the first person Cole really got to know when he’d been traded to the Stags, and he was the only person who had any clue about the crush Cole had on his roommate. That truth had come out one night during the offseason, when they’d both had too much to drink and Leo had pressed Cole about going out to get laid. He’d even offered for him and Dawson to drive down to Milwaukee with Cole for a night at the club, but that had sounded like torture. No one wanted to be the third wheel.

“Attaboy.”

Cole watched Dawson’s thumb move once at Leo’s neck, easy, like wanting a man in the open was the simplest thing in the world. With Ford’s arm warm behind his back and Leo and Dawson across the table not hiding a thing, it was nearly impossible for his buddies to hold his attention.