“Did you?”
“In Bantam, believe it or not. This douchebag was thirteen and thought the rest of us just existed to help him get drafted first overall when he was eligible.”
“Did he?”
With a smirk, Devon shook his head. “It was satisfying as hell to get drafted above him, believe me.”
“I bet it was.”
“Anyway.” He waved a hand. “Conrad. He was that much of a diva in juniors? I didn’t think he started that shit until he actually started playing in the League.”
“Pfft. If anything, the League humbled him a bit.”
Devon’s eyes widened. “Jacob Conrad. Humbled.” His eyebrows were nearly in his hair. “You mean he was worse before?”
“Somuch worse.”
“How is that even possible?” He made a face. “If any more smug came off him, they’d have to issue air-quality warnings.”
I barked a laugh. The TV was switching back to the All-Star event, so I gently reeled Devon back down against my side. As he draped his arm across my stomach again, I said, “Trust me—no matter how cocky a player can be, his teenage self can always be worse.”
Devon just shuddered, and we both chuckled.
Throughout the rest of the skills event, we spent the commercial breaks comparing stories about teammates past and present. He told me about a forward who’d stayed so late at a karaoke bar on a road trip, he’d had to hitchhike to the next town and barely made the next game. I told him about an assistant coach myrookie season who’d still had a massive chip on his shoulder over never being drafted himself. He regaled me with stories about a goalie in juniors who was legendary for doing wild shit.
“Like, I know goalies are not exactly known for their sanity,” he said. “You can’t really be completely sane if you sign up to be pelted with hundred-mile-an-hour pucks.”
“You’re not wrong,” I said, chuckling.
“Right? But this guy, he was the one who’d disappear for a few hours, then show up stinking to high heaven and dirty as hell because he thought it would be fun to do a greased pig contest.”
I burst out laughing. “No shit?”
“Swear to God.” Devon gave an exasperated but amused sigh. “We were in some town I can’t remember the name of, and he comes strolling into the locker room before warm-ups…” He gestured at himself. “I willnevercomplain about the stink of hockey players afterthatincident.”
“Did he play that night?”
“Oh, yeah. Got a shutout and everything.”
“And did his nickname change after that? Like did they call him ‘Pigs’ or ‘Grease’ after that?”
“No.” Devon shook his head. “No way was he escaping the nickname he already had.”
“Which was…?”
“Tips.”
I furrowed my brow, twisting a little to gaze down at Devon. “And that was worse?”
“Mm-hmm.” He looked up at me with an impish smile. “Because it was from the night he was determined to prove that cow-tipping was real.”
“Oh no.” I facepalmed, letting my head fall back against the couch. “He didn’t.”
“Well, he didn’tsuccessfully, no.” Devon laughed. “The cow kicked him. Benched him for the rest of the season.”
“Jesus. I’m surprised he didn’t get cut from the team after that.”
“Nah. Our coach and GM decided to keep him around as an example.” He paused. “And he really was a spectacular goalie when he wasn’t getting beat up by livestock.”