Kaleb

We beat Buffalo 5-3, and the win is invigorating. With the combination of apples, goals, and record ice time with my new team, I'm feeling good. While the guys look exhausted, my blood is pumping with adrenaline. I'm out of the showers before the room fills with steam.

Sitting on the bench, towel wrapped around my waist, I extract my phone from my hockey bag. There are over thirty text messages from Mel. A small chuckle escapes my lips. She could become a commentator if she wanted to. Every text message aligns with moments where we almost scored, when the refs were shitty at their jobs, or when poor plays were made. Of course, there's some chirping allocated to Shea and me as well, which is my favourite part. Mel heckling me about a bad pass or penalty always makes me chuckle.

Especially when I know my actions on the ice were petty. Sometimes, emotions get the best of you and you solve that by cross-checking someone. I didn't get away with it. Still, I stand by my decision. The dude charged our goalie earlier—and you don't fuck with the goalie unless you're looking to start a scene.

"Dude," Shea says. "You look like a psychopath, grinning at the phone like you are."

Shea's voice echoes through the semi-empty locker room. It's a decent-sized locker room. Benching lines the walls, along with hooks and open lockers. The floors are a rubbery material for our skates, and the walls are a neutral colour. Nothing fancy, like our home locker room in Vancouver. Seeing the emblem on the floor always fuels me prior to games. As does playing in front of a home crowd.

Slipping my phone back into my bag, I glance at Shea. I'll call Melody once I'm back at the hotel, after Shea and I hit the pub for a drink and something to eat. Right now, I have to goad Shea. The dude's asking for it.

"Don't kid yourself, Smith," I retort. "My unhinged smile is nothing compared to the late-night sexting between you and Brenna. Must be ramping up. Considering she's pregnant and her hormones are all over the place."

Shea snorts. His voice is low when he speaks. "First, Brenna being pregnant is a blessing. Not because we want a baby. Also because she gets horny when she's drunk." He expels a deep breath. "She's a riot, but it's difficult to make her listen. Sometimes, I feel like I need to put her in a straight jacket. Her preferences become too... rowdy for me. Second, Brenna and I do not partake in sexting. While there's nothing wrong with that, it doesn't conform to the style of our relationship. Why do you have to comment?"

My face lights up. I punch Shea in the arm. "Dude, that's right! Remember when she wanted to smother you in chocolate and lick it off of your body? During high school. She got so drunk that night. It was hilarious!"

Shea cringes, rubbing the back of his neck. "Don't remind me."

He leans over, collecting his boxers and other articles of clothing. Then he stands and pulls his boxers on beneath his towel. Then the towel falls to the floor. He keeps his head down and stays focused on dressing. I keep my eyes averted. Shea's always been modest in the locker room; he doesn't like to put himself on display unless it's with Brenna. No shame in that. We abide by what we're comfortable with. By the end of a game, I'm always so exhausted I don't care. The locker room is full of dicks.

So this interaction isn't odd, minus the blush spreading across his cheeks. I cock my head to the side. We've discussed this before. Whenever we're reminiscing about high school. We discuss lots of embarrassing situations. We'll laugh or drink to them, with a little mortification in the mix. This story, in particular, rarely embarrasses him since Brenna's the one who got drunk.

Unless...

"Holy fuck!" I gasp. "You let her, didn't you?" My gaze flicks down to his chest, then his lower extremities hidden beneath his jeans. I wrinkle my nose. "How did that go? Hope you didn't burn your dick with melted chocolate. Mini Shea's been through enough, don't you think?"

Shea throws his sweaty towel at me. It hits my face, then slides to the bench. I lean over and grab the towel, winding it. "Remind me why I'm still friends with you."

His T-shirt muffles his voice as he pulls it over his head, but the tone is apparent.

It's a statement as opposed to a question.

A grin splits my face, and I use the towel to whip him in the thigh.

He jumps backwards, almost tripping over his hockey bag. His gaze is like daggers once he regains his balance. I'll pay for my actions later, but it's worth it. Riling this guy up has always been my forte. I think he loves being heckled. It's a dynamic of our friendship. And it's not like he doesn't dish it back.

"What the fuck, Jones?" he asks, rubbing the sore spot.

I toss the towel back to him. "Next time, don't go throwing your sweaty towel in my face. It smells like piss."

Shea snorts, discarding the towel into his hockey bag. "Just like your attitude."

I press a hand to my heart. "My god, Smith, how you wound me. My attitude most definitely does not smell like piss. It smells like fucking sunshine and flowers. If you don't believe me, check my middle name for reference."

The sound of a zipper closing fills the room, and then Shea is slinging his hockey bag over his shoulder. He collects his hockey sticks. "Whatever, Jones. I'll meet you at the hotel. Then we'll go out for dinner. If I don't appreciate some time away from you, I may lose my sanity."

"Poor baby," I pout. "Is my teasing too much?"

He's doing his best to appear upset, but he's failing. He's biting his bottom lip. "Nope. Just irritating."

"Good," I smile. "Then I'm doing my job."

Shea's lips mould into a cocky smirk. "So am I. If you feel the need to retaliate. That doesn't minimize my statement, though. I wonder why we're still friends."

Chuckling, I climb to my feet and clap him on the back. Buffalo is three hours ahead of Vancouver. Although we're heading back tomorrow, I want to call Mel before I go to bed. Two nights ago, she had Brenna, Abbey, and Ella over. When I called her the next morning, she was hungover. I knew it before she told me. Whenever Mel is hungover, there's always a lazy, gritty drawl in her French accent. All I want to do is see how she's feeling today. It'd be better to contact her before Shea and I go out. I have a feeling we'll get a little tipsy. When the banter is at maximum level, we unwind and act like teenagers again. Drinking makes us childish. There have been several instances where Mel and Brenna have needed to intervene and prohibit us from drinking. Throw Jayden into the mix, and well, it's a fucking party. With Tucker and the rest of them? Man, I won't say a word about that.

But that's how you make wonderful memories, right?

"You ask that question too much, Smith, despite already knowing the answer," I say.

He grumbles something incoherent. I believe there is some profound language included.

Leaning over, I collect my clothes, arranging them on the bench and hiding my smile. "Grumbling like an incompetent child. Lovely, Smith."

When I turn around, I see Shea's pulled on his ball cap. The visor is backwards, as per usual. He rolls his eyes, adjusting the strap of his hockey bag. "Whatever. I'll see you later, man. You're buying the first drink tonight. I got more apples than you."

There's no reason to argue with him. Shea and I have an agreement: whoever has more points at the final buzzer buys the first round of drinks. While I wracked up the points on two goals and one assist, Shea assisted three goals and scored one, amassing four points tonight.

"Yeah, man," I smile. "I'll see you later."

Shea tries to turn around before the smile breaks through, but I catch a piece. With his back to me, I drop the towel and pull my boxer briefs on. I'm just about to pull my sweats on when I hear Shea speak again.

When I look up, he's paused at the door.

"For your information, Jones, Brenna, and I aren't into that kinky shit. Unless you count binding her hands above her head while going down on her. We have a good use for mango chapstick, too."

"What the fuck did you two do with mango chapstick?" I frown.

He shrugs and says, "That's for me to know."

Without giving me time to respond, Shea pushes through the door, leaving me with my mouth gaping open. The door swings shut with a soft thump. Through the silence, I can hear the echo of running water and my teammates' voices echoing.

Goddamn him. Now I'm curious. How do you utilize chapstick during sex? Unless that asshole is toying with me. I'll admit, I can be a little gullible. When Shea keeps a serious tone while joking, he's difficult to decipher. He could be trying to cover up that Brenna's fantasy came true. Chocolate makes more sense than chapstick.

I would know.

On Valentine's Day, I painted Mel's body with it. Her inner thighs, the scars on her chest, her neck. The areas she was comfortable with.

And then I devoured her with my mouth and tongue.

I snort to myself. Half in amusement, half in disbelief. Whatever they did, it doesn't compare to some of the shit Mel and I have done. So I'm not judging him. Still, him walking out before I can make a comment disappointing.

"Well, that's no fun," I mutter, pulling on my joggers.

I hope he realizes our banter isn't over yet.

* * *

Later, at the pub, Shea and I are enjoying two ice-cold Coronas with lots of lime. As well as a thoroughly picked over plate of nachos. Several small containers of empty guacamole litter the table.

The pub we're at is typical: loud atmosphere, good food, and sticky table tops with a modern-industrial theme: brass accents, dark colours (save for the white brick behind the bar), and rustic wooden furniture and flooring. It's busy for a Sunday night, but I don't mind. It is easier for us to blend with the crowd in a busy place. Being in the crowd is nice when we're invisible.

He takes a sip of his beer. Condensation slides down the sides, soaking the cardboard coaster when he sets it down. He toys with a chip before deciding to pop it in his mouth. "Dude, I was messing with you. Brenna and I are vanilla. Nothing special aside from the connection we share."

Picking at the label of my bottle, I contemplate his words. I don't like it when people label sex with terms like "vanilla." Who cares what a couple does? As long as both of them are satisfied, then they're happy. Maybe they're not as explorative as Mel and I. That doesn't matter. I'm not looking for ways to judge him based on what they do. Just poking around and causing some banter.

"Don't sell yourself short," I say. "You guys are happy, so don't label yourselves. I'm just poking you, you know that, right?"

"Of course I do," he laughs. "Fuck, KJ. We wouldn't get along without our banter. Plus, we have boundaries and will explain when we feel the need to. Like what you just did. I appreciate you confirming your approach. Even though I'm aware of your intentions already. We respect each other, KJ. And if I cross a line, I want you to call me out. Whack me with a hockey stick. Do whatever you have to do to knock some sense into me."

I smile. "That's a lie. We would get along without banter. But the banter makes things fun."

I hold my bottle of beer up. If I say more, I'm gonna get choked up. I'm a sucker for heartfelt moments.

Our beer bottles clink together, and then we take a sip.

During this time, I think about Mel and I's post-game conversation. Before getting drunk, the ladies had a conversation about our upcoming wedding. Brenna's been chosen as the Maid of Honour. Ella, Camille, and Liana are her other bridesmaids. Abbey's invited to the wedding, but she isn't a close friend of Mel's. I'm assuming Mel had an extensive discussion with her about that. Mel wouldn't want someone to feel left out.

Anyway, news of their conversation got me thinking about the groomsmen. Sooner rather than later, I need to fill those positions. Shea will be the best man. That's inevitable. Our friendship is like the anatomy of a peanut butter cup; we're nothing without each other.

However, when Brenna and Shea got married, he pulled a nasty joke on me. He had to kiss my ass, as Brenna says, for months before I agreed. This is the opportune moment for me to lead him on, to make him think I've chosen someone else. Revenge is a good friend of mine, the one that fuels my petty side.

While seeing Shea wallow in his joke was fun, I don't think I want to take that route. Mel's been through enough, and I worry that, although stringing Shea along would be a joke, it'll stress her out. Mel deserves an easy going wedding.

Setting my bottle down, I rest my chin on my fist. "Shea, man. I need to ask you something."

He sets his beer down, levelling his gaze with mine. No emotion is visible on his face, and I can't blame him. My tone was more serious than I intended.

"As you know," I start, "I proposed to Mel."

"No," he replies.

"What?" I blink. That was a fast response. For all he knows, I could ask him for advice on wedding themes.

"You don't need to ask me, KJ. Fuck yes, I'll be the Best Man. Had you asked anyone else, I would've..."

I cock an eyebrow. "Please finish that sentence."

He chuckles, removing his hat and running a hand through his hair. I was going to say 'killed you.' However, it isn't right to promote violence."

"Funny. Your joke was violent."

"Fuck that. It was far from violent! You were just too sensitive! Who else would I have chosen? Use your common sense man. You're like a brother. I love you, man. Which is why I know you're picking me to be the Best Man. You feel the same way."

He's got me there.

And because I can't argue with him, I pick my drink up again, clinking my bottle against his.

I've checked one task off of the list.