except for the ‘O’, which is a puck.
Naturally.
Shane gets the door for me, and I follow him through the narrow space, past the fans wearing RENNER sweaters and the teammates with their matching Spartan-green ties and somber black suits. Everyone has a drink. Everyone’s smiling, celebrating Bryce’s life.
Two empty bar stools wait for us at a counter height table, and his teammates watch me, taking me in.
“God, you look just like him,” one of them says. “I’m sorry. I just ... wow. But you’re, like, a prettier version. You’re a girl version. You’re-”
He shuts up when his buddy elbows him, and another teammate offers to buy a round.
“He’s seeing things. You look nothing like Bryce. Want a beer?” he asks. I nod. I don’t usually because it’s bitter and bland to me, but I’ll make an exception tonight, all things considered. He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts across the room to the bartender, who gives him a thumb’s up and begins filling pitchers at the tap.
His teammates all look the same: brawny, broad shoulders, rounded biceps that strain against their suit jackets, chiseled jaw lines, and oversized hands. They’re all about mid-twenties, give or take, and their left ring fingers are bare. Just a bunch of non-committal, ice-grinding, handsomely-paid athletes living the dream. I bet women throw themselves at these guys, and I bet they love every minute of it.
The Spartans are going through their phones, laughing and showing pictures of my brother. Someone’s phone gets passed to me, and I recognize several of the pictures from the slideshow that played at his funeral this morning. From what I gather, Bryce didn’t smile for pictures. Maybe he was self-conscious about his smile because half of it had been knocked out over the years and rebuilt by the team dentist, or maybe he was just a miserable sap. Could be a combination of both.
He also liked to dress up, from what I’m seeing. When he wasn’t playing hockey, he was dressed like he was someone important going somewhere special. One of the guys tell me he was quite the lady killer, but before he can elaborate, another guy gives him a death look that silences his commentary.
“It’s too bad you two weren’t close,” Shane says.
“Yeah,” I take a drink of the fresh beer someone has placed before me. “It is.”
“He was a hard son of a bitch to get along with. Tough as hell on the ice. Fast as hell too,” he waxes poetic, wearing a dopey smile. “Didn’t score a ton, but the kid could grind. Nobody worked harder than he did.”
The rest of the guys around the table lift their glasses and toast to Bryce’s grinding skills, and half of them chug their beers to completion.
Leaning closer to Shane, I ask, “Would it be okay if I could talk with you guys sometime about him? I’d love to hear stories. I have no idea what he was like.”
“Hell yeah,” Shane says, slipping his arm around my shoulder like I’m one of the guys. I’m thinking he’s well past buzzed already. “Who you should really talk to is Rhett.”
“Who’s Rhett?” I glance around, counting eighteen green ties.
“Rhett was his best friend,” he says, staring into his beer. “They were like brothers, really. Inseparable. Rhett knew him better than all of us combined.”
As far as I know there are twenty men on the team, so taking my brother’s absence into consideration, someone else is missing, and judging by the way they’re talking about Rhett like he isn’t here ... it’s pretty easy to narrow it down.
“Thought we weren’t going to mention him today?” The guy sitting across from us with a bushy red beard covering most of his face slices his hand into the air and glares at Shane.
“What? Why not?” My gaze travels between the two of them. Their silent exchange makes me need to know what’s going on here. “What happened with Rhett?”
The redheaded player excuses himself. Shane pinches the bridge of his nose and rests his elbows on the table, and then he blows a stern breath past his lips.
“So you know the girl who was killed in the accident with Bryce?” Shane asks. Turning to me, his face is washed in seriousness and his eyes narrow on mine.
“Yeah.” My brows meet, and I nod. Everyone knew Damiana Westwood, Victoria’s Secret Angel and video vixen extraordinaire. Holding contracts with Dior and Smart Water and Neutrogena and the proud owner of the face plastered on at