Chapter 2
The Code
Ryan 'Radar' Ryder
At thirty-four thousand feet in the air, the Boston Brawlers had left Denver and were finally heading home.
The four of us sat in the team plane's lounge, crammed into the restaurant-style booth.
On my left was Lance Couture. At 24 years old, Lance is our all-star. He's all speed, flash and skill, and supreme confidence in his talent. He's also my best bud and roommate. At the start of this season, we moved into a sweet condo together downtown.
Across the table, captain Shea Ellis. At 37, Shea is still the Brawlers' undisputed #1 defenseman. He's not the fastest d-man anymore—but there's no substitute for the years of experience that the crafty vet has accumulated over his career.
To Shea's side sat goalie Ilya Zarkov. A fierce competitor who didn't speak a word of English when he arrived in the States to play hockey at age 20. Ilya still speaks with a thick (and sometimes hilarious) Russian accent—but his English had really improved from when he first joined the league. The guys love 'em, even if we all think he's completely nuts.
Anytime we flew home after a road trip, the four of us had a tradition of getting together for a cut-throat game of poker. And we were feeling the heat: our suit jackets had come off, our neck-ties loosened, and our shirt sleeves rolled up.
I laid my cards on the table with a sigh. “I'm out. I got fuckin' nothing.”
“Same,” Ilya muttered.
Now the hand was between Shea and Lance.
“Long road trip, eh boys?” Shea said as he pushed a small stack of $500 chips into the pile with a clattering clink and raised the pot. He lifted a salt-and-pepper eyebrow and cast a suspicious glance at Lance.
Lance clutched a bag of ice to his swollen and purple eye thanks to a punch he'd taken in the game. “It was only a week on the road. You feeling it in your bones, old man?” he teased.
Shea didn't react. “Waiting on you, young-blood.”
Lance finally pushed a stack of chips into the pile. “I've played enough poker with you to know that you love small talk when you're bluffing.”
Suddenly looking ten years younger, Shea revealed his cards.
“Aw, fuck!” Lance swore while Shea lunged forward and greedily scooped up the entire pot with a snicker.
“You've got a lot to learn, kid. You don't realize I'm setting traps for you every time we play.”
“Oh, that was a trap, was it? Yeah, right, you gambled and you got lucky.”
Ilya, always amused and always laughing, chuckled heartily. “That, that was not luck. You walked right into that, Lance. Everyone could see that coming!”
“Just like everyone knew Hunter Rockwell was going top cheddar on you tonight, right Ilya?” Lance shot back.
Someone in the row ahead of us overheard the insult and gasped, “Damn!”
Rockwell had scored the only goal of the game for Colorado with a laser of a wrist-shot that he fired over Ilya's shoulder and into the roof of the net—AKA, top cheddar.
Ilya grinned. “Yes. Same way you saw Beau Bradford's right hook coming right for your eye.”
The boys in the row ahead of us went “ooooh!”
“Can't stand that Bradford prick,” Lance said as he repositioned his ice bag. “Can you fuckin' believe he sucker-punched me?”
I chuckled. “What did you expect? You were cracking jokes about sleeping with his wife. You gotta expect a response like that from a guy like him. You joke about a guy's family, the code says he has a right to lash out.”
Lance patted my shoulder. “Well, thanks for standing up for me anyway, Radar. I can always count on you.”
After Bradford sucker punched Lance, I rushed in and grabbed a hold of him. The two of us squared off and threw bombs at each other. Beau's a big kid and a tough customer, but I'm no pushover, either. We fought to a draw until the refs broke the fight up.
That's my role out on the ice—police the code of the game. When things get too heated on the ice, I step in to calm the tensions—and sometimes, I have to let my fists do the talking. But most importantly, I have to make sure that no one takes any liberties on Lance. Because you have to protect your star if you want to go far in this league.
“Just doing my job, bud,” I replied.
Shea made small talk while he dealt another hand. “So, after that road trip, it'll be good to be back home, eh? Anyone got plans?”
He was met by a few grunts and grumbles.
“Nobody?” Shea asked with a shrug. The cards kept coming. “Hey Radar, Lance, how's that new condo of yours?”
“It's nice,” I said. “We're in Charlestown, right downtown, close to all the bars.”
“So when are you two gonna have the team over to your condo for a little house-warming?”
I shot Lance a look. “Actually, we should have the boys over soon. But the place is still so empty. We need to hire someone to furnish it or something.”
“Yeah,” Lance agreed with a frown. But then something dawned on him. “Wait a minute. My little sister! Ella. She's an interior decorator and she loves fashion and design and furniture and all that bullshit. I'll ask her right now.” He whipped out his phone and started tapping away. “And hey, I put her through college, so I figure she owes me one.”
“As long as you gents are getting along at home,” Shea said as an aside. “That's all I care about. Because the last thing this team needs is to be torn apart by some dissues.”
“Dissues?” Ilya asked. “What is this word?”
“It's slang. It means 'dish issues,'” Shea told the Russian. “Like when someone doesn't clean up after themselves in the sink.” He lowered his voice. “And I'm betting that Lance is the slob.”
Lance rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I'm a slob, so what? Radar wakes me up in the middle of the night, so it all evens out in the end.”
Ilya joked, with his infamous shit-eating grin, “I hate it when you wake up freezing, because your lover stole the bed sheets from you.”
He earned a few snickers from around the plane.
“Now don't go bringing your sick wank fantasies into this, Ilya,” Lance countered. “Anyway, no, Radar didn't steal the comforter from me … but maybe that's what his lady friends are always screaming about!”
Towards the front of the plane, my teammates' heads suddenly popped into the aisle, and every last set of eyeballs was focused right on me.
Oh, for God's sake. Ever since Lance and I moved in, he's been spoiling these guys with the details of my love life. I felt an embarrassed heat rising in my cheeks.
“Another notch in the belt, eh Radar?” someone called from the front of the plane.
“Notch in the belt? Don't you mean, pair of panties for the panty-box?” someone else replied.
And then everyone exploded into laughter with that last one.
“Shutup,” I roared back at them. And then I mumbled quietly to the poker table, “I never should've told them about that.”
“You didn't tell them about your panty collection,” Lance said with a glint in his eye. “I did.”
“Right. Thanks for reminding me, dickhead. I'm trying to forget for your sake …”
Lance knew he had the attention of everyone on the plane. He spoke loudly, addressing the team.
“So, it was the night before we left Boston for this road trip. At three in the morning, I wake up to this guys' headboard crashing against the wall, bang bang bang! And a girl starts screaming, 'No! No … don't … no—nooo! Ohhh, yesssss!' I swear, it went on for hours! So if you're wondering why I played like shit that first game, now you know why.”
More hysterical laughter over Lance's orgasmic dramatization.
I gave Lance a shove. “At least I'm getting laid. When are you gonna figure out that your lovely Instagram butt model just wants to see how severe a case of blue-balls she can give a pro athlete?”
Lance smirked. “Thanks, but I'll pass on the dating advice from the guy with the panty collection.”
Josh Stone, a rookie sitting across the aisle, leaned over. “Wait, I'm confused. You said Radar's girl was screaming no?”
“I don't get it either,” Lance said. “In Radar's defense, she sounded like she was having a good time. She came a lot more than once. Trust me. It was super hot.”
Ilya's body shook with a silent laugh. “Sounds like you enjoyed listening.”
“Honestly? Yeah, I got hard.” Lance gave a shrug. “Hey, why's everyone laughing? At least I'm man enough to admit it. And yeah, I'll admit it, I rubbed out a quick one, too.”
“Ugh,” everyone groaned. Lance had taken it too far, as he always does, and now all the heads disappeared from the aisle, ear-buds were stuffed back into ear canals, and everyone went back to minding their own business.
The look of amused horror on Ilya's face said it all. “And only a minute ago, you said I had weird wank fantasies.”
I threw down a chip. “That really is fuckin' sick, Lance. I never want to think of you, one door down the hall, jerking it to the soundtrack of my sex life.”
“Then next time you're nailing some dumb broad, keep it down! And I won't have to!”
“Fine.”
Long-in-the-tooth Shea wore a rare and wily smile. The old man was loving this whole exchange. “So what were her panties like, Radar?”
You know the roast is bad when Shea wants to get in on the action.
“Black. Thong. Pretty standard,” I said, resigned.
“Oh, so a black thong is the standard, is it? Not a unique collector's item then?” Shea replied.
“Guess not.”
“And how the hell do you even get their panties in the first place? Do you steal them when they go to the bathroom or what? Don't they notice they aren't wearing any panties when they get dressed?”
“Jesus, Shea. I'm not some creeper rifling through a girl's shit and stealing her panties. I don't even have to ask. They know to give them to me.”
“They know to give them to you,” Shea repeated, and then he really looked mind-blown. “How the hell does that work? How do they know you want 'em in the first place?”
I sighed. “Can someone else explain to Father Time how dating works in the modern era?”
Shea shook his head. “No, no no no. That's not dating. I don't know what it is you kids do today, but it is not dating, lemme tell ya.”
Groans arose all around us. The team feared a history lesson on what dating was like back in Shea's day.
Someone shouted, “Thanks Grandpa, but it's time for a nap!”
Shea ignored the comment and pressed further. “So what're you going to do when you fill that panty box up, Radar? Is that when you'll know it's time to settle down and get married or something?”
“Get a bigger box, obviously.” I slammed a chip down on the table. “Are we going to play this hand or what?”
“Uh oh, I think we made him mad.” Lance put his arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze. “Don't get all unhinged-psycho on us now. We're just fucking with you, big guy.”
Shea and Ilya both threw in their bets.
“Lance?”
But Lance's phone made a beep and distracted him. “Oh. Hey. Perfect, dude. Turns out my little sister is free to visit for the weekend. Said she had some plans but they fell through. You mind if she stays with us, Radar?”
“Not at all.” I paused. “Didn't you say your sister was nuts, though?”
“Oh, she's completely insane. She has this idea in her head that lies are the worst thing ever. If you lie to her and she finds out, she flies off the fucking handle. Just be warned.”
I laughed. “Well, whatever. She'll be your problem, not mine.”
Someone in the row ahead of us wisecracked, “you know Radar is going to add your sister's panties to his collection, right Lance?”
Laughs came from all over, but Lance slowly turned his head to shoot me an enraged stare.
“He better fucking not.”
I patted his shoulder. “Relax. He's just being stupid. Family is off-limits and everyone knows that.”
That put Lance at ease. Because if there was anything you could say about me, it was that I lived by the code. And everyone knows that there's no bigger sin than sleeping with one of the boys' family members. Wives, girlfriends, sisters, moms, aunts, whoever—just don't.
Don't even look at them.
Because there's no faster way to tear a team apart and get your ass traded than to get involved with a teammate's sister.