“Have fun at the little kids’ table, Petrov,” said Stuckey, a defenseman who was a constant smart-ass when he wasn’t on the phone with his girlfriend or telling the team stories about the horse of a Great Dane they shared.

“Are you ever going to stop being in a shit-ass mood?” asked Phillips, the team Thor look-alike.

“Not until I’m on the ice,” he shot back as he strode past, barely slowing in his speed as he watched Shelby lean in closer to Christensen to take a look at whatever it was he was showing her on his phone.

“Have pity on us, Doc,” the team captain, Zach Blackburn, hollered from his place at the head of the big table. “Clear the asshole.”

“Don’t drag me into this, boys,” Doc said. “The body heals when it heals. You can’t hurry it.”

Doc took a deep breath that was no doubt the precursor to a mini lecture on patience, visualization, and doing what it took to stay healthy, which Ian considered his cue to speed the fuck up before he got called in to be used as an example of exactly what not to do. He’d heard the speech before, and that was more than enough.

He had no more than sat down at the tiny circular table when a waiter came by with two large glasses of milk over ice and put one down in front of Christensen and the other in front of him.

Finally, something was going right today. Ian let out a sigh of relief and the muscles in his shoulders unwound enough to inch downward from his earlobes.

Shelby wrinkled her nose. “Milk? Really?”

“It does a body good,” he and Christensen said at the same time.

Ian was grinning and holding up his glass to clink against Christensen’s before he realized it. He stopped just in time, changing direction so he gulped down half his milk in one swallow instead.

It was habit—everyone on the team busted their chops about the milk. It had just made them more likely to order it more often until it became part of their pregame routine. Fine. Superstition. There was no shame in that. Hockey players were notorious for being very specific when it came to game prep. Stuckey had been wrapping his stick the same way since Juniors at least. Blackburn isolated, scaring the shit out of anyone who broke his silent zone. He and Christensen drank milk and chipped at each other. It was what worked. No one fucked with that, not even when the other guy was a complete asshole.

“I went through two gallons a week growing up.” Christensen wiped a milk mustache away with the back of his hand.

Like that was anything to brag about. “Me too.”

“Maybe it was three,” Christensen said.

Ian snorted. “Oh yeah, well—”