Pucking Around (Jacksonville Rays, #1)

by Emily Rath

I took my first unrestricted queer breath. I was free to explore what I’d kept buried all those years. A few drunken hookups in the back of bars revealed the surprising truth. Turns out I really like the feel of a dick in my mouth.

I can take care of the urge with my hand. What I crave is something…deeper. I want connection and intimacy. Someone who challenges me. Someone who just…gets me. If I can’t have that, I think I’d rather be alone.

“Sooo…what are you doing in there, Hurricane?” She narrows her dark eyes at me. “If I tell you, you’ll just mock me.” I raise both hands, one wrist wrapped up in Sy’s leash. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” She sighs. “Fine. I’m hyping myself up.” I raise a brow. “What?” “I may be a little bit nervous about driving this truck,” she admits. “I’m just not used to it yet,” she adds quickly. “Why did you pick something so big if—” “I didn’t,” she huffs. “I—it was the only option, apparently. Vicki said they got a deal.” “You do know how to drive, right? Like, you’re legally licensed to operate a motorized vehicle?” “Yes, Caleb,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “I’m a grown woman, a full medical doctor, and I have a driver’s license, okay? I just—” She goes silent, both hands still clutching the wheel. “You just…what?” “Ugh, fine! I’m just not a very confident driver, okay? I hate driving, and I’m not good at it. Some people are good driver’s and I’m just—I’m not. The gene totally skipped me,” she adds under her breath with a sniff.

“Oh yeah, I’m great. Super safe and reliable. I only failed my driver’s test three times!” “You—three times? How is that even possible—” “Hey, I aced my MCAT, thank you very much!” she snaps. “Driving is hard for some people. And I never had to learn growing up.” “Where the hell did you live that you didn’t need to drive?” “I always had a driver,” she says with a shrug. I put the pieces together and grin. “Oh…shit. Hurricane, are you a silver spoon girl?”

“I’m fine, Caleb. I’m a big girl with a big freakin’ truck. I’d just maybe wait a few minutes before following me on the road,” she adds. “You know, for your own safety.” Making the decision I should have made three minutes go, I shrug. “Why don’t I just drive you to work?” Her gaze darts back over to me. “No.” “Why not? We’re going to the same place. It’s better this way. More eco-friendly.” “I don’t need to be driven around like some spoiled little rich girl. And I don’t want to upset Vicki either,”

I’ve already got my keys and my wallet. I jerk open her car door. She shrieks. “Caleb—what—” “Move over.” “What the hell are you doing?” “You won’t let me drive you in my car, so I’m gonna drive this one. Unlike you, I love to drive, and I’m excellent at it. Now, move over.”

“Sy, up,” I say, patting the seat. He leaps into the driver’s seat, and she gasps with delight. “Oh my goodness. Is he coming with us?” She’s already got both hands out, rubbing his ears. The little traitor has his tail wagging in my face. I try to slap it down. “Yeah—Sy, over,” I direct with a snap of my fingers. Sy hops the seats into her lap. “You’re such a cutie patootie. Yes, you are. Ugh, I’m obsessed with his eyes,” she coos, wrapping both arms around him as he straddles her lap and licks her face. “You’re coming to work with me. Daddy gets to see you all the time. Yes, he does. I’m never letting you go ever.” She kisses his face, and he eats it up like a total ham. Lucky jerk.

She and Jake would be perfect for each other. My smile falls as I go still, my hand on the truck door. Rachel and Jake. Why does the thought of them together turn me on as much as it terrifies me? I glance over at her, watching her buckle in as she talks nonsense to my dog. If this gorgeous, sophisticated, slightly neurotic doctor ever decided to give Jake Compton the time of day, it would be game over. She’d have him as her shadow for the rest of her natural life. And then I’d lose him.

I shuffle into my tiny office. I barely have a chance to set my stuff down before I feel him. I spin around in my swivel chair, whacking my elbow against the wall. “Ow—shit—” I rub at it, looking up to take in the massive frame of Jake Compton. He’s smiling at me and I feel it all the way down to my toes. “Good morning, Doctor Price.” I roll my eyes, snatching up my travel cup. “Okay, champ, dial it back a little.” “What? I can’t call you Doctor Price?” “No, you can call me Doctor Price,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee. “I meant dial back the eyes.” He leans against my doorway, arms crossed. “My eyes?” “Yeah, they give you away.” “Oh, yeah? And what are my eyes saying this morning?”

“They’re saying they watched me come last night.” He feigns a gasp. “Why, Doc, I have no idea what you’re talking about. My eyes were with me all night. You can ask Caleb. He’ll tell you that at no point did I watch you ride a toy to climax.”

“You gonna shut the door, Seattle?” I glance up over the tablet. “Hmm?” My gaze darts to the open door. “I don’t think we need the door shut for this exam. It’s not like I’ll have you taking off any clothing. This is more of a formality. I’m just gonna poke and prod at your knees a bit.” “Yeah, well, I’m a pretty shy guy,” he says with a shrug and that sultry grin. “I prefer to know my doctor-patient confidentiality can’t be breached by some nosy rookie. These guys look for weaknesses, like sharks chasing chum in the water.” I pause in my skimming to look up at him again. “If I close that door, are you gonna behave?” He nods, raising the two fingers of his right hand. “Scout’s honor.” Oh, goddamn it.

“Compton, I swear to god—” He barks out a laugh, raising both hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, I’ll behave. Look, I’m totally behaving. Ask your questions, Doc. This is about hips and knees, right? No word of a lie, I’m in the best shape of my life. I had some issues with my meniscus about two years ago. Had a minor surgery. I’ve been playing great since.”

“Mmhmm. Did you know I have a magic talent?” He raises a brow. “Making a man hard with just a look?” I shake my head. “Nope. I’m basically a human lie detector. So, I’m gonna review this file, and I will do an exam, and I will ask you questions, Compton. And if I think you’re lying to me, I’ll ask more questions. I’ll do more exams. I will poke and prod and X-ray and scan until your records are thick as a phone book.”

“You should know that Doctor Tyler has given me the power to approve your final preseason review,” I add. “You wanna play next week?” He nods. “Yeah, of course I do.” “Good. Then get rid of that dirty look in your eyes. I’m not Seattle right now. I’m Doctor Price. So, tell me, how long was your post-op recovery after your meniscus surgery? What was on your regimen of care? And do try not to leave anything out.”

He sighs, his shoulders relaxing a bit. “Fine, Doc. We’ll do this your way.” Jake was a perfect gentleman for the rest of the exam. He answered my questions, performed all the range of motion tests I requested, and only groaned once when I did a quick check of his hip joints, my fingers prodding the muscles, checking for tightness or tenderness. I let him go with a smile and a quick promise that his starting position was safe.

“Alright, Langley. Let’s get star—ohmygod—what the hell are you doing?” He jumps up to attention, eyes wide as his gym shorts slink to the floor. He’s standing by the table in nothing but his junk-hugging briefs, socks, and trainers. “What—I didn’t see one of those paper gown thingies.” My eyes go wide as I hug the tablet to my chest. This guy is cut. There is not a single ounce of fat on him. And he was in the middle of a workout, so his perfect pecs are shiny with sweat. “Why the hell are you getting naked, Langley?”

“This is a physical…isn’t it?” I gape at him. “This—I’m a knee specialist, Langley. You were already wearing shorts.” I gesture to the pile of polyester at his feet. His face blanches whiter than an almond. “But the other guys all said—” He pauses, and we just stare at each other. Then his cheeks go from white to red. “Oh, fuck those guys! I’m gonna kill Novy.” Then he’s dropping to his knees to snatch up the shorts. I can’t hide my smile as I shake my head. “Just put your clothes back on. I’ll wait outside.” The second I step out, the gym explodes with laughter.

“Please tell me he stripped totally naked,” says Novikov, tears in his eyes. “No, he didn’t,” I reply. “And just for future reference,” I call out. “The first guy who gets naked in my exam room is gonna get benched for a week. Bad idea to piss off the person who signs your medical releases,” I add, shooting daggers at Novikov and Jake. “What’s wrong, Doc? Can’t appreciate the male form?” jeers Novikov. “Oh, I appreciate the hell out of a fine male form,” I reply. “I just like to have finished my damn coffee first.” “So, you would want to see us naked…just later in the day,” says Jake. “After you’ve finished your coffee.” “Yeah, it’s all a matter of timing,” Novikov adds with a nod.

I scowl at Caleb. “Jeez, Sanford,” I call, drawing their attention. “Who died and made you head coach? If it’s so easy, you put on some skates and show him how it’s done.” The second the words are out of my mouth, I know I’ve said something wrong. Caleb’s glare turns murderous. At the same time, the two guys share a nervous look. I glance between them, confused. “What—” “See you boys around,” Caleb mutters at the other two, turning on his heel and stomping away. I watch him go, feeling suddenly guilty. “Yeesh,” Walsh mutters. “That was harsh, Doc.” “Yeah, going’ in for the kill,” says the guy with dark hair. “Clearly, I just stepped in something,” I say, slipping off the bench and walking over to the boards. “Eh, Sanny’ll be alright,” says dark-haired guy. He skates off, ready to do another drill. I look to Walsh. “Will he?” He shrugs. “Yeah, probably. But maybe you should google him. And cut him some slack,” he adds as he sets his water bottle aside. “It can’t be easy for him.” With that he skates off, leaving me with my head spinning.

I google ‘Caleb Sanford hockey’ and after the most cursory of glances down the search result page, I’m ready to crawl inside a hole. He was a player. A forward, just like Walsh. The articles are a mix of his college stats and interviews, glowing reviews of his speed and scoring ability. I read the press release announcing him as the number three draft pick for the NHL. He signed with the Pittsburgh Penguins before he was even out of college. But then there’s the articles…and videos. They’re almost too awful to watch. He was taken out game one of his first season in the NHL. A brutal hit from behind smashed him into the boards. The defenseman was twice his size. He went down and he didn’t get back up again, writhing in pain, his mouth open on a scream you can’t hear as the camera feed cuts away.

They were both signed to the Penguins. For one shining moment, their shared NHL dreams came true. But then Jake watched his best friend go down. He had to watch him be carried off the ice, his dreams shattered with his leg.

He can’t play anymore, certainly not at the level required for the NHL. So now, Jake lives out their dream alone, while Caleb gets to watch guys like Walsh who have less talent than him, skate down the ice with sloppy stick handling. Yeah, I’m a total jerk. I have to say something. I have to apologize.

A massive stack of white towels sits on the end of the table, all but concealing Caleb from view. He’s standing, quietly folding more. Sy goes prancing in, sniffing the floor as he snakes behind Caleb. Pulling on my big girl pants, I step in. “Hey,” I call. Caleb glances up, his expression carefully veiled. His gaze falls right back to his work. “Hey.” Great start. I cross the room, coming around the stack of towels. “Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He stills, not looking at me. “Who told you?” “Google.”

“I didn’t know, but that’s no excuse. I didn’t understand the context of what was happening, and I shoved my foot in my mouth. I’m new to this team and to this world. I’ll make mistakes, but I’ll learn. And I am sorry, Caleb—”

I should leave him alone. He clearly doesn’t want to see me or speak to me. I should go. But I don’t. Instead, my feet are moving. Before I know it, my hand is on his tatted forearm. “Hey…can you at least look at me?” He stills, his gaze dropping to my hand on his arm. “Take your hand off me, Rachel,” he says quietly, his voice cold as ice.

I don’t like him using my real name. I want to be Hurricane again. “Caleb—” “Just stop,” he growls, turning to look at me. His eyes are so dark, almost obsidian. It’s a beautiful combination with his reddish-brown hair. Mix in his cheekbones, his pouty lips, and the fuck-all-the-way-off energy oozing from his pores, and I’m ready to fight a whimper as he leans in. “You see what you’re doing here? You’re making it worse. Just go.”

“How am I making things worse by apologizing?” He turns again, his shoulder almost knocking into me. His hand goes under my chin, tipping my face up sharply. Our chests are almost touching as he glares down at me. “See that look in your eyes right now? That pitying look. ‘Poor Caleb can’t play anymore. I’ll go pat him on the hand and make him feel better.’ I hate that fucking look.” “I didn’t—” “You think you know what happened?” he growls, leaning closer. “You think you have any idea what I’ve lost? Or how I’ve picked up the pieces? You don’t know anything, Doc. You don’t know me.”

I don’t know him. But I can’t focus on that. My mind is humming. Oh god, he’s so close. I can feel the heat of his skin. I can smell his aftershave. It’s crisp and clean, with soft notes of citrus. I can also all but taste his burning resentment on my tongue. I raise a hand, wrapping it gently around his wrist. “I don’t pity you,” I murmur, holding his dark gaze. “Empathy and pity are not the same.” “They are to me,” he mutters, trying to pull away. “No,” I say, holding him still. “Pity implies that I feel sorry for you. Poor, sad sack Caleb got a raw deal, right? Well, we both know that’s bullshit.”

“You knew what you were doing,” I explain. “You were at the very top of your game in a dangerous sport. You were a forward, a damn good one from your records, which made you a target. But you knew the risks.” My fingertips brush the inside of his wrist. “Why would I pity you for doing your job and taking the hit you always knew might come?”

“You’re not the first athlete I’ve known with a career-ending injury, Caleb. And you certainly won’t be the last,” I go on. “And I saw that hit. I saw the video, and I empathize with your pain—” “Oh, you do?” he huffs, trying to pull away again, but I tighten my hold on his tatted wrist. “Yes, I do. I may not have seen your chart, but I can only imagine how you fought in your rehab to regain the level of function you have now.” I’m determined to get through to him, to set this right. “But I think that’s who you are. You’re a fighter. You’re fighting me now,” I add, gesturing to the way he’s pulling back. “So no, Caleb. I don’t pity you. I would never pity you. I admire strength and determination. I admire resiliency. Which means I admire you.” With that, I drop my hand away.

Suddenly, his thumb is brushing gently over my lips. Oh god, he’s going to kiss me. The thought ricochets inside my head as my lips part. He dares to give my bottom lip the slightest tug, wetting the tip of his thumb against my teeth. My breath catches and I’m leaning in. He’s so close. I want him to do it. I want to know what his lips feel like against mine. I want to chase each kiss. I want— “Thank you,” he murmurs. Then he’s dropping his hand away from me and stepping back. I’m left standing there, swaying slightly with my lips parted, heart racing, wholly unkissed.

“Oh, and hey—” He reaches in his pocket and tosses something at me. I catch it on reflex, clutching my key fob to my chest. “I’m getting a ride with Jake. Think you can drive home in one piece?” I nod, slipping the key into my pocket.

These boys are going to be the death of me. I’ve already got one hockey player in my bed—well, okay, he was in my bed. Now he’s…god, I don’t even know what to call my not-a-relationship with Jake. He’s still texting me. He’s been burning up my phone all day. Random stuff like a picture of his lunch and something he’s calling ‘pelican watch.’ Apparently, a pelican keeps landing on the railing of his deck. That’s it. That’s pelican watch. It lands, and he takes a picture, and sends it to me. So, I have Jake talking me to orgasm through the phone and sending pictures of pelicans. I have Caleb helping me climb balconies and edging me without even trying. Did I mention they’re best friends?

Maybe I’ll go to the beach tonight. I’ve been in Jacksonville for almost a week, and I haven’t even seen the ocean— I still. An odd sensation prickles on the back of my neck, a feeling of being watched. I glance around the parking garage. It’s a bright, sunny day, so the garage is well-lit. I don’t see or hear anyone. I hurry along over to my truck, clicking the key fob to unlock the doors. The big truck beeps in the eerie quiet, taillights flashing. I rush over and jerk open the driver’s side door. That’s when I let out a scream. My soul leaves my body as a flood of colorful balls comes pouring out the open door, spilling around me in a cacophony of sound. Red, yellow, blue, green—they’re small and plastic, like from a kid’s play gym. Someone filled the inside of my truck with a ball pit’s worth of balls! I shriek, stumbling back. That’s where I hear it. Howls of laughter. I spin around to see ten guys standing a row of cars away with their phones out filming me, including Jake and Caleb. Sy is inside the back of a fancy Mercedes, his head poking out the window as he barks. “You guys are jerks!” I cry, stumbling over the balls as I come out from between the cars, hands on my hips. “Welcome to the Rays, Doc!” Novikov shouts. “I had nothing to do with this,” Langley adds, looking almost nervous to be included in the prank. “Oh, I know exactly who did this,” I reply. My gaze levels on Caleb, the guy who had my keys all morning.

Jake steps forward. “Come on, Doc. We’re all going to dinner.” He wraps an arm around me, pulling me away from the truck. I stiffen. “Well, I—” “Nope, we’re not taking no for an answer,” he says, cutting off my protest. “We tricked you twice today, and that can’t go unanswered. We’re taking you to dinner, and you get to order the most expensive thing on the menu. Novy’s buying.” “Hey—” I smile as all the guys start moving towards their cars. “Well—wait,” I call, gesturing around. “We have to clean up this mess!”

“Come on, Hurricane,” Caleb mutters, gesturing to the passenger side of Jake’s car. I don’t know which sensation I like more: the warm glow of his tacit forgiveness, his soft use of my nickname, or the brush of his fingers at the small of my back as he opens my car door.

There are no assigned seats, but we all have our routines. Some might even call them superstitions. I’m a goalie, of course I have them. One of my habits is that I like to sit on the right side, window seat, row 20. Don’t ask me why. But this is flight one. I have to stake my claim, so the guys know not to take my seat. My eyes narrow and I feel a growl rise in my throat. Someone is already sitting in my seat. It’s none other than the new doctor. Of course, she’s traveling with us.

“What’s goin’ on?” Langley calls from behind me. Great, let’s all have a conversation about this. Compton glances up at me. “You need that seat, man?” I give him a curt nod. To my surprise, he leans around me. “Sorry, Doc. Goalie says move, you move.” Her eyes go wide, lips parted in surprise. “What?” Compton shrugs. “Hey, I don’t make the rules, but I sure as hell follow them. Rule number one in hockey: never touch the goalie. Rule number two: never piss him off. He says that’s his seat, it’s his seat. You gotta move.” “Unbelievable,” she mutters, unbuckling her seatbelt and shoving her soda bottle and her phone back in her bag. I step back, letting her out. “Here, Ilmari. Here’s your precious seat. You could have said ‘please,’ you know. Or used more than five words to explain why you needed me to move,” she adds.

“What are you doing?” She shoves her bag under the seat in front of her, phone in hand again. “I’m sitting down. Or what—you need this seat too?” I groan. Yes. A few players and staff file past as I build up the courage to tell her to move again. I’m a big guy. I don’t like sharing a row. Taking a breath, I let it out. “Doc…” She glances over at me, one brow quirked up. “Oh god, you do need this seat. You want me to move again. You want that seat and this one.” “Yes.” We hold each other’s gaze for a long moment. Slowly, she crosses her arms. “Give me one good reason why I should respect you, when you clearly have no respect for me.” “What?” “You ghosted me four times this week, Kinnunen,” she snaps. “I worked with Tomlin to get you scheduled for a physical, and each time you were a no-show. You show up on time for every team meeting, every workout, every practice, every press event.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “Notice a pattern yet? You respect everybody else’s time on this team except mine. And I can’t help but wonder why that might be.”

“Is it because I’m a woman?” “What—no! How can you think that?” “Is it because you think I’m too young to be a doctor?” “No—” “Too unqualified?” I groan, fists clenching on my knees. “No.” “Then what, Kinnunen? Why are you ghosting me? I’m not moving until you tell me, And it better not be some bullshit answer about extra practices.” Before I can reply, a flight attendant leans down. “Ma’am, you need to fasten your seatbelt. We’re about to push back.” Doctor Price glances up at her. “Hold on. Apparently, I’m moving seats. Again.” “No, ma’am, you’re gonna have to stay in your seat,” the attendant replies. “We’ve closed the cabin door. You can move once we’ve reached cruising altitude.”

“I need that seat,” I mutter hopelessly. “Too damn bad, Kinnunen,” Price replies. “I’m the barnacle on your butt for the rest of this flight. And until you give me what I want and do your physical, I’m gonna be sitting in this seat for every flight from now until the Rays win the Stanley Cup. So, either get in my exam room, or get comfortable with me hogging all your air.”

Not gonna lie, it did unholy things to my lady parts to watch Jake Compton on the ice. He was laughing and joking all through the warm-ups, flashing me those hazel ‘fuck me’ eyes. But the moment that warm-up jersey came off, and he skated out under the music and the lights, it’s like he became a different person. He wasn’t my fun-loving Mystery Boy. He was No. 42, Jake Compton, and he was lethal.

“Well, Seattle Girl?” Jake said with a wide grin, his face wet with sweat. “How’d you like your first NHL game?” “You were amazing, Jake. Really incredible,” I say, smiling up at him. He leans in, his body twice as large as usual in his full kit. “Fuck—god, I wanna kiss you so bad right now.” I lean away with a laugh. “Fat chance, 42. You smell like a half-dead badger.” “You looked gorgeous tonight, baby.” “Uh-huh.” I’m trying to stop my stupid stomach from fluttering. “What’s it gonna take to get you to wear my jersey to a game?” he asks, eyes scanning my Rays polo. “Of course, you’ll have to keep your little charge paddles handy ‘cause seeing a big 42 across your back might just kill me dead.”

“I couldn’t keep my eyes off you. You’re gonna have to wear a paper bag on your head so you don’t distract me at the next game.” I roll my eyes. “You seemed pretty dialed in to me.” “I’m an excellent multitasker,” he replies. “How about we continue this conversation over a drink later? Maybe you sit on my lap naked and tell me more about how amazing I looked out there tonight.” I give him a shove. “Go, 42. Shower, before you attract vultures.” “I’m not giving up on us, Seattle. We’re inevitable.” “Yeah, yeah. Change, before you make Caleb mad.”

Then Kinnunen comes through, talking low with Coach Tomlin. He looks so different out of his kit. He’s still a bear of a man, but he looks more approachable now, more human. The only time I saw him today was on the plane, and goodness gracious but does that man look fine in a suit. I mean, all the boys look great, but Ilmari rocks a sexy Viking mafia boss vibe that would melt anyone like butter. Too bad he has to be such a dick all the time.

Setting my annoyance aside, I call out. “Hey Kinnunen, great game.” “That last save torqued his left knee,” says Tomlin. My eyes narrow immediately to his legs. His quads muscles are thick and well defined, wrapping around the top of his knees. I’ve already read his files thoroughly. Like most of these guys, his knees have taken a beating in his career. Several pulls in his hamstrings and ligaments. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has issues with his meniscus. You can’t do the constant range of motion a goalie does and not shred your meniscus bare. “What’s the problem?” “I dropped down too fast,” Kinnunen explains. “My angle was off, and my knee twisted.” “Let’s take a look.”

“Does this hurt?” I murmur, dropping to one knee as I glance up at him. “No.” I switch to the other knee and don’t see or feel any difference. I do a few standard range of motion tests on both knees and he doesn’t seem to be in any pain. “On a scale of 1-10, how bad was your pain out on the ice?” “Six.” I glance up again. “And now?” “Three.” I raise a brow. “And what’s your resting level of pain in these knees?” His blue eyes flash but he conceals whatever he’s thinking. “Three,” he mutters. “I’m fine.”

“If pain persists, we might need to get some scans—” “No scans,” Kinnunen says. “I’ll ice it at the hotel. Coach is just overreacting.” “We all just want you healthy and as pain free as possible,” I reply. “I don’t know if you know this, but you’re kind of a big deal.” His face twitches into something that could almost be an emotion before he’s walking off.

“What are you doing?” I glance up sharply to see Kinnunen looking like a Viking billionaire, staring down at me. “What?” “You have to sit with me.” I swear to god, the only reason I believe he said those words out loud is because I watched his lips move. “Ilmari, what the—” “Come,” he mutters, turning away. “No thanks,” I call after him. He turns, glaring at me. “This is your fault. You have to come. Quickly, before they make us sit for takeoff.” My eyes widen as I glance from a confused Morrow back to the massive goalie. “What the hell are you talking about? You literally made me move on the last flight. You said row 20 is yours. You said I couldn’t sit next to you. So now what’s your damage?” “You’re his lucky charm,” says Langley from across the narrow aisle, his eyes on his Nintendo Switch. “His what?” “Oh, shit—yeah,” says Morrow, shifting in his window seat. “Doc, you gotta go. Mars needs you.”

“You break it, you buy it, Doc,” says Langley with a shrug. “Break what?” “His pattern,” Morrow replies. “You broke his pattern by taking his seat and sitting in his row. No one sits with Mars. Not at meals, not on the bus. Definitely not on the plane. It’s his thing. Keeps him in the zone. You sat with him. You broke his pattern. And tonight, he played a shutout game.” “So now he’s gotta know,” adds Langley, eyes still on his Mario Kart. “Know what?” “Maybe the shutout was a combo of his skill and bad shots on goal,” says Morrow. “But maybe it was luck,” Langley adds. “Maybe it was you breaking his pattern.”