“You’re getting old, Kicks.” I shoot a loose puck at his skates. “You’re four years older than I am.” “But who’s the one that needs the walker, eh?” His eyes are dancing. “Fuck you,” I say. “I’ll race you to the blue line tomorrow. Loser buys coffee for a week.” “Deal.” He taps his stick against my shin guard. “But I’m not taking it easy on you because you’re decrepit.”
