RYAN LET the clock tick over past eleven thirty before he turned to the guy closest to him and asked the question that had been on his mind since the second period. “Kitty. Buddy. Friend.” Kitty—he was Kitty to everyone on the team except Kirschbaum, who called him Misha—gave him an amused look from behind one of his many shot glasses. “Doc,” he echoed. “New guy. Very annoying. Lots of questions.” He nudged Ryan’s shoulder to show he was teasing. If Ryan hadn’t been a professional hockey player, he’d have gone flying out of the booth. “What?” It was probably a direct result of the alcohol he’d
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