I Lost a Bet to My Hockey Rival, Now I Wear His Number novel · Chapter 4 of 24

Chapter 4: The Hoodie Loophole

The hoodie was gray, two sizes too big, and it was the best idea Nash had ever had.

He zipped it all the way to his chin in the rink parking lot on Sunday, over the white jersey, and checked himself in the car window.

You could see the collar of the 29 and nothing else.

You couldn't read the name.

"Technically," he told his reflection, "it's worn."

The Pucks for Kids family skate was two hundred children on the ice at a neighborhood rink in Dorchester.

Every one of them knew exactly who was supposed to be in whose jersey.

He made it nine minutes.

He was doing slow laps with a six-year-old hanging off each hand when a small voice said, in a tone of deep betrayal, "Where's your Montreal shirt?"

"It's under here, pal."

"Show me."

"It's cold."

"You're lying," said the voice, and a girl in a pink helmet skated off, shouting.

By the time he reached the boards there were forty kids around him in a ring.

One tall man stood in the doorway of the Zamboni gate, with his arms folded and his face blank.

Gaspard had on a navy sweater and jeans.

He was the only adult in the building who was not smiling, and he was by far the most watched.

"Brannagh," he said.

"Lachapelle. What a coincidence."

"Montreal's captain is the charity ambassador. I was at the front desk at nine." His eyes moved to the zipper. "Your sweater is very loose."

"It's a cold rink."

"It is a bet." He said it to the kids, but his gaze never left Nash. "How does it go? A bet's a bet."

"A bet's a bet!" yelled forty children.

Nash closed his eyes.

"You're enjoying this."

"Very much."

"I hate you."

"Take it off."

"No."

"Take it off, Brannagh, or I tell the little ones you are a coward."

"That's blackmail."

"That is diplomacy."

There was a long moment in which Nash considered the pink helmet, the forty faces, the phones coming up.

The fact that he did not know how to lose any other way than loudly.

Then he grabbed the zipper and yanked it down.

He peeled the hoodie off over his head and held it up, while LACHAPELLE glared across his shoulders in the fluorescent light.

The roar nearly took the roof off.

"Bad man!" someone shrieked happily, and a hundred little voices took it up, and Gaspard stood in the doorway not smiling at all, with a flush running up under his scar.

It was the best thing Nash had seen in a month.

He found out later that the whole thing had gone around Boston by lunch.

Right now he skated straight at the door and said, so only Gaspard could hear, "You're going to pay for that."

"I look forward to the invoice."

"There's a suite on the second level. Section 4. Bernie reserved it for the donors."

"Yes. I know."

"You know?"

Gaspard looked at him, entirely deadpan.

"I asked her for it this morning," he said.

The suite had a wall of glass over the rink and a long white leather couch.

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