I Lost a Bet to My Hockey Rival, Now I Wear His Number novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Tap
Boston loses on a last-second goal, the rival taps his number at the bench, and the next morning the winner walks into the press conference with the jersey and a hotel key card in the sleeve.
Four seconds were left, and Gaspard Lachapelle was alone in front of the Boston net.
The puck came off the boards and landed on his stick.
He didn't even look down, he just turned his wrists, and it went in.
The horn blew, and eighteen thousand people in Boston made the sound of a building losing a tooth.
Then Lachapelle skated the long way back, right past the Boston bench, and tapped two fingers against the 29 on his chest.
Nash Brannagh was standing at the end of that bench with his helmet in his hand.
Lachapelle looked straight at him, tapped the number again, and tipped his chin at the 17 on Nash's jersey.
It was the neatest insult Nash had ever been handed.
It was also exactly what they had bet on.
"Tell me you didn't," Donnie said beside him.
"I did."
"With your name?"
"With my name, Donnie. It's the only one I've got."
"Oh, you poor dumb bastard." Donnie was already laughing. "A dozen people filmed you shaking on it."
Twenty-eight days ago, at the Pucks for Kids gala, they had each been holding a glass of the host's rye.
Nash had said Boston would beat Montreal next time they met.
Lachapelle had said Montreal would.
Loser wears the winner's jersey, name and number, to every public appearance for the rest of the season.
They had shaken on it under a chandelier, and Lachapelle's hand had been dry and warm and had held on one second too long.
Nash had decided that was the rye.
At six the next morning his phone lit up the dark bedroom.
BERNIE COSTIGAN: Facility. 8:30. Don't talk to anyone. Don't post anything.
At 8:15 she was waiting at the loading dock in a black blazer, reading glasses pushed up into her hair.
"Here's what the internet thinks," Bernie said. "It thinks you got drunk and made a dumb bet with the guy who just beat you."
"That's what happened."
"That's not the story I'm selling." She held up a tablet. "The story is a charity stunt. Pucks for Kids, two stars, one jersey, every fan in two cities watching you wear it. I've already got a sponsor."
"I'm going to wear Lachapelle's name on my back for five months."
"You're going to wear it for five months and sell nine thousand of them. I can also make it go away." She lowered the tablet. "One sentence. Nash had a few drinks, the bet was a joke, and he's focused on the season. Your call."
It was a clean out.
Nash looked at it for exactly as long as it took to picture Lachapelle watching him take it.
"Where do I stand?" he said.
"Nash."
"Where, Bernie?"
She sighed and pointed at the podium.
The room was packed, forty reporters and every camera Boston owned.
Bernie read the statement.
Then she turned the mic to him, and a woman in the second row said, "Nash, did you really bet your name on this?"
"I bet it on the best player I've ever lost to," Nash said, and got his first laugh. "A bet's a bet. I'll wear the thing."
"Even to the dentist?"
"Especially the dentist. He's got a Montreal fan in his waiting room."
That got the second laugh.
Then the back doors opened, and everybody turned around.
Gaspard Lachapelle walked down the center aisle in a gray suit with no tie, and the whole room shifted to let him through.
He was taller than he looked on ice.
His black hair was cut short at the sides, and the white scar through his chin caught the lights.
Over his arm lay a folded white jersey with navy trim.
Nash felt the stupid grin leave his face.
"Charity partner," Bernie muttered. "Montreal's idea. I only found out this morning."
Lachapelle stopped at the foot of the podium and looked up.
"Brannagh."
"Lachapelle. You came all this way to watch me lose again?"
"I came to deliver." His English was exact and flat, with the French underneath it like a floor. "I had it made last night. They worked very fast."
He held out the jersey.
Nash came down off the podium, took it, and the cameras went off.
LACHAPELLE was stitched across the shoulders, and below it the 29.
It was heavy and clean and it smelled faintly like cedar.
Their fingers touched under the fabric, and Lachapelle's thumb moved once across his knuckles.
It was so quick that Nash was sure nobody in the room saw it.
"Put it on," Lachapelle said, quiet enough that it was just for Nash. "Or I'll tell them you're afraid."
"I'm going to wear it better than you."
"That is a very low bar."
The flashes were still going when Nash pulled the jersey over his head, right there in front of Boston, and the room howled.
Lachapelle didn't smile.
He just stood there and looked at what he had done.
Then Nash felt something stiff in the left sleeve, pressing against his wrist.
He slid two fingers inside, and the cardboard slipped out into his palm.
It was a white hotel key card.
There was a number written on it in black marker, in small square handwriting.
1412.
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