Chapter 9

There’s an eerie calm on the ice Tuesday morning as the team runs through drills. Hardly anyone says a word for two hours; only the sounds of our skates and Coach’s whistle echo through the empty arena.

The tournament brackets were announced yesterday. This weekend we face Minnesota Duluth in Buffalo, New York. No one wants to say it, but I think the matchup has everyone a bit spooked. The nerves are creeping in, and we’re all on edge and hyper-focused on our individual parts of the machine.

Hunter’s been staying late every day since we made the playoffs. He wants it bad. I think he sees it as a reflection on his success as captain, like it’s his job alone to win this for us and if he doesn’t, he’s a failure. Man, I could never do his job. I generally make it a rule to minimize expectations and not take on responsibility for anyone but myself.

After practice, we hit the showers. I stand under the spray and let the scalding water beat down on my aching shoulders. This tournament might just be the death of me.

My old team in LA sucked, which means we never had to worry about a post-season. Going this long at this high a competitive level is taking its toll on my body. Bruises, sore ribs, tired muscles. I honestly don’t know how professionals do it. If I’m even able to stand up on skates next season it’ll be a miracle. There are a lot of guys who think they want to go pro. Less than half have a legitimate shot. Me, I’ve never harbored any delusions that I’m NHL material. Nor do I want to be. Hockey has always just been a hobby, something to keep me out of trouble. Idle hands and all that. Soon, this part of my life will be over.

Problem is, I don’t have any idea what comes next.

“Hey, Captain, I move to call the Relationship Status Inquisition into session,” Bucky shouts out above the noise of the showers.

“I second that motion,” Jesse calls back.

“The motion carries.” Hunter stands in the stall beside me. I feel him staring at the side of my face. “This session of the Relationship Status Inquisition is now open. Bucky, call your first witness.”

“I call Joe Foster to the stand.”

“Present!” Foster gurgles out under the spray of his shower faucet at the opposite end of the room.

“I fucking hate you guys,” I say as I grab a towel and wrap it around my waist.

“Is it true, Mr. Foster, that Conor Edwards did publicly and embarrassingly drop to his knees to profess his love to Kappa Party Girl after he was known to have hooked up with Instagram Natalie?”

“Wait, what?” Foster asks blankly. “Oh, at the banquet thing. Yeah. It was fucking gross.”

“And did he subsequently bring Kappa Party Girl home that evening?”

“Yo, Bucky, I didn’t know you could use four-syllable words,” Gavin says, ribbing him as they leave the showers.

I head to my locker to get dressed, the guys breathing down my neck.

“Yeah, they spent a long time in his bedroom. Alone.” Foster’s going to find his car stuffed full of dildos sometime in the very near future.

“And they FaceTimed the other day,” Matt pipes up, a big stupid grin on his face. “He called her.”

A round of mock gasps travels through the room.

Guess Matt can look forward to some dildos too.

“You can all eat shit,” I drawl.

“I seem to remember,” Hunter says, “you conspiring to interfere in my dick affairs. Payback’s a bitch.”

“At least I don’t need you to make out with my girlfriend to get me to fuck her.”

“Ouch,” Bucky laughs. “He’s got you there, Cap.”

“So this is a real thing?” Hunter asks, unfazed by my jab at his stupid chastity bargain. “You and…”

“Taylor. And yeah, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

No, it isn’t real, technically. And it kind of sucks lying to the guys.

But also, what makes it not real? I mean, I’m not going to sleep with other women or date, because that wouldn’t be respectful to either Taylor or those potential women. She hasn’t said as much out loud, but I suspect she feels the same way on the subject. So that checks the monogamy box.

And okay, yeah, we’re not screwing or kissing or touching at all, but that doesn’t mean I’m opposed to those things. I think if I could make Taylor see herself the way I do, make her appreciate her body the way I do—fuuuuuck, do I appreciate it—then maybe she’ll loosen up a little and be open to the screwing and kissing and touching part. So that checks the attraction box.

Truth is, Taylor’s fun to hang out with and I like talking to her. She’s unpretentious and kinda hilarious. Best of all, she doesn’t expect anything from me. I don’t have to be some version of me that she’s concocted in her head or meet some wild expectations that only wind up disappointing both of us. And she doesn’t judge—not once has she made me feel like she looks down on me or is embarrassed by my choices or reputation. I don’t need her to approve, just accept, and I get the sense that she likes me for me.

Worst case, I get a good friend out of the deal. Best case, I screw her brains out. Win-win either way.

“It is what it is,” I say, pulling a hoodie over my head. “We’re having fun.”

Fortunately, the guys drop it, mostly because they have the attention span of fruit flies. Hunter’s already texting Demi on his way out the door, while Matt and Foster start discussing the squid movie we all watched the other night.

On my way out of the hockey facility, my phone rings. “MOM” flashes on the screen.

“Go on ahead,” I tell Matt. “I’ll be right there.” As my teammate ambles off toward the parking lot, I slow my gait and answer the call. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hey Mister,” Mom says. No matter how old I get, it’s like I’m still five in her eyes. “I haven’t heard from you in ages. Everything okay out there in the tundra?”

I chuckle. “Sun’s actually out today, if you can believe it.” I don’t mention that the temperature is only fifty degrees—and it’s the end of frickin’ March. Spring is taking its sweet-ass time getting to New England.

“That’s good. I was worried you’d finish your first east coast winter with a Vitamin D deficiency.”

“Nope. All good here. What about you? What’s happening with the fires?” Wildfires had been wreaking havoc on the west coast for the past few weeks. It’s been making me antsy knowing my mom’s out there breathing in all that crap.

“Oh, well, you know. Last couple weeks I’ve been putting up plastic and taping the doors and windows shut to keep the smoke out. Bought four brand new air purifiers that are supposed to suck up anything bigger than an atom. I think they’re drying out my skin, though. But maybe it’s just the lack of humidity lately. Anyhow, the fires down this way are out now, they said, so the smoke’s mostly cleared. Which is good, because I just started a new sunrise beach yoga class.”

“Yoga, Mom?”

“Oh, God, I know, right?” She laughs at herself. It’s an infectious sound I hadn’t realized I’d missed so much. “But Christian’s partner Richie—you remember Christian from across the street—he just started teaching the class. He invited me and I didn’t know how to tell him no, so…”

“So now you’re a yoga lady.”

“I know, right? Who woulda thunk it?”

Certainly not me. Mom used to spend sixty, seventy hours a week on her feet in a salon then came home to chase my ass all over the neighborhood. If someone had invited her to sunrise beach yoga back then, she probably would’ve punched them in the throat. Making the transition from LA working single mother to HBC housewife was a tough one for her. She spent a lot of energy trying to fit in with a certain idea of herself and then resenting the inadequacy as a result, at least until she figured out how to stop giving a shit.

People who say money doesn’t buy happiness aren’t using it right. But hey, if Mom’s at the point where she can take some joy in waking up at the crack of dawn for frivolous shit, I’m happy for her.

“I told Max if he starts seeing Goop charges on the credit card statements to stage an intervention.”

“How is Max?” Not that I care, but it makes Mom feel better when I act like I give a shit.

In my defense, I’m certain my stepdad only asks her about me for the same reason—to score points. Max tolerates me because he loves my mom, but he’s never bothered trying to get to know me. Dude’s kept his distance from day one. I suspect he was relieved when I told them I wanted to transfer to an east coast school. He was so happy to get rid of me he pulled every string possible to get me into Briar.

And I was equally relieved to go. Guilt has a way of pressing down on you until you’ll do anything to escape.

“He’s terrific. Out of town for work right now, but he gets back Friday morning. So we’ll both be cheering you on in spirit Friday night. Any chance the game will be televised?”

“Probably not,” I reply as I near the parking lot. “If we make it to the final tournament, then for sure. Anyway, Mom, I gotta go. Just finished practice and need to drive home.”

“Okay, sweetie. Text or call before you leave for Buffalo this weekend.”

“Will do.”

We say goodbye and I hang up and approach the beat-up black Jeep I share with Matt. Technically it’s mine, but he chips in for gas and pays for the oil changes, which means I don’t need to dip into the account Max tops up for me every month. I hate being dependent on my stepfather, but at the moment I have no choice.

“Everything okay?” Matt asks when I hop into the passenger seat.

“Yeah, sorry. Was talking to my mom.”

He looks disappointed.

“What?” I narrow my eyes.

“I was hoping you’d say it was your new girl and then I could make fun of you some more. But moms are off-limits.”

I snicker. “Since when? You mock Bucky about banging his mother practically on a daily basis.”

Although speaking of my “new girl,” I haven’t heard from her since last night, when she replied “LOL” to a hilarious video I sent her. Just an LOL. To a video of a surfing Chihuahua! What the hell.

As Matt pulls out of the parking lot, I shoot a quick text off to Taylor.

ME: Whatcha doing, hot stuff?

She doesn’t respond for nearly thirty minutes. I’m home and in my kitchen making a smoothie when she finally gets back to me.

TAYLOR: Working. I’ve got co-op at Hastings Elementary.

Ah, right. She’d mentioned she was serving as a teacher’s aide as part of her degree requirement.

ME: Dinner later?

HER: Can’t 🙁

HER: Have plans with friends at the diner. Talk later?

Well, shit. Been a while since anyone turned down a date with me, and even that was only so she could get me into bed faster. Taylor’s rejection hurts more than I know what to do with, but I’m very good at pretending not to care about stuff. Fake it till you make it, right?

ME: Sure thing.