20. Alexei
Ashrill whistle cuts through the chatter of the men on the ice.
“I know some of you might be sore from our off-ice workouts yesterday, and if you’re not, you damn sure will be by the time I’m done with you today,” Coach shouts. “Do you want to knock the Puffins off their winning streak or not?”
“Yes, Coach!” we yell back.
“Who are we?” he demands.
“The Cold Hearts!” we chant.
“What are you going to give me today?” he asks.
Without missing a beat, we respond, “Our best, Coach!”
I know some of the guys on the team think the call and response is stupid or outdated, but I love it. Dad was a big believer in positive affirmation, and every morning we had a little call and response routine.
“What is today going to be?” he’d ask.
“A great day!” I’d answer.
“What are you?” he’d ask next
“Smart, strong, and brave.” I’d say, striking a superhero pose.
“And what else, Mon Petit Chou?” he’d ask.
“Loved,” I’d squeal and throw myself in his arms.
It’s not exactly the same as what we do before practice, but it”s still comforting, nonetheless.
“Let’s start out with some dynamic stretching. Down on the ice, Men,” he orders.
I feel the knots in my shoulders loosen as we work through the first half of the routine. When we move to the hip stretches, I’m glad I listened to Emily and started doing the stretches she showed me to help prevent straining my back again. Before her, stretching wasn’t something I took as seriously. Sure, I never half-assed the ones we do at practice, but that was all I did. Now I’m joining in on Ian’s morning yoga routine, and I feel better than I did when I was a rookie.
“Hey, Corbitt,” Weiss taunts, “is this what y’all do with that girl you’re passing around?”
I close my eyes, bracing for the inevitable sound of a fist slamming into a face.
Don’t do it, Ian, we can’t win if you’re riding the pine.
“Why don’t you ask your mom what I do in the bedroom? I fucked her so good last night I might just be your next stepdad,” Ian taunts.
My eyes snap open in shock at his restraint as the handful of men around us start chuckling.
“Gonna have to try harder than that to get his spot in the lineup, Weiss.” Fitz laughs. “He’s not an easy mark anymore. Guess you’re still stuck on the B-squad.”
“I’ll tell him where he can stick his spot in the lineup,” Weiss mutters darkly.
“Careful now,” Oliver taunts, “or Ian’s going to send you to your room without dessert tonight.”
He leans forward and fist bumps Ian.
Six months ago, he’d have been rolling on the floor trying to beat the stuffing out of Weiss. He didn’t exactly take it on the chin, but it’s a damn sight better than what it used to be.
She really has made a big difference.
I glance over at Weiss. He’s still red-faced and glowering, but at least he has the good sense to know when to shut up.
Still, what he said was troubling. Everything that’s been printed in the papers so far has just been lewd suggestions based on false tips and the two previous relationships we’d had. It’s not hard to make that leap by any means, but his tone almost made it seem like he actually knew something.
Had we slipped up somehow? We’re in the same neighborhood, so it”s possible, but even then, we’ve been careful not to even be affectionate in our own backyard. What could he possibly know?
I’m going to make it my mission to find out today. I’ll corner him in the locker room after cooldown and say I want to talk to him about his beef with Ian and get the information out of him by any means necessary.
Coach’s whistle jars me from my current fantasy of dunking his head in the ice bath until he tells me what I need to know.
“Hope you gents got in a balanced breakfast this morning. Otherwise, this next drill will have you tipping over. That”s right, it”s time for balance work.” He grins.
I groan aloud at the absolutely heinous pun, and I am not the only one.
“Ah, come on, guys, my eight year old came up with that one. Not even a pity laugh?” He tsks. “And I was going to go easier on you if you laughed. Sucks to be you, I guess.”
He gives another blast on his whistle, and we move into position on one end of the ice. When it’s my turn at the top of my line, I’m pleased to find that gliding on one foot is easier for me now.
I guess the yoga is paying off.
“Hey, LaRue,” Herschel calls from the line next to me, “looking good. You’re only wobbling half as much.”
“Not all of us used to figure skate, Art,” I respond gruffly.
He laughs then kicks his leg back higher than his hip and stretches forward so he’s almost parallel to the ice.
“You like that?” he taunts. “That’s called a forward spiral.”
“Showoff,” I mutter halfheartedly.
I hate to say it, but his skating partner quitting on him was one of the best things to happen to the team. Art’s a damn fine right-winger.
After balance, it’s explosive acceleration drills. Not to brag, but I blow Art out of the water on those.
By the end of practice, I’m pleasantly sore and feeling like I earned my paycheck today. I do a few counter-stretches for the sake of my back and then join the end of the stampede of men headed off the ice. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth when I see Oliver and Ian waiting off to the side of our bench, skates in hand.
“About time, Grandpa,” Oliver teases. “Any slower and you’d be skating backward.”
I scowl. “An eight-year gap hardly qualifies me to be your grandfather.”
“Hey, thirty-eight in hockey is like sixty in regular job years.” He elbows me playfully.
“You want me to put you over my knee too?” I shove him.
“Kinky.” He winks. “I never knew you felt that way about me. Am I about to get a declaration of love or a proposal soon?”
Ian sighs exaggeratedly. “I swear I can”t take you two anywhere.”
I smirk. “Pipe down, Whippersnapper.”
“A joke? In public?” Oliver gasps. “Who are you and what have you done to Alexei?”
“Look out,” Ian warns. “Here comes one of the hangnails.”
I follow his gaze and see a member of the PR team making a beeline for us.
“Alexei,” he calls from the other side of the ice, “before you hit the showers, I want to touch base with you on something.”
“I’ll give you two guesses on what he wants to talk about,” I say dryly.
“You want us to stay?” Ian asks.
“Nah, you two go on ahead. I can handle whatever he throws at me,” I assure them.
They sprint off so fast, I swear they leave behind smoke outlines like cartoon characters. I sit down and unlace my skates while I wait for this guy to huff and puff his way over here. He’s barely halfway to me and he’s already out of breath. I shake my head in disbelief. If these PR guys spent some time doing off ice training with us instead of meddling in our private business, they’d probably be a lot happier. First, because so much gossip happens on weight training days that it’s shocking how similar these men are to a brood of clucking hens, but also because they’d have the stamina to catch us before we manage to give them the slip.
No lie, there’s an actual chart in Shaw’s locker tracking who’s gotten cornered the most this season. The loser is responsible for planning the team’s end of the year party so, needless to say, we all have a vested interest in avoiding them. Unfortunately, I can’t turn tail and run after being singled out by name. Not because it’s rude, even though it is, but because it’s against the rules and I’d get two additional penalty tallies next to my name on top of the tally for being caught. I’m sure Shaw is already gleefully adding a mark next to my previously unblemished name… jackass.
I take a deep, mindful breath and focus on the man headed toward me.
Is he part turtle or something? Why is he still so far away?
Okay, maybe I need another set of deep breaths so I’m able to keep my temper.
What was that thing Emily told us about? Right. Things we can see.
I stare at the man coming toward me, trying to focus on any small details I can. I’m trying to remember his name, but the only word that pops into my mind is beige. Everything about him is beige. Skin, hair, suit, tie, and shoes. It’s all beige. Even his eyes are a color so washed out I can’t figure out what it is.
“Thank you for waiting, Alexei,” he wheezes.
“Team PR, right?” I ask because ‘what the fuck do you want’ is too rude a greeting even for me.
“Yes.” He holds out his hand. “Joe Smith.”
Damn, even his name is beige.
“Do you need a quote about practice for social media or something?” I ask. “That’s why you grabbed me, right? For your, what did you call them? Captain quotes?”
“Not exactly,” he says, chewing at the corner of his lip.
The way he’s squirming under my stare tells me he knows that I know exactly what he’s come to ask me about and it’s not for some stupid quote. The other hangnails sent him to weasel information out of me so they can do damage control and spin every inch of my private life into publicity for the team. I’d trusted them during the few months we dated Colleen, and they threw her to the wolves. I’m not going to make that mistake with Emily.
Mr. Beige cracks his knuckles, straightens his tie, and brushes nonexistent lint off his sleeves, all while refusing to meet my eyes. If they sent him to try to evoke some pity from me, it didn’t work. I’m actually thoroughly enjoying his discomfort. I don’t plan to ask him any more questions or volunteer any information. If he wants to know that badly, he’s going to have to have the balls to ask me outright.
After the third awkward cough, he finally manages it. “So, you know the media has been running stories on you guys and that physical therapist girl, and management sent me down to get the real story. You know, to separate fact from rumor.” He gets faster and squeakier after every other word, “So, is it just friendly? Is just one of you dating her or is it more like” —he swallows hard— “the, uh, other two times? Does she spend the night a lot? Are you serious or is this just a fling? This girl has a kid, right? Is the father in the picture? What’s the situation with that? Is he going to be any trouble?”
I need to end this conversation before I say or do anything I regret. I hold up my hand and he stops with a squeak.
“The first thing I’m going to make clear to you is this. She’s a woman, not some girl, and you’re going to refer to her respectfully or not at all,” I say firmly. “The second thing I’m going to make clear to you is that in the unlikely event that it becomes necessary for the PR team and management to know about my private life, you’ll hear it directly from me. My business is my business and isn’t your story to spin whichever way you want. So why don’t you run along and let them know that if they have a problem with what’s in the media right now, they should stop reading the damn papers?”
I turn on my heel and stalk to the locker room before he can open his mouth again.
When I get in there, the locker room is completely empty. It’s a good thing, though, because I don’t think I can handle the team buzzing off post-workout endorphins.
One thought keeps haunting me as I attempt to scrub off my frustration.
How could he have known she’s been spending the night?
Unfortunately, when I check my phone, I get the answer to that question.
Oliver - Brace yourself. Things are about to get worse.
I click on the link he sent and nearly chuck my phone across the room.
The shit has officially hit the fan.