What If I Knew You (Anaheim Stars Hockey #3)

1. Bodhi

CHAPTER ONE

BODHI

“ R oses are red, pickles are green. I like your legs, and what’s in between!”

Ledger Dayne leads the team in a fit of laughter as I step onto the ice for our last preseason practice wearing a pair of light blue pajama pants with bright green pickles of assorted sizes all over them. The peculiar gift from Griffin Ollenberg was waiting for me when I walked in this morning along with a note explaining that it’s a team tradition to wear goofy pajama pants for our last preseason practice and that since he forgot to tell me earlier, he took the liberty of buying me a pair.

I had a feeling it was all a joke.

Somehow I knew I would be the only one on the ice today with these Godforsaken pickle pants on, but a tiny part of me wondered if Griffin was being honest with me since he seems to wear pants like this a lot around the arena. It’s what he’s known for, really. He has this fascination with pajama pants that I don’t understand but hey…the fans get a kick out of it so more power to him, I guess.

I could’ve been my regular asshole self about this whole thing.

I could’ve refused to wear these ridiculous pants.

But I know if I want the respect of my teammates, I have to earn it, so, pickle pants it is.

“Hey, Kid.” Harrison gestures with the tip of his chin. “That a pickle in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

More laughter from the guys.

Har, har, har.

“Guess I fell for that one, huh?” I chuckle skating over to the guys who clearly all got here early so they could stand here and wait for me to show up. I survived much of preseason practice without too much stress in the form of hazing from the guys, but definitely was on the receiving end of a few harmless pranks. They turned off the hot water to the showers during my first week and while I was in said cold shower, someone switched out my underwear in my locker for a pair of granny panties. Last week, before one of our practices, I went to grab some stick tape out of my bag only to find it gone. Lo and behold, the only stick tape that just happened to be lying around everywhere was pink sparkly tape with unicorns and rainbows all over it.

Yeah. That was a colorful practice.

I suppose it could be worse.

They could be giving me swirlies in the locker room toilets.

I may not have gotten the warmest reception from the team but they haven’t been cold either. What’s a little fun among teammates anyway? Stopping in front of the guys I gesture to my new pants with a smirk.

“You guys want to stare at my pickle all day or are we going to get to work?”

August gives my pickles a once over and then meets Griffin’s amused glance. With a shrug of his shoulder, he asks, “Depends, Roche. You got a perky pickle worth looking at?”

Griffin twists his mouth and shakes his head trying not to laugh. “Nah. He’s young. He’s got to pump his pickle first to make it perky.”

August laughs. “Dude did you just say this kid pumps his pickle?”

“What?” I scowl. “I’m not a?—"

“He’s a pickle pumper?” Ledger asks.

“Hell yeah!” Griffin says with a smile. “All the way to Perky Pickle Palace.”

“What the hell is Perky Pick?—"

“Alright, alright,” Coach Hicks rallies with a slight chuckle. “You guys can tickle each other’s pickles on someone else’s time. We’ve got plays to run. Let’s go.”

“Pickle Pumper,” August murmurs, shaking his head with quiet laughter before he skates off to the other side of the rink.

Fantastic.

There’s no way that won’t become a nickname.

Bodhi Roche the Pickle Pumper.

Oh well. That’s the least of my worries now. It’s time to show off my skills once again to prove to these guys that I’m just as much of a player as they are. I’ve been busting my ass during our preseason to show these guys what I’m made of and that I can live up to my hot-shot reputation. I can be a monster on the ice, but every time I go for something flashy or try something they’re not used to doing, they roll their eyes or give me a tough time about it. They don’t seem too interested in Bodhi Roche the superstar hockey player.

Maybe the joke’s on them because that’s who they hired.

I’ve spent years refining my strengths and eliminating most of my weaknesses. I’m bringing notoriety to the Anaheim Stars. They’re lucky to have me.

When I was in Boston, if we won it was because Bodi Roche scored or assisted in more goals than anyone else. If we lost it was because Bodhi Roche had a bad night. Why they put so much pressure on me as the new guy when there were older, more experienced players on the team I’ll never know. But when you come onto a team as a college superstar, and the franchise expects a lot from you, you do what you’re told. When I started in Boston I was told to skate fast and score goals and that’s what I did.

I won.

Because I’m a winner.

These Anaheim guys though, they don’t seem to give a shit about that.

They have no interest in my stats as a player.

And none of them seem to give two shits that I’m out here on the ice with them trying everything I can think of to show them what I can do. I’m showing off all my skills during this morning’s practice, but it’s almost like I’m not even here.

Maybe they’re all jealous of my pickle pants .

“Hit the break, Roche! Hit the break!” Coach Hicks shouts as I speed down the ice. “Be the double threat. Give yourself the opens.”

“Ugh, I don’t need to be a double threat when I can fucking sink the puck right now.”

Harrison Meers swings up behind me and caps my shoulder with his gloved hand. “We don’t give a damn how fast you can skate, kid.”

“Well, you should because I’m faster than a lot of you.”

Oliver chuckles from a few feet away. “Mmkay.”

“Fast is nice,” Barrett says from the net, irritated. “But it doesn’t get the job done when you end up missing the pass or worse, you miss nine out of the ten shots you take.”

Fuck.

He’s not wrong, I suppose.

I have missed almost every shot I’ve taken today.

I’m blaming the damn pickle pants.

“We don’t need a superstar out here, Bodhi!” Hicks shouts when he sees I’m talking to Harrison and Barrett. “The guys need a reliable teammate. Someone who can shoot when he knows he can and pass when it’s best for the team.”

And here lies the difference between the Boston Brews and the Anaheim Stars. Boston didn’t stress much about being a team. They wanted to breed star players and that’s what I was for them. I’m not going to lie, it’s a little aggravating that these guys don’t seem to appreciate my competence on the ice. I worked my ass off in Boston in hopes that when my contract was up, I could finally find a team that would accept me for who I am and what I can bring to the franchise.

Anaheim was one of my top five dream teams, so when my agent called and told me I received an offer from the Stars, I was stoked. They’ve had a winning record and haven’t traded a player in the past four seasons. That has to mean something in terms of how this team functions on and off the ice and over the past few weeks I’ve seen it firsthand. These guys aren’t just a team.

They’re a family.

Walking into a team that is as tightly bonded as these guys are though, that’s a hard door to step through. They’ve been welcoming, yes, but I can tell I’m not really part of their family just yet. I’m like their annoying little brother that they’re forced to play with. They’ve set their bar high and I know it’s my job to do all I can to reach it.

“Run it again,” Hicks commands.

“Nice job out there, Pickle Pants,” Griffin says to me when we enter the locker room after practice.

I toss my glove on the bench in front of me not sure if Ollenberg is being sincere or sarcastic. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Griffin cocks his head, pursing his lips. “Aww is someone a little butthurt that he didn’t get to be the super star out there?”

I stand a little taller and puff my chest. “I’m damn good on the ice. You know it and I know it.”

He nods, his expression growing more serious. “Yes. It’s true. You have stellar form, Kid but here’s the difference between us and you,” he says, gesturing between me and the rest of the team. “ We are a team. We have always been a team. We will always be a team. We run like a well-oiled machine. It’s a give and take. There isn’t one of us on this team who is better than the other. We all have different strengths and weaknesses and we know how to use them to our advantage in a game setting.”

“It’s true,” Ledger says as he walks by. He gestures to Griffin. “This guy is the king of assist. He’ll set you up for the killer shot almost every time and we know we can trust him to always be there.”

“Right.” Griffin nods and gestures to Ledger. “And this guy can skate rings around me. He’s fast as fuck so if I can get him a pass he can take the puck down the ice in seconds. Like I said, well-oiled machine. And you can either learn how the machine works and become a part of it, or you’re left standing on the outside looking in wondering where the power button is. You’ve got a lot of talent, Roche. A lot. But if you want to feel like a member of the team, you’ve got to act like a member of the team. Got it?”

I huff out my frustrations in a tight breath. “Yeah. I got it.”

He pats my back and gives me a smile. “Good. Now clean yourself up Pickle Pants, it’s time for lunch.”

I hop in the shower, mulling over what Griffin and Ledger had to say after practice, and remember what my father once said to me after a particularly frustrating high school hockey practice.

“It’s not right,” I whine, grabbing a can of cola from the fridge. “I work my ass off for him but it’s like Coach doesn’t even know I exist. He knows I can skate better than any one of them. They all know it. They all call me lightning for a reason.”

“Speed is nothing if you can’t sink a puck, Bodhi.”

“But I can sink the puck! If they would just pass it to me, but they never do!”

Dad lays his hands on my shoulder and gives me a patient smile. “Let me give you a piece of advice, son. You are a fantastic athlete. You’re strong. You’re hardworking. You’re smart and you are kind. But perhaps you’re not always coachable.”

I tip my head. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“As you go forward in all you do , surround yourself with people who will challenge you to be a better version of yourself,” he says. “Listen to what others have to say before making rash decisions. And never be afraid to look at yourself in the mirror to try to see what someone else sees. And if they’re not seeing what you want them to see, ask yourself why. Perception is reality, son. Even when you don’t mean it to be.”

“But maybe they’re just perceiving me all wrong.”

He nods. “That is absolutely true. And that’s what I mean when I say perception is reality. If someone perceives you to be a non-team player, then to them, that’s what you are. If someone perceives you to not be a kind person, then to them, you are unkind. See what I’m saying?”

I take in his words and repeat them to myself. “Yeah, Dad. I hear you.”

“Great things are going to happen for you, son. One day you will be a star.”

A star.

I smile to myself and wonder if Dad knew back then that I would one day be an Anaheim Star.

After I’m showered and dressed, I grab my cellphone and tap the screen for any missed messages. My brows furrow at the lone text waiting for me.

Unknown

Hey Dad. I left spaghetti in the fridge for you. Garlic bread is wrapped in foil. Good luck tonight.

“Dad?” I chuckle. “Afraid not, asshat. No dad here.” Giving my thumbs a quick workout, I text back a reply.

Me

Uh, last I checked I’m 24 and very sure I haven’t fathered any children just yet. I’m sorry to say you’ve texted the wrong number.

Shoving my phone into my back pocket, I make my way to the conference room where the team is having lunch before continuing with the rest of the day’s game-day routines. When I sit down, my phone buzzes in my pocket so I pull it out to check assuming it’s an apology from whoever just mis-texted me.

Unknown

Dangit! Who’s going to eat all this spaghetti then?

I huff out a laugh at the witty response appreciating their sense of humor and text them back.

Me

Well that all depends. Are we talking alfredo sauce or marinara?

Unknown

If I had made alfredo, wouldn’t I have told my Dad there was alfredo in the fridge?

Me

Touché. I’m sorry I’m kind of busy tonight or I’d definitely be interested. I love Italian food. Perhaps some other time.

Unknown

Perhaps…

Staring at the reply, I can’t help but smile and shake my head. After a rough practice it’s nice to be reminded there’s life outside of hockey.

“What are you grinning about over there?” August asks. He’s seated next to Ella Blackstone, his wife and mascot for our team.

“Oh, nothin’ important. Just a random text.”

Ella’s brows wag. “From a giiiirl?”

“Nah.” I shake my head and then shrug. “Well, maybe. Whoever it was they were texting the wrong number. Called me Dad and told me there was spaghetti in the fridge.”

“Hey, you got a girl to call you daddy.” Griffin winks. “Isn’t that one of those kinky things you kids are into these days?”

“Kids?” I scoff, amused. “You know I’m not that much younger than you right?”

Griffin waves off my comment. “Semantics.”

“So, is there someone special in your life, Bodhi?” Ella asks curiously as she takes a bite of her chicken. “A girlfriend? A wife?”

August’s eyes grow mischievous. “A secret lover?”

Ella elbows him in his side. “Give him a break. Not everything about Bodhi has to be scandalous, you know. He’s a perfectly normal guy.”

If she only knew.

When it comes to relationships I’m probably the most scandalous one here, but I don’t mean scandalous in an I’m-fucking-a-forbidden-woman kind of way. Just the opposite really.

I’m not fucking at all.

In fact, I’ve never fucked anyone in my life.

I’m a twenty-four-year-old professional hockey player.

And I’m a virgin.