Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Talia
Leo slams a Tampa player into the boards so hard I can feel the vibrations. They’re battling for control of the puck, shoving and elbowing each other until Leo manages to hook it with his stick and slide it to Bash.
It’s been a long time since I watched a game from a glass seat—the front row. I’m so close I can see the sweat on players’ faces. I don’t know how my dad managed to snag me this seat at the last minute at a visiting team’s arena. He may have paid a bundle for it.
My plan was to hide out in the locker room to play Tetris and maybe read a book during the game. I miss my couch back home, where I could hibernate beneath a blanket and truly be alone.
It’s only the first day of this road trip and I’m already emotionally worn down. I’m not going to pout over my dad making me come; I know he’s trying to help me. Four days of being surrounded by a hockey team twenty hours a day isn’t it, though.
Staying with him is temporary. I have to find a job as far away from San Francisco as I can get. One of the reasons I rarely went out after the breakup was my fear of running into Kyle and Audra.
I want to be over it. I want to smile and laugh and live a full life where I don’t even think about either of them, ever. Hell, I’d settle for being able to pretend I was living a full life.
I can’t, though. Even after months of therapy and seclusion, I still feel like a frayed thread pulled taut, on the edge of snapping. I’m angry. Being betrayed by my sister and my fiancé, the two most important people in my life, cut deep.
Mostly though, I’m hurt. I could never say it out loud, but it’s the truth.
The crowd roars to life as Lucien drops his gloves to fight Dimitri Volkov, Tampa’s enforcer. Volkov is a rat who slashes when the refs aren’t looking. He’s paid a bundle in fines for headhunting.
Lucien wastes no time, quickly throwing a hard right hook that rocks Volkov. The fans get even louder, and Volkov jabs Lucien so hard I cringe. My exercise physiology training changed my views on hockey fighting. As the daughter of a coach and former player, I used to cheer for them.
Now that I know how the brain responds to trauma, I know there’s nothing to applaud. But it’s part of the game, and Lucien seems to relish it. He’s grinning at Volkov as they trade a few more hits before Volkov slides and falls to the ice, taking Lucien with him.
The refs break them up, and both men get sent to their respective penalty boxes. Lucien chirps at Volkov as a ref leads him by the elbow to his box. He looks like he’s on the verge of laughter.
Volkov, on the other hand, looks ready to commit murder. A dark cloud covers his expression.
Tampa fans pound on the sides and back of Lucien’s box with their fists and palms, trying to get a rise out of him. He smiles and waves at them like a queen greeting her subjects, which only eggs them on.
I can’t help smiling. He’s damn good at what he does, which is firing up opposing teams so they’ll focus on him instead of the Crush’s offensive lines.
It’s working. Carter quickly scores a goal, bringing the score up to 3–0. Isaac’s fart yoga must be helping him, because he’s chasing a shutout. From the talk I overheard in the locker room earlier, he needs the boost a shutout would give him.
“Miss Turner? May I get you anything?” an arena attendant asks me.
VIP service is part of sitting here, and I’ve already had popcorn and a glass of wine. I shake my head and smile at the attendant, reaching into my bag for a tip since the game is almost over.
“I’m good, thanks.”
She nods her thanks and I return my focus to the game. Tampa’s players are getting aggressive, trying to make up for the huge deficit in the score.
When I lived in San Francisco, I volunteered at a group home for disabled adults one evening a week. I led them through modified dance moves to get in some exercise, and then we’d have pizza and an activity, which was sometimes watching a sporting event.
One of the men in the home, Coop, loved watching hockey.
I told him my dad coached a team, and I pointed him out on the TV screen during a game.
After that, Coop stayed glued to the screen for every minute of the Crush’s games and when Dad was on screen, he’d get excited and yell, “That’s your dad, Talia! ”
I miss Coop. Really, I miss everyone I worked with.
I tried to go back to work a week after Kyle called off our engagement, but it was too hard.
Some of the children and adults I worked with also had intellectual disabilities, and their reactions to finding out I wasn’t getting married were soul crushing.
Many of them didn’t understand. They’d ask me questions that made me cry, or offer me hugs and sweet encouragement that made me cry even more. Coop even said he was going to beat Kyle up.
I took a leave of absence from work, and I planned on going back. But with every passing day, week, and month, I drifted further and further from being the person I was before the future I planned was nuked into a mushroom cloud.
Home is safe. Alone is safe. Being here, surrounded by thousands of screaming fans, is jarring, but at least I don’t have to socialize with anyone.
I feel the vibration of my phone in my bag, and I take it out to check it. It’s an alert I get daily from a countdown app I have.
Voldemort/Cersei nuptials: 34 DAYS
I wrinkle my nose and stuff the phone back into my bag. I still don’t know what got into me when I told my dad I’d go to the wedding. It felt like a damned if you do, damned if you don’t situation.
If I don’t go, it sends the message that I’m still upset over the whole thing. Which I am, but I don’t want them to know that. Now I face another lousy option, though—going alone and looking pathetic.
It’s weird that I haven’t found a hot boyfriend while lying on my couch polishing off Ho Hos and binge-watching Love Is Blind, but here we are.
My birthday is next month. Maybe my dad will get me an escort for the three-day tropical extravaganza Audra has planned.
Just the thought of asking him makes me laugh out loud. The guy in the seat next to mine side-eyes me, probably wondering if I’m seeing something he doesn’t.
I’m going to have to fake a major illness. It’s the only option. I’m scrolling through serious but not terminal illnesses on my phone when the buzzer signifying the end of the game sounds.
The home crowd is already filtering out as the Crush players embrace each other, all of them grinning.
The losing streak has been snapped.
“Stay out of that last stall, boys,” Silas calls as he walks out of the locker room bathroom later. “I just shit a Redwood and clogged it.”
I exchange a look with Melina. My dad didn’t allow me inside a team’s locker room until after I was twenty, and even then, it was only a couple of times, so we could talk in his office when I was in college and home to watch one of his games.
“You’ll get used to it,” Melina says, shrugging. “They’re like cavemen—they communicate with belches and farts and love discussing their bathroom habits.”
I’m about to respond when I feel a light, wet spray on my arm and hand. When I turn, I see Bash pointing a bottle of champagne away from himself as he opens it, the foam bubbling over and the liquid shooting out.
“We’re drinking it from the bottles tonight, mothafuckas!” he yells. “First drink goes to our badass goalie, Isaac, who got a shutout tonight!”
Isaac, who showered immediately after the game, only wears a towel wrapped around his waist. He’s beaming as he takes the bottle from Bash and tips it back, letting the liquid run down his face and chest.
His teammates yell, cheer and clap, everyone relaxed and happy after their win.
When Isaac finishes, he passes the bottle back to Bash, running a hand through his damp hair and grinning.
“Love you guys,” he says. “Thanks for never giving up on me.”
“You earned this, brother,” Carter calls out from the other side of the room.
“And you scored two!” Lucien yells at Carter. “Way to go, Cap!”
Everyone cheers and more bottles of champagne are broken out. Of course, Silas pretends one of the bottles is his dick as it sprays out an arc of thick white foam.
“Did I miss something, boys?”
My dad’s voice booms through the room, the celebration immediately dying down.
“Did we just win a championship?” Dad asks, feigning genuine curiosity. “I thought we just won a regular season game, which we should be doing all the time, and you’re acting like we just won the cup, the bowl and the series!”
Every player is looking at him, most of them frozen. The champagne flowing from Silas’s dick champagne bottle is just a little trickle now.
“I’m fucking with you,” Dad says with a grin. “Hell of a game, boys!”
Everyone cheers, the tension lifting immediately.
“But take it easy on the booze,” Dad calls as he heads for the visiting coach’s office space. “We’ve got to be game ready tomorrow night.”
Our plane will depart for Phoenix in a couple of hours. The equipment staffers have to get everything packed and loaded. If the players are lucky, they’ll be able to sleep on the plane and catch a few more hours at the hotel after we arrive.
“Hey, how are you at wrapping and taping?” Melina asks me.
I consider. “It’s been a hot second, but I do know how.”
“Excellent. Can you help me get some guys taken care of? I desperately need an assistant, but we haven’t been able to get the position approved yet.”
“Sure, I can help. I won’t be as good at it as you are, though.”
She waves a hand. “You’ll be great. I’d love your help anytime you’re up for it.”
“Sure, I’ll do whatever you need.” I follow her toward the training room. “No fart yoga, though.”
Her laugh reminds me of my friend Anya’s laugh. Anya’s still in San Francisco, and we text sometimes, but I haven’t been up for much else. Being around Melina makes me think about calling Anya, though. Maybe tomorrow, I will.