Chapter 29 Ollie
OLLIE
“King, you’ve been playing much looser than you were earlier in the season. Most players aren’t relaxed in the playoffs. What’s your secret?”
The question from an ESPN reporter has my teammates chuckling and me flushing hotly.
It’s media day before our first game against the Salem Spellbinders in the next round of the Dickinson Cup.
It was bad enough when everyone knew I was a virgin, but now it feels like everyone knows I’m not, and I think that’s almost worse.
“The East Coast agrees with him,” Bedard says.
“So does being engaged,” Stone adds.
The whole room starts laughing, and I take off my Devil Birds ball cap, run my hand through my hair, then replace my cap, pulling the brim down low over my face.
Leaning toward the microphone when the laughter dies, I simply say, “What they said.”
The media continue with their questions about the upcoming series, and my teammates answer. I’m the biggest guy at the table, but I’m trying my best to be invisible. And failing.
“Ollie, any wedding plans yet?” a reporter from a sports website asks.
Shaking my head, I lean toward the microphone in front of me. “Not yet. Phoebe is focused on the Pastry Pro Championship this weekend, and I’m dealing with the playoffs. Once we get past those, then we’ll work out the details.”
Stone nudges me with his elbow. “Don’t lie, you’re going to elope so you don’t have to deal with people.”
I grunt while Stone sits there with a shit-eating grin.
A few hours later, we’re in the locker room, getting ready to take the ice for game one.
I’m honored to be playing in the postseason, but part of me is back home with Phoebe.
Even on the ice, I’m thinking of her. Wondering what she’s doing.
What we’d be doing if I was there. So far, I’ve managed to maintain focus while I’m playing, but when I’m on the bench between shifts or waiting for the puck to drop in a face-off, I think about the fun stuff we do—not only in the bedroom but outside of it too.
Like when we cook dinner or build a LEGO sculpture.
I feel like part of me is missing when we aren’t together.
* * *
“What the hell was that?” Coach Bedard asks after we had our asses handed to us in our first game against the Salem Spellbinders. “Why did we even bother showing up here if we weren’t going to play? What is it? Everyone’s in love now and wanting to be home?”
No one says anything, but looking around the locker room, I see the truth in some of the faces. I know it’s true for me.
“Listen, I get it,” he says. “I have a fiancée waiting for me at home. But I’d rather tough it out a few more weeks and spend the off-season celebrating winning the Dickinson Cup with her than throw in the towel now and have a few extra weeks regretting not giving it my all to be a champion.”
He’s right. I know it. My teammates know it.
But logic doesn’t always coincide with feelings.
I don’t regret taking my relationship with Phoebe into the physical realm at all.
But I wonder if I would have an easier time focusing if I didn’t know about the sweet kisses and the not-so-sweet sexy times I’m missing during away games.
If I’m missing something I’ve only had for barely over a week, how must my teammates feel going without something they’re used to?
I don’t know how people do this year after year.
Especially once children enter the picture.
I know my pro hockey days are done when Phoebe and I start a family.
Or maybe I can convince management to give me a contract where I only play home games. I wonder if that’s a thing.
“King!” Coach barks…roars? He’s a cougar shifter, so maybe roar is better. Whatever he’s doing, he’s pissed, and it’s directed at me. Shit.
“Yes, Coach?”
“You played well on the ice tonight…”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I wasn’t done.”
Shit.
“You played well on the ice, but that’s because your body is trained to do what it needs to.
Your brain is not in the building. At least your body was here—that’s more than can be said for your teammates.
We need to pull it together. Or not. If you don’t want to play anymore, we can call up a bunch of Demon Geese and let them have a crack at it.
Goodness knows they can’t be doing any worse than you are. Is that what we should do?”
A chorus of “No, Coach,” and “Sorry, Coach,” spreads like a wave reaching the shore through the locker room. Some of my teammates shoot glares at each other.
I knew it. I knew the friendliness and camaraderie of the team were a facade. It’s easy to be happy and all buddy-buddy when you’re on top, but now that there’s pressure and people are making mistakes, true natures are coming out. This is toxic like Spokane.
Coach smacks his clipboard against the wall.
“If we were beaten by a superior team, that would be one thing, but we beat ourselves. The Spellbinders didn’t win.
We lost. I know it’s hard being away from home, and we’re bruised and battered and tired.
If you’ve seriously reached your limit, tell me.
We have talented folks on our farm team, and we can call some up.
There’s no shame in admitting you need help.
If you need to talk to someone, we have resources.
Yeah, we damn well want to win the Cup, but we’re a team, and everyone matters. ”
That’s different. Where’s the “suck it up, buttercup” and “you’re all a bunch of fucking cock-sucking losers who can be replaced in a heartbeat”?
I look around the locker room to see if my teammates are as shocked as I am.
Oh, wait, they’re used to having a sane, supportive coach.
I love that for them, but it’s going to take some getting used to for me.
“Okay, we’re going back to the hotel after you shower off the funkiness.
Wash this game down the drain. Connect with your loved ones.
Remember why we’re here and why you’re doing this.
If you need to talk, I’m here. We can do this.
We’ve been proving all season that we’re a strong team.
We have the skill, let’s show the will.” And he walks out.
My teammates start stripping off their gear and heading to the shower.
“Is this normal?” I whisper to Stone, who’s in the stall next to mine.
“What?”
“These talks from Coach where he tells us off but is gentle about it?”
He snort-laughs, causing some of our teammates to look over. He jerks a thumb toward me.
“King is asking if Coach is normally this gentle telling us off.”
“Dude, what are you used to?” Carter asks.
I shrug. “Thrown trash cans, being called cock-sucking losers who can be replaced in a heartbeat, bag skates until we puke or pass out.”
The weight of everyone’s eyes on me is uncomfortable, so I lean forward to start unlacing my skates and avoid the shock and pity I know I’ll see.
“Holy shit,” Bedard says. “No wonder the Sasquatch are such assholes on the ice. Glad you got out of there. So…um…yeah, that’s how he normally tells us off. Our team culture is big on respect and personal responsibility.”
Nodding because calling them a cult to their faces would be rude, I continue stripping. I like everyone on the team, but I still don’t trust the friendliness they show. Maybe I’m like a dog that’s been kicked too much. I trust Phoebe. And my brother. Other than that, I’m guarded.
It’s a relief to be back in the hotel after dinner at a local steakhouse. I had a surf and turf dinner with ribeye steak and lobster. It was delicious, but I’d rather be home with Phoebe in our kitchen, making something from a meal kit. After crawling into bed, I grab my tablet and FaceTime her.
“Hey, how are you?” she asks when we connect. She’s in the kitchen, and she’s wearing a green apron and a smear of periwinkle frosting on her cheek that I want to lick off. Or apply to other places and lick off. There’s definitely licking involved.
Shrugging, I try to smile. “Better now that I see you, cupcake. How are you?”
She huffs a breath to try to blow hair out of her face. I wish I was there to tuck it behind her ear for her.
“Okay. Missing you, of course. Andie and I are working on ideas for the weekend. She’s in my room talking with Colby. Nervous.” She’s holding an icing bag, so she must be in the middle of working.
“Keep working. I’m happy watching you do your thing.”
Her sweet smile has me rubbing a hand over my heart to soothe the ache.
“We baked sugar cookies, and I’m practicing doing flowers and other decorations.
Andie is so much better at it than I am, but depending on what the challenges are, we may both have to do more intricate decorating and have it be cohesive.
I have to come up to Andie’s level. She’ll handle the really crazy details, but I need to be able to at least prep the canvas she’s going to work on. ”
She holds one up for me to see. It’s an oblongish shaped cookie covered in a thin layer of white icing.
“This is the start, you flood the cookie with white to give you a blank canvas, and then you build on it.”
First, she squeezes green frosting on, and I realize they’re leaves.
I guess the shape is some kind of flower?
Then she picks up another bag with the light blue frosting on her cheek and starts piping what looks like quotation marks or something on the cookie.
It’s set on a little turntable, and she spins it around as she goes.
As she clusters the piped shapes, I realize they’re flower petals, and as she goes around the cookie, layering the petals, the design turns into a hydrangea bloom.
The pink tip of her tongue is sticking out between her rosy lips as she concentrates. She’s so adorable, my heart aches. After adding some tiny white dots at the center of the blossoms for a finishing touch, she looks up into the camera.
“They’re honestly the prettiest cookies I’ve ever seen. If I saw them in the window of a bakery, I’d stop and admire them. They’re gorgeous.”
“Oh wow,” Andie says, entering the frame next to Phoebe.
“Phoebs, that’s stunning. I can never get mine looking that delicate and lifelike.
You nailed the shading. You are officially our hydrangea queen.
” She mimics placing a crown on Phoebe’s head, and Phoebe holds her icing bag like a royal scepter.
I’m glad Phoebe has Andie to hang around with while I’m on the road.
“Good goal, Ollie,” Andie says. “Bummer it was the only one from the Devil Birds.”
“Thanks,” I say simply. Technically I was the best player on the team tonight, but it’s hard to be happy about that when your team didn’t get the result they were hoping for.
Everyone was off tonight. Even Brick, who got her nickname because of how hard it is to get a puck past her, gave up four goals before being replaced by the backup goalie—who let in another two.
“I know you two have a lot of work to do,” I say. “So I’ll let you go. I’ll talk to you later, Phoebe. I love you.”
Her smile seems tinged with sadness, but she nods. “We both work in the bakery tomorrow, so we need to wrap this up. We’ll talk more tomorrow?”
“Of course,” I say.
“Okay. Goodnight. I love you too, Ollie.”
Our call disconnects, and I sigh. This contest is so important to her, and of course she needs to focus on that.
After this week, it’ll be over. It’s stupid to be jealous of a cookie and the attention she paid to it, but maybe I could offer to be a canvas for her to practice icing techniques on.
I’d even wax to give her a smooth, hair-free surface.
If a Bigfoot shifter offering to wax isn’t a sign of everlasting love and devotion, I don’t know what is.
* * *
We lost again. The mood on the flight home after the game is somber. I’m on my laptop when Stone flops into the seat next to me with a sigh. It’s not that anyone played badly. The Spellbinders only got one goal. In overtime. It could’ve been us. But it wasn’t.
Stone glances at my laptop screen and does a double-take. Shit.
“Is that…is that your resume?”
Of course the fucking plane is quiet, so his voice carries. Not that it matters—it’s a plane full of shifters who can hear a flea fart. No one is looking at us, but I know they’re all listening.
“Yeah, I’m going to need a job after the season is over. I’m going to be married.”
Coach stands up a couple rows ahead and turns around. His brows are furrowed, and even though I’m a grown man and bigger than him, I’m intimidated.
“You don’t want to play hockey, King?”
Am I imagining his voice is deeper than usual?
I take a deep breath so my voice doesn’t shake. Why does this have to be in front of the whole team? “Of course I want to play. But my contract is only for this year, so I need to plan ahead,” I say.
“It is?” He digs his phone out of his pocket, but then looks over at Randi, his assistant.
“Randi, do you have access to the contracts on your laptop?”
She sits up from where she’s cuddling with Mac, watching something on her computer.
“Yeah.” She yawns and flushes. It’s almost midnight, we’re all tired. She clicks some buttons. “Got it.”
Coach walks over to her seat, and she hands him her computer. He scans the screen and hits a button.
“Where’s the extension?” he asks.
“I don’t have one,” I say.
He turns to me. “You didn’t sign it? Was there a problem with the terms?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t seen any terms.”
My teammates are shooting glances at each other.
“You have an agent, right?”
“Yeah.” I don’t know Phil well, and we haven’t spoken since I arrived in Atlantic City.
“You need to call them tomorrow because we presented an extension offer when you got here. If you haven’t seen it, that needs to get straightened out. Every player on this plane was offered an extension. You’re a Devil Bird, and we want to keep you.”
I don’t want to cry in front of my team, but it’s hard. I cough to clear the frog in my throat. “Thanks, Coach.”
Lindy calls out from the back of the plane. “What kind of work do you do?”
“My degree is in computer engineering. I specialize in game design and development. But I do general software and web design and development too.”
“Well,” Coach says, “don’t plan on working in your field for another year at least.”
The team cheers, and for once, I don’t feel like it’s a cult.
I feel like it’s a family. And I belong here.