14. Dutton
Dutton
W hen I hear the whistle blow, I skate to my spot on the line.
Practice officially ended almost an hour ago, and most of my teammates are back home, but Coach Novotny, JT, Leo, and I are still going at it.
Novotny blows his whistle again, and I pass the puck to Leo, who shoots high into the corner so JT can practice blocking.
We run the drill a million times from a million angles, but when JT finally skates to the crease and pulls his mask up, I’m stunned it’s time to head out. I could do this shit all night.
“You calling it quits already?” I ask our goalie because I’m an ass like that.
JT barely reacts, except for the middle finger he aims in my direction as he lifts his water bottle to his mouth and guzzles some down.
“Sorry to cut playtime short, Wagner,” Coach Novotny deadpans, “but I’d like my goalie to have functioning limbs when our season starts in two weeks.”
“Gee, thanks, Coach. I’m feeling the love,” JT quips.
“I’m being totally selfish. How are we going to win another championship if you can’t feel your arms or legs?
” Novotny jokes. He’s maybe fifteen years older than we are, and he’s got a little girl he’s raising on his own, but he’s still here grinding with us after hours.
Don’t worry, I’m not going to get all mushy and shit, but the coaches here really are different than the guys in charge at Woodcock.
Which, really, isn’t all that hard if you’re a decent human being.
“Nice work tonight, guys,” Coach says, tucking his clipboard under his arm and skating toward the boards.
He stops short at the edge of the ice. “And in case you need me to make it crystal clear, that was code for hit the damn showers . My sitter will be pissed if I’m late again this week, and so will my daughter, so hurry the hell up, all right? ”
“Loud and clear,” JT calls back, and I know that’s because he’s got a baby girl—and a girlfriend, waiting on him, too. “Thanks for sticking around,” he says to us, "I appreciate it. And Wagner, I’m impressed you passed the puck for an hour straight. I had no clue you knew how to share.”
I fire double birds at him, even if he does have a point.
JT just laughs as he skates across the ice. “Let’s go, guys. I’ve got places to be.”
“Same, “ Leo says. He’s a quiet guy, laidback, but reserved, and I respect the hell out of that. His work ethic is insane, especially for a freshman, but if he plays the way he practices, he’ll be skating on my line in no time.
“You got big plans?” JT asks him, grinning wide. “Don’t stay out too late, and grab some condoms before you go. Turns out those things really do expire. Although Calla could use a playmate…”
Leo just rolls his eyes as we make our way into the locker room. “I’m going back to the hockey house. We’re having a Warrior’s Quest tournament, and I made it to the second round, which means I’m up against Dime tonight.”
JT nods as though a video game tournament is an acceptable way to spend a Thursday night. Then he turns his eyes on me. “How about you, Wagner? You heading out to Jock Block for a party? Or are you going to hide here in the locker room and then run drills by yourself tonight after we’ve all left?”
“You got me,” I say as I head for the showers, because I might not be a social butterfly, but I know how to play along.
What I want to say is that I miss my girl, because I haven’t seen her since yesterday afternoon.
I want to say that I don’t care how pathetic that sounds because in a damn short amount of time, Bridgette has become important to me.
Scratch that. She’s become everything to me.
If I told these guys that right now, they would laugh in my face because who falls ass over tits for someone this fast?
And if they knew it was Bridgette, they’d beat my ass.
JT plays nice because he’s objective about the game, and he knows damn well that his team needs me, but that’s hockey. It’s business. Outside of this building, though? I have no doubt he’d do his best to hold me down and let Mickey get a few punches in.
And honestly? I get it. These guys barely trust me as a teammate, so no way are they going to trust me to date Mickey’s beloved sister.
Now that I’ve started to be ever so slightly more social and tune into the conversations around me, I’ve heard Bridgette’s name a few times.
The guys all love her, and not just because she gives them haircuts.
Just like they’re protective as hell of Mickey, they’d rally for Bridgette, too.
That means I have to show them I’m not the enemy.
I have to earn their respect and their trust.
And goddammit, that means I have to be friendly and shit.
I shudder at the thought, but there’s no other option.
I hate hiding our relationship already, and it’s only been about forty-eight hours.
Granted, I’m not outright lying. I don’t really talk about my personal life to anyone but Blue.
I doubt any of the guys on the team even know my dad was in an accident this summer, or that his recovery has been rough.
Hell, they probably don’t even know that Blue and I grew up around here.
I keep to myself. I’ve always been this way.
But keeping my connection to Bridgette under wraps isn’t just about being a lone wolf, it’s about lying, and that just feels wrong because Bridgette’s the kind of woman I’m fucking proud to have on my arm.
But if I want to keep seeing her, this is the price I have to pay. For now.
It doesn’t take long for me to lather up and rinse off, and the other guys are just as quick.
A few minutes later, I’m in a fresh pair of grey sweats and a white tee, walking back to the hockey house with Leo Santos.
I refuse to call him Baby Santos for several reasons, not the least of which is that he’s not a baby.
The other reasons are that I think nicknames in general are stupid, and that he hates it.
I don’t usually pay too much attention to other people’s feelings, but I hate it when people try to call me Sparky, so I’m not pulling that kinda bullshit on him.
Plus, the man respects silence, so I respect the hell out of him. It’s about a five-minute walk from the Wolf’s Den to the edge of campus where our house sits, and Leo hasn’t said a damn word.
Blue better watch himself, or I might just pick a new best friend.
When we make it to the house, Leo gives me a nod before going in search of the other freshmen.
I head straight for the kitchen so I can make a smoothie with Blue’s fancy-ass blender.
And his bougie protein powder. And the frozen peaches he hid in the back of the freezer.
And no, I don’t ask permission. It’s bestie privilege.
If he gets to call me Sparky, I get to mooch his stuff.
While I’m washing my dishes—because, again, I’m an asshole, not a dick, despite any nickname Mickey might have bestowed upon me—I see my housemates through the sliding glass doors. They’re gathered around the pool, relaxing, and talking shit.
I should join them. I really should. I could take the seat next to Blue and chime in with insults every ten minutes or so. They’d fire back at me for sure, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. Even if I hang out for a half hour or so, that’s something. Baby steps are still progress, right?
I'm going to join them. As soon as I can get my feet to move.
When the sliding glass door opens and Ollie bursts through, I know I’m cooked. He’s the self-appointed cruise director of this ship, and he makes it his personal mission to get everyone to join in the fun.
“Sparky! Come out by the pool and hang out with us,” he crows, looking too damn happy to see me. He’s got some crazy idea in his head that if he can smooth things over between Mickey and me, and get everyone to get along, we’ll all play better hockey and win a championship.
I don’t buy that particular brand of bullshit, but Ollie eats it for breakfast. “Uh…”
“Don’t even start with that antisocial bullshit. You’ve been less of an asshole lately. I think we’re finally rubbing off on you, aren’t we? Admit it, you like us.”
I rub the back of my neck. My teammates are definitely the source of my improved mood, but I’m not bringing that up..
“Dude, you’re just in time. We’re ordering wings from Wolfie’s. Are you a garlic-parm fan?” He squints, as though he’s reading my irises to unlock the secret of my favorite chicken wing flavor.
I hope to hell he really can’t read the secrets I’m hiding, like the knowledge of how fucking incredible Bridgette sounds when she breaks apart and comes all over my face.
“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “That’s too mild for you. Lemme guess, you like them as hot as Satan’s asshole?”
Jesus. Is that really a wing flavor? I’m no marketing genius, but that doesn’t sound appetizing at all.
And I don’t need my wings to come with a warning label.
I’m a honey barbecue guy, but before I can surrender to the inevitable social gathering and give Ollie my food order, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
The only people who call me are my parents, my cousin Nick, and people who want to talk to me about my car’s extended warranty.
When I see Nick’s message, I tap on it and wave my phone in Ollie’s direction.
Ollie gives me a thumbs up. “I’ll get your wing order from Blue. But come on out when you’re done. We’re setting up a volleyball net so we can play in the pool.”
I give a noncommittal wave as I grab my smoothie and head for the stairs. I’ll go join them after I talk to Nick. But I’m not playing volleyball.
Unless they force me.
And then I’ll crush them. In the friendliest way possible, of course.
Nick’s message said to give him a call when I had a minute, and now seems as good a time as any. By the time I’m sprawled out on the sofa in my room, the phone’s ringing.