Chapter 7
Seven
Olivia
Brody goes as hard on the cologne as he does into the corners. I’ve mouth-breathed the entire car ride over out of fear that
the intoxicating smell will overwhelm my better judgment.
He rakes his hand through the front of his glossy long black hair. His loose wet ringlets dance into place below the nape
of his neck. “Ready for the party of the year?” He smiles out of the corner of his mouth. His canines are sharper than Chilly’s.
We make a rolling turn down a quiet street.
“Not sure anything can top the excitement of your goal tonight.” Forcing a slow sweet voice, I hardly get the words out without
bursting into a fit of laughter. My nails bite into my palms. I deserve to suffer for that lie.
He cocks his head to the side. “They let you watch the game up there while you’re making donuts?”
I lick my lips, but my mouth goes dry. I swallow a thick gulp while I try to think up a lie. “I saw the replay on social media.”
My delivery is a bit frantic, but he must be used to girls fawning over his play because he quickly drops it.
Brody parks the car on the curb of a cul-de-sac.
The street is lined with houses that come with mortgage payments large enough to pay off my outstanding student debt.
Everyone’s outside lights are on. We each grab a stack of donut boxes and make our way up the long driveway together.
I might not have made all four dozen of them, but someone at Five-Hole Donuts did.
Lucky for me, mascot handler responsibilities extend to personal emergency errands such as needing a tampon, kinesiology taping, and even postgame donut delivery.
A dull bass line audible from the front steps pulses through the grand front door. The lights inside the three-story mansion
are dimmed with no signs of any rambunctious guests. Shouldn’t someone be smoking on this front porch? Someone should definitely be keeled over puking in the manicured shrubbery.
Why is no one waiting for their rideshare on the curb with their shoes tucked under their arm and mascara sliding down their
face? This is unlike any legendary party I’ve ever been to. Then again, I don’t know how the elite let loose.
We let ourselves into an entrance so dimly lit that I practically trip over the pile of shoes discarded by the door. What type of house party requires shoes off? Brody wanders ahead while I struggle with my laces at the door.
He lowers the music using a remote found on the kitchen island; and trust me this thing is so big it could be a literal island.
There is a party platter of food laid out on the granite countertop that would easily feed an army—or in this case, a hockey
team. We add the donuts to the spread.
Brody wastes no time digging in. He loads his plate with a smorgasbord of snacks, a combination so random it can only be described as an inmate’s last meal.
He inhales a hamburger slider without breathing.
He smashes a fistful of chips into his mouth.
After making his way through the snacks, he takes on the ingredient foods, pouring a bag of salad croutons into his mouth before chomping on some radishes he got from the back of the fridge.
He cracks open a can of root beer and crushes it like he’s a competitor at Coney Island on Independence Day.
He glances up at me and says, “If I don’t eat like this, I get too skinny.” He wipes his mouth clean before grabbing another
slider.
Snacking on a thin slice of fancy cheese, I open the fridge to a stocked selection of color-coded cans. I move right past
the muted flavored seltzer and grab two beers—for whatever reason, beer always impresses a guy like him, like drinking something
that makes you so full you have to take a crap mid-party is the benchmark of a cool girl who doesn’t give a fuck. I slide
one across the island toward him and crack mine open. I stomach it, wanting desperately to reach back for some of the wine
sitting in a decanter on the countertop. It’s not even boxed, so you know it has to be good.
Brody picks up the can but shakes his head. “Thanks,” he says. “But, I’m more of a wine guy.”
I point over his shoulder. “There’s some on the counter behind you.”
“It’s okay. I’m driving you so I’m not drinking tonight,” he says casually before returning to his plate.
We’re interrupted by an explosion of lively shouting and laughter. The noise bellows down the grand staircase and throughout
the main level. We ditch the food to find the party. Again, another eruption of cheering and commotion occurs. Brody pauses
halfway up the first set of stairs, turning back to look for me. When the voices die down, he shrugs and continues the climb.
Anticipation builds as shouting seeps through the walls.
“That’s three whores! Yes!”
“I’ve got wood!” another shouts.
“Damn, I’m bricked up!”
Is this a sex party—did Brody Parker take me to an orgy? Brody stops with his hand wrapped around the doorknob before slowly
opening the glowing door. I tuck in closely behind him. The door opens and the whole room full of people stop what they’re
doing and turn to look at us. They’re all huddled around a large wooden table in the middle of a game room. On the table is
a half-completed game of Catan.
Three ores . . . they said three ORES.
“I thought the big party was tonight?” Brody steps into the room. I sheepishly follow his lead.
“It is, you’re late. You’ll have to wait for the next game,” Jordy says. I recognize his iconic hair immediately. He’s Tori’s
favorite Freeze to root for; he’s everyone’s favorite to root for.
“I thought I was in for a night of entertainment, excitement, and nonstop party action.” Brody throws up his hands in exasperation.
Everyone ignores him as they dial back into the game.
“We have all that and more—right here.” If his Scandi blond locks weren’t a dead giveaway, his authority over the room certainly
is. Freeze captain, Andy motions to the board, making a move.
Brody approaches the table. He braces his arms on the edge and leans in, hovering over the sprawling game. “I don’t know how
to play Monopoly,” he says.
A collective groan spreads across the room and everyone shares a look of disgust. Someone throws a fistful of popcorn at him.
Brody stumbles back to my side.
“It’s Catan, duh.” The insult slips out of my unfiltered mouth. I cup my hand to my lips, hoping to trap any other snarky
remarks from slipping out.
Brody laughs. “And you know how to play?” He sizes me up with his eyes.
I think about backpedaling and playing dumb.
I could pretend I don’t know the triumphant highs and debilitating lows of Catan, a game as strategic as it is beautiful.
Instead, I decide I have the unique opportunity to impress the entire Minnesota Freeze roster and I take it.
After all, I’m sure the approval of his new teammates means a lot to Brody.
“I was the captain of my high school’s Catan team.” I push my shoulders back and stand tall, pausing for everyone to gawk
at this impressive admission.
“That’s a thing?” Brody laughs again. I’m not surprised he’s not familiar with eccentric high school clubs; the Parkers only
care about hockey and their legacy. Some of us can manage athletics and clubs.
“We won the state championship my junior year,” I say proudly. “Wait, you really don’t know how to play Catan?”
“No, of course not. I had sex in high school,” he says, laughing too loudly at his own joke.
Glaring over at him, I reply, “What part of Catan team don’t you understand? Catan players and board gamers in general are
notoriously horny. Even more so than the glee club. A mono outbreak almost derailed our push for the state championship, but
I pulled through. The high dose of cough medicine really expanded my mind and relaxed my nerves.” With a sassy hair flip,
I turn my back on Brody and get a better look at the board.
“She’s on my team!” someone shouts.
“No chance, Hammer, she’s mine,” Brody says. He wraps his arm around my hip and pulls me closer. My body goes limp in Brody’s
grip. His bare skin is soft against mine and he smells expensive. I subtly lean into him before realizing my hand is resting
on his stomach. As if I’ve just touched a hot iron, I quickly recoil.
While the current game of Catan drags on, Brody takes the time to introduce me to his teammates and some of the significant others as his “friend.” An ordeal that I find incredibly agonizing.
It’s bad enough I have to put on a performance around Brody; now I’m doing it for the entire roster and their beautiful plus-ones.
This much exposure puts my plan at risk, but luckily no one here knows who I am. It would appear not a single one of the players
recognizes the similarities between my dad’s face and my own. The juxtaposition between the devastation I experienced losing
my dad and the ease at which none of these guys have the slightest clue about his existence makes my knees weak.
Brody introduces me to Chef, one of his linemates, and judging by the way these two embrace, it’s clear with whom he has the
closest bond.
Chef shakes my hand. “So you’re the girl Bro-meo was talking about.”
My instinct is to deny any association with the Parker family, but I know I have to act like that discovery tickles me. I
push out a giggle. “Good things, I hope,” I say in a forced cutesy voice so sweet I can feel a toothache coming on.
Chef grimaces. “Oh, not like that. He said he hit you with his car.”
Brody steps between us. “Accidentally! I accidentally hit her with my car,” Brody says in a panicked tone. “I also said that
she looked really beautiful while rolling up my windshield.”
I should have sued him when I had the chance. No, no. Getting close to Brody gets me close to the Parker family. Erik Parker will answer for his sins, and my bruised hip.
Brody looks over at me with a half-cracked smile as he rakes his hand through his luscious hair—head lice, I hope? His hair bounces back perfectly into place.