Chapter 10
Ten
Olivia
I should have never let Brody touch me like that at the Demo Rage Room. What’s wrong with me? He looked at me with that same
primal glare he gets when he’s on a breakaway and I couldn’t help myself but let him score. I wanted it—even worse, I liked
it. Our most recent date wasn’t much better. He somehow tricked me into a last-minute coffee date that lasted longer than
a trip to Target. Spending time with him is like getting lost in all the aisles: thrilling, but I know better than to buy
another candle. I’m not sure what’s worse, the physical intimacy we can’t seem to fight when in private or the emotional connection
he’s so determined on building over four coffees. By the fourth beverage, I thought my bladder was going to explode. Teach me Catan? Buddy, I’d have better luck teaching a moose to skate.
I stuck through it—all five hours—hoping Erik would show up. My haircut suggestion—the universal signal that Something Is
Wrong—was successful enough to spook his dad into a visit, but wasn’t enough to get me any closer to Erik or the Parker legacy.
Thanks to that little interrupting phone call he took during our coffee date a few weeks ago, I’m currently staring down in
disbelief at my phone reading a tagline for the newest face of Bare. “Brody Parker is so hot he’ll melt your ice.”
Surely, no one is reading a cheesy headline like that when the photo below is a suggestive pose of Brody with a pair of skintight
black briefs hanging off his hips—it appears they let him keep his cup on for the photo shoot. He’s flexing so hard it looks
like he’s on the verge of farting.
My plan to sabotage Brody’s incredible good looks backfired. His new buzz cut has been the talk of the internet since its
debut. He even scored two goals in his first game with the new hair. “He’s so young David Beckham–coded,” they’re saying.
“I want to rub his head like a genie lamp and use all three wishes for him,” I’ve read.
I can’t believe he looks better than ever. In hindsight, his messy shag and loose curls feel childish compared to his dangerous
new chop. With his hair off his face, his cheekbones and cut jaw take center ice. And trust me, this bulge is putting up a
valiant fight for attention. Brody knows it too. His drastic makeover was the viral internet moment that caught the eye of
Bare and they knew he was their new leading man. Since the launch of the campaign, Brody’s been promising me a special treat
as a thank-you—the promise of which feels a lot like a threat.
With Brody hotter than ever, his inflated sense of self has really done wonders to his game.
He’s becoming the Freeze’s most consistent forward despite the team’s inability to win a game.
Which is why I need to hit the Parkers where it really hurts: Brody’s game.
And I’m going to sabotage him tonight. It’s an SNN national broadcast game; for the first time this season, Erik Parker will provide remote intermission commentary. All eyes are on tonight’s Freeze game.
I usually sneak into the rink through a back door after all the players have arrived and are settled in the dressing room;
however, tonight I’m early. Dressed in a tight black yoga bodysuit, I channel my inner Catwoman. I sneak down the hall and
tuck beside the stick rack outside the locker room. Unlike last time, I don’t send them tumbling over like dominos. My brief
time inside the Chilly suit has made me nimble and stealthy.
There are three things you should never mess with when it comes to hockey players’ equipment. Up first is his stick. A knight
is nothing more than a jester without his sword. Brody is currently playing with a ninety-five flex, which is an appropriate
whip for a guy his size. has him listed at six foot two and one-eighty—a coach’s wet dream. It would be a shame if
someone had secretly ordered three of the exact same stick in an eighty-five flex—a purchase that ate into my new-apartment
funds. I look up and down the hall to make sure I’m alone. With the coast clear, I make a run for it.
Four of Brody’s sticks are lined up and marked with the numbers one through four on the taped knobs. Some call it hockey science;
I call it a neurotic system of wearing through sticks evenly. I leave the first stick—his warm-up stick—untouched. I quickly
swap out the other three, leaving the rack seemingly as I found it before stashing his old sticks in a mess of a nearby janitorial
closet.
It took me four hours last night to get the tape job perfect on these things: sloppy and uneven, just as he keeps them.
He’ll never know what I’ve done until he goes to fire off a shot in the first period and he sends the puck embarrassingly wide—or out of play and called for a delay-of-game penalty if I’m really lucky.
These whippy sticks are my ticket to watching some sloppy hockey tonight.
The second piece of equipment you should never mess with is a hockey player’s skates. Like a chef’s knife, the sharpness is
essential to their craft. I peek my head into the locker room, cupping my hand to my ear. It’s empty. I scurry in and find
the cubby with Brody’s nameplate. His skates hang blade up, freshly sharpened and ready for game time. In about four hours,
he’ll be unsuspectingly slipping into these booby traps with laces.
I pull out my pocket-size skate sharpener—a tiny nail file–like stone—and get to work sharpening his 7/8" into a blade sharp enough to cut diamonds. He’s going to pivot on these blades and fall right on his ass in front of everyone.
An embarrassing wipeout with seventeen thousand live witnesses will shatter his confidence for the rest of his shift, and
the looming dread of the internet’s reaction will take his head out of the rest of the game.
I bring the blade to my face and blow off the excess dust. Tiny steel particles fly like glitter. I meticulously place his
skates exactly as I found them and turn my attention to the last order of business. Perhaps the most important piece of equipment
you should never mess with: the jock.
It’s a trifecta deadly enough to tarnish the perfect Parker reputation. If all three hit, it should be enough to make Erik
crash out on live television. He’ll be forced to either downplay Brody’s brutal game, in turn putting his own credibility
as a hockey legend at risk. Or he’ll be as harsh on Brody as he deserves, which will beg the question: Is the Parker dynasty
a dynasty at all?
I plug my nose and grab Brody’s jock off the hook. Pinched between my finger and thumb, I hold it out an arm’s length away.
Gross. I squeeze a giant glob of extra Icy Hot muscle relaxer cream into the inside of his jock.
I lather it in gel, inside and out. As I’m reaching to hang it back in place, loud footsteps thump in the distance.
They’re approaching the locker room and with each footfall the sense of impending danger rises.
There’s nowhere to hide; the locker room is all open space. The footsteps get louder, and along with them, the voices and
laughter get closer. Down at my feet is Brody’s empty hockey bag. I look for a window to jump out of, but we’re belowground.
From the inside of the zipped crusty hockey bag, I hear two men enter the locker room. By the sound of their conversation,
it’s the equipment guys getting back from break.
“I said to him, ‘Look, Hammer, it’s fine that you don’t want any of your equipment washed—I can even turn a blind eye to the
fact that you prefer to play commando—but I cannot in good faith continue to smuggle a dead octopus to the rink for you to
kiss before every game,’” a deep voice says with much exasperation.
“I’m proud you set that boundary. It’s difficult to do with goalies—especially superstitious ones,” someone replies.
“If the team was winning, I’d go along with it, but at this point I think it’s bad luck,” the deep voice says.
It’s a miracle I can hear them rummaging around the room because the scent of this hockey bag is so ripe it’s practically
dulling all my other senses. Most of Brody’s equipment is hung in his cubby waiting for him, except for a few spare pieces
crammed against my body.
Something tangles in my hair. It takes a forceful tug to dislodge the mystery object. Bringing it to my face for inspection,
the smell hits me—mouth guard. An old chewed-up unwashed one at that. I gag and jump a bit as I toss it as far away from me
as possible.
“Did you hear that?” the one with the deeper voice says. As his footsteps approach, I play dead.
“Not the mouse thing again.” The other guy lets out a groan.
I feel a tickle at my ankle. My body goes rigid. As the tickle travels up my leg, I cover my mouth and hold my breath.
What. Is. That?
“I’m telling you, I saw a mouse in here the other day. I swear I did. Why won’t anyone believe me?”
“Because you can’t read the jumbotron without your glasses. Now come on, let’s grab the laundry. These jerseys aren’t going
to sort themselves.”
As the two equipment guys leave the locker room, a tiny mouse makes its way up my body and into my hair. No hockey bag can
contain my panic. I bust out of there like the living dead and let out an animated squeal as I swat at my head like my hair
is on fire. A tiny little mouse drops to the ground with a smack and lies there momentarily stunned. I let out a few silent
gags while flapping my hands. The mouse rolls over and scurries off toward the showers.
I gather up my incriminating evidence, but before I can take another step, I hear someone at the door. There’s no time to
hide—I’m caught. My breath catches as someone fills the open doorframe.
It’s Quinn.
“Olivia?” She stops on the other side as if there’s an invisible force preventing her from entering. The force is likely listed
in the handbook. “It sounded like someone was ransacking the place.”
“There’s a mouse in here!” Forcing my distress is easy.