Chapter 11
Eleven
Brody
The air is heavy in this crowded nightclub, the bass so loud that I can feel it in my chest like a second heartbeat. My head
turns, spinning to follow a group of beautiful women with golden sun-kissed skin dressed in what looks to be bathing suits—I
fucking love Miami.
About half the team is already so drunk they couldn’t tell you their name, let alone their hockey position or jersey number.
It’s the perfect scene for an epic rookie party. I’ve been in the league long enough to have survived a handful of these parties—I
know the drill. Every year each team holds a rookie party where everyone goes out and gets the new guys drunk and racks up
a bar tab large enough to sober them up. Welcome to the show, boys.
The rookie party is just as much for the kids as it is for the old guys.
Which is why when Andy threatened to cancel it due to our pathetic play at the beginning of the season, I stuck my neck out.
Sometimes the best thing you can do for a struggling team is get together in Miami for some unadulterated shenanigans.
Some teams drink to celebrate, while others drink to forget, but we’re here to bond as brothers and build off the momentum of our first wins of the season.
We started out the night at a five-star steak house where the entire team showed up wearing custom shirts with my Bare campaign
photo plastered on them. One of the wives is Cricut efficient. Thankfully, most of the guys ditched the shirts with my abs
on them for something more likely to help them pick up a girl to leave with at the end of the night. Except for Hammer, who
makes a point to say he won’t take his off because he’s a proud Parker fan.
I grab a beer from the ice bucket and crash down on the couch beside Hammer and Jordy, who are huddled around a phone reading
team stats.
“Put your phone away!” I say, reaching for it, but Hammer’s quick to cover it like a loose rebound. “New rule, no NHL app
tonight.”
“Hold on. Let me check my . . . Ooh, my angel numbers—four-four-four!” Hammer says. He gives the same type of smile you crack
when you check your Instagram notifications and your crush liked your story.
“There’s nothing lucky about a 4.44 GAA, Hams,” Jordy says, rubbing his back.
“Another new rule: no hockey talk tonight.” I snatch his phone up. I quickly delete the app before handing it back. “Why don’t
you two separate? Give each other a bit of space and go mingle.”
“I’m not sure . . .” Jordy starts.
“If we could do that,” Hammer finishes his sentence.
“Do you two go anywhere without each other?” I ask. They’ve been known to piss in the same urinal, but they get their own
hotel rooms on the road (side-by-side joining rooms, of course). To what extent does this codependent relationship reach?
“Nope,” they say in unison.
“We’re a tag team.” Jordy folds his arms across his chest and smirks. Hammer nods his head reassuringly.
“Shouldn’t say that around people,” I say.
“No, it’s true. When he can’t finish, I’ll always be there for him, ready to step up and step in.” Hammer wraps his arm around
Jordy.
“Absolutely. I have no problem getting in there. Sometimes it can be a bit dirty, painful even.” Jordy pounds the flesh of
his fist against Hammer’s chest a few times.
“You’re really not hearing the double entendre?” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“You know we don’t speak French, Bro-vember,” Hammer says. They giggle back and forth like Beavis and Butt-Head, repeating
my nickname of the week. “Bro-vember” in honor of the mustache I’ve been growing for Movember. He and Jordy high-five while
sharing a laugh. The only thing laughable is the sad excuse for a muzzy sitting on Hammer’s upper lip.
“My name is Brody,” I repeat myself for the umpteenth time. “No more hockey talk. Go mingle.” I give them a push off the couch.
They slip out of the VIP section together and disappear into the crowd.
My drink sweats in my hand. I’m hot and thirsty, but booze doesn’t quench it quite like it used to. I’ve got enough shit to
worry about in my life to add a hangover to the list. I ditch the drink on the table and get up to see what Chef is up to.
I find him at the end of the bar talking to four women—an ambitious play, even for him. He spots me in the crowd and waves
me over.
“I want you all to meet my buddy,” Chef shouts over the music.
He wraps his arm around me and pulls me into their tight circle.
“If you haven’t seen his goals on SNN’s Top Ten, then I’m sure you’ve seen his other body of work in the new Bare ads.
Ladies, this is my liney, Brody.” He gives me a few pats on the back before tucking his hand back into his pocket.
Setting me up to score on and off the ice; what a great teammate.
“He sounds like the whole package,” the blonde next to me says. She’s been eyeing me from across the room since I got here.
While Chef entertains the other three, I turn to her and say, “I like your sparkly shoes.”
“I’m sure.”
“Really. You’ll never believe this, but I have the same pair at home.”
“It’s a good thing you didn’t wear them tonight, or else that could have been embarrassing.” She easily matches my energy
and hits me back with some deadpan sarcasm.
“I don’t get embarrassed,” I say with a cocky smirk that usually works on women at the bar.
“Do you get thirsty?” she says, her bright blue eyes piercing up at me.
“I’m not one to say no to getting a drink with a pretty girl.” It’s like I’m following a script. We have to run lines for
a few drinks before we can both drop the act. I’m sure she’s really nice, but I don’t have that vulnerability in me tonight.
I order a water and another tequila soda for her.
“You do this often?” She sips her fresh drink.
I shrug. I used to. Sometimes I still do. Since moving to Minnesota, my focus has been on keeping Olivia close enough to keep
my dad away. I wish I were buying a drink for Olivia instead. She would probably think this place was over the top—and she’d
be right. Why am I thinking about her right now? I doubt when she’s out with her friends talking to someone attractive, she’s
thinking about me begging her to play Catan.
“It’s fine. I do too, except it’s usually basketball players around here.” She looks back at her friends.
“You have a nice smile,” I say, because I’m starting to feel like a dick. Even saying something nice feels sleazy.
“I’m a dentist.” She smiles, showing off her work.
“I’ll have to introduce you to Belly. He could use some help.” I think of our lovable toothless defenseman. He has to cut
up his hamburgers with a fork and knife.
“Well in that case, it’s Dr. Conrad,” she says.
Commotion at the door pulls my attention away from Dr. Conrad. I hear Hammer and Jordy chanting Parker and my stomach drops.
The crowd parts enough for me to see my dad being ushered into the club with a goalie on each side.
“Who’s that?” she asks.
“He’s nobody. Excuse me,” I say, ditching my untouched drink on the bar.
I push my way into the gathering of teammates and strangers formed around my dad. His eyes are already glossy and his salt-and-pepper
hair a bit disheveled. As I get closer, I smell the whiskey on him.
“Your dad is so cool. He let me wear his Stanley Cup rings.” Hammer lifts his hands and fans them out like Bill Russell.
My dad has three Stanley Cup rings: two with the Tampa Storm and one in his last season of professional hockey with the Carolina
Reapers. While they are all being passed around my team for guys to ooh and aah over, I’m reminded that my dad has never once
let me try any of them on. When I was six, he told me, The ring is won, not shared. The skeletons in our family closet are neatly hung like cherished textile mementos, not even to be removed for special occasions.
“What are you doing here?” I ignore my teammates completely. Careful not to cause a scene, my face is lax, casual even. This is a new team and I have my own reputation to protect. There are too many eyes on us to count, not to mention cameras in everyone’s pockets and whiskey in his bloodstream.
“Nice to see you too, son. Since when do you come to town and not tell me?” He lays his heavy hand on my shoulder and I practically
buckle at the knees. He just walked in the door but already reeks of booze and has half a glass of something swaying around
in his hand. His nice linen outfit and leather loafers tell me this was no impromptu run-in; he’s here for a full Erik Parker
ass-kissing.
I ignore the fact that he’s more than a four-hour drive from home and try my best to defuse the situation. It’s important
to keep him happy. Good Mood Erik can be fun in this setting. “Sorry, I didn’t think you would want to make the drive so late.”
While the guys take turns trying on the championship rings, my dad leans in and says, “Are you sure you’re not distracted
from that bad pass that cost your team the game last night? I had to get over here and tell you in person to get your head
out of your ass. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you, but you’ve been missing my calls like you’ve been missing the net.”
His grip lingers on my shoulder. He holds me in place, digging his fingers deeper into my flesh. Sober Erik is brutally honest,
but Drunk Erik is just brutal.
My breathing labors as I suck in hot humid air through my flared nostrils. Right when I think he’s going to snap, a smile
cracks across his face. He starts to laugh. He places his arm around my neck and pulls me in for a hug. I feel no relief in
his embrace.
“You shouldn’t be here. It’s the rookie party.” I slip out from under his arm, tense as a board.
“Don’t be rude, ZamBroni,” Jordy says, coming up behind me. The guys huddle around us.
“Let’s get this guy a drink!” Hammer cheers. Moving in a pack, the boys head up to the VIP lounge.
My dad stares me down, waiting for me to do the right thing. I wish I knew what that was. Flashbacks of our confrontation