Chapter 7 #2
I fought the urge to scoff, but it was what it was. Just like the music for me would always be the goddamn Addams Family intro—never mind our last names weren’t spelled the same. Frankly, the name was probably more fitting for my brother, but since everyone seemed to think I was constantly horny…
“And in the goal tonight, number thirty-seven…Micah Adaaaaams!”
Ba-da ba-dum, snap snap.
Luckily, I didn’t have to smile with my mask over my face, and I grabbed Antoine’s stick as he led me over to the crease, where I would stand for the anthem and all the other bullshit fanfare that came with opening the game.
Not that I minded. At least, most days, I didn’t mind. But having Hunter stuck in my head, knowing he could be lurking and waiting and watching, it fucked me up.
“You good?” Antoine murmured.
I grunted and tapped my stick against his helmet. “I’m good. We’re gonna fucking smash them.”
“You goddamn beautician,” he said, knocking his head against mine. I listened to the sound of his skates as he headed to join the line, then prep for face-off.
Taking a deep breath, I sank down into a gentle split as the music began to play, and instead of Hunter’s voice in my head, it was replaced by the sound of the crowd and—with any fucking luck this season—a decent string of wins.
“You glorious motherfucker! A shutout! I’m gonna make out with you right here!” Antoine crowed, squeezing the back of my neck, and nearly made me trip over my skates.
I managed not to fall on my face—a miracle, really. I usually hit the ground three or four times on my way to the locker room.
Tossing my gloves in the direction of my stall, I spread my fingers along the bench to make sure I wasn’t going to sit on anything before plopping my ass down and peeling away my pads. I tried not to grimace at the smell.
I was used to it, but being in a locker room never got easier.
Jonah once told me the first time he and Alexio had fucked had been in their locker room, and to this day, I could not understand it.
How the fuck did someone get hard surrounded by the smell of ball sweat and that funky musk that would eventually become athlete’s foot?
But whatever floated their boat, I guess.
And not that anyone knew, but I struggled to get hard at all, so maybe I was the freak here.
“Yo, Gomez!”
I turned my head toward the sound of Lavoie’s voice. He was the alternate captain, and having been on the Fury for about as long as I had, I hated him a bit less than the rookies. “Yes, Danny-boy?” He made a noise, reminding me he hated that nickname. But I hated mine, so…
“ESPN wants a word.”
I fucking knew it. I knew they would. The reporters still hadn’t gotten used to disabled hockey in spite of the fact that we’d been around longer than a decade, and they always acted like playing good hockey was a party trick.
But we had to do this bullshit anyway.
We had to smile and nod and answer dipshit questions.
“Five minutes,” I told him.
He scoffed. “Mais qu’est ce que t’es con! You know they’ll keep you as long as they want.”
I groaned and passed a hand down my face. “Are they going to let me shower?”
He burst into laughter. “Non. But I’m sure you look pretty.” He gave me a pat on the cheek, then shuffled off, and I did my best to dry my sweat with a towel before I smelled the very familiar cologne Ben always wore.
“Don’t make that face at me,” he bitched.
“You don’t know what kind of face I’m making,” I countered. Ben was the only fully blind coach in the league, but that was a recent development, so he probably knew exactly what expression I was wearing.
“Trust me, I do. But suck it up, buttercup. This is part of the job. You know, that nice little contract you signed for seven figures.”
I couldn’t argue there. I was the highest-paid player on this team, and I knew what I was getting into.
“See if I bother playing well on Thursday,” I muttered, shoving my pads aside and feeling around for my slippers.
My feet thanked me as I stood up and let them sink into the cushioned soles.
Ben found my hand, and I took his elbow, listening to the clink of his dog’s harness, and tried not to think about how itchy my throat was going to be soon. “I’m gonna let in every fucking puck.”
“Filthy fucking liar!” someone called from across the room. I was too tired to parse out who was speaking.
“Kiss my ass, boys!” I called as Ben led me out of the locker room and into the hallway, which was a lot less humid.
We took a few steps, and then he paused. “You played like you had something to prove tonight.”
I said nothing. How the fuck was I supposed to respond to that? Wasn’t that my job?
“We’re twelve games into the season, Micah. You don’t need to be so intense this early.” Says the guy who was up my fucking ass after one practice where I wasn’t at the top of my game. But I had to admit he had a point. I just couldn’t tell him why I was feeling this way. “What’s going on?”
Everything in me ached to spill my guts. The truth was a fucking live wire in my stomach, popping and crackling and burning. But what would it solve? What would it prove other than my inability to handle my own messes?
And that everyone was right: I really was a disaster who couldn’t seem to stay out of trouble. Maybe I wasn’t getting my hole reamed every week by different guys, but everything else they said about me was true.
I was a hot fucking mess and ruined everything I touched, which was exactly why I couldn’t be with Vanya.
“Micah,” he said quietly. “You know you can talk to me. I ran into Maximov yesterday, and it seemed…” He stopped for a second. “He made it seem like maybe something was wrong. And after that shit-show practice—”
I let out a breath. “Look, things have been kind of weird lately. I don’t know. It’s easy to take that shit out on the ice, I guess.”
“Yeah. I mean, I know about your dad…”
“Can we not talk about him?” I didn’t want to think about any of that. About the way I’d come into a hospital room where he was like a ghost.
And then everything that had come after.
He let out a small sigh. “Alright. But you know we’re friends, right? I’m not just the asshole who tells you when you’re playing like shit.”
“No, you’re also the asshole who points out when I’m playing well like I’ve done something wrong.”
His arm stiffened beneath me. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t get fucking soft on me now, Benny. I don’t need that,” I begged.
He laughed and turned, commanding his dog to find the media room. “Fair enough. But the offer stands, okay? We are friends, aren’t we?”
I didn’t know what to say. My list of friends was small and carefully cultivated. I liked Ben. I just hadn’t ever thought of him that way. But maybe that was my problem. One of many.
No, not just many.
Millions.
“We are.”
He moved his hand to the back of my neck and squeezed. “That’s my boy. Now, go in there, play nice, give big smiles, and tell them we’re kissing the cup this season.”
“Even though you and I both know that’s not going to happen?” I challenged. One shutout was not going to change the fact that we were not making it into playoffs.
Not this year.
He sighed. “Yes. Be good. Do as I say.”
There was only one person I wanted to take commands from, and it was not Ben. But I grimaced in his direction, knowing perfectly well he couldn’t see it, let out a small grunt of agreement, then pushed my way into the press room for the part I hated the most about this game.