CHAPTER 4
ACE
This is how it ends. Death by holiday accessories.
Practice today was brutal. Coach ran us into the ground because apparently winning against Detroit made us "cocky and sloppy.
" His words, not mine. My thighs are screaming.
My shoulders feel like someone beat them with a baseball bat.
I'm pretty sure I have a bruise on my ass from when Petrov checked me into the boards for no goddamn reason except that he thought it was funny.
All I wanted was to come home, eat something that resembled food, and tackle my first shelter assignment.
Santa hats. Easy, right? Festive. Simple. How hard could it possibly be?
Turns out: extremely fucking hard.
Because I'm an idiot who didn't consider one crucial detail—the hats need to fit over hockey helmets. And hockey helmets, in case anyone's wondering, are massive. We're not talking about your standard department store Santa hat situation here.
I've been Googling for three hours.
Three hours.
Every site I find either has hats that are too small, hats that are ugly as sin, or hats that look like they'll tear from just looking at them. And the ones that might actually work? Sold out. Every single one.
I'm about to throw my laptop across the room when I have what might be my only good idea of the night.
Custom made.
If I can't find them, I'll have someone make them.
I pull up Google again and search for Chicago tailoring forums, which leads me down a rabbit hole of Reddit threads and local community boards. Finally, I find a subreddit that looks promising: r/ChicagoCreatives.
I create an account faster than I've ever done anything in my life. Username: Need_Tailor_Chicago.
I type out a post, trying to sound like a normal person and not someone on the verge of a festive breakdown:
Does anyone know a good tailor in Chicago? I urgently need some items made. Paying an arm and a leg. Thanks!
I hit post and immediately start refreshing.
Nothing.
Refresh.
Nothing.
Refresh.
Still nothing, but now I'm wondering if I'm being too impatient and if there's some kind of Reddit etiquette I'm violating.
Finally, responses start trickling in.
The first one makes me want to scream:
You know it's almost Christmas, right?
No shit. That's literally why I'm here, you unhelpful asshole.
The next one's even better:
In December? Haha. Good luck.
I'm about to close my laptop and accept my fate as the guy who fumbled the easiest assignment when a new reply pops up:
I know a tailor, I'll ask.
Hope surges in my chest. This is it. This is my salvation. I'm already drafting a reply in my head, something grateful but not desperate, when the same person posts again:
Booked till March. Sorry, buddy.
I drop my head into my hands and groan loud enough that my neighbor probably thinks I'm dying.
March. Of course. Because why would anything be easy?
More replies are rolling in now, and they're all variations of "you're fucked" with different levels of amusement. One person suggests I try making them myself, which—absolutely not. I can barely sew a button. Another person recommends a place that's been closed for two years.
I'm resigned to my fate. I'll tell Washington I fucked up. He'll be disappointed but understanding because that's who he is. Then he'll probably reassign the task to someone competent, like Groover, who'll have it handled in twenty minutes because he's annoyingly good at everything.
But then.
A notification pops up in the corner of my screen.
Private message.
I click it so fast I almost miss the button.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: Yo. My roommate's mom is a tailor. Well, was. She's retired now. I can ask if she's available if you still need one.
I stare at the message.
Read it again.
A third time, just to make sure I'm not hallucinating from exhaustion and protein shake fumes.
An actual human person with an actual potential solution.
I type back immediately:
Need_Tailor_Chicago: OMG, Please do!
Then I sit there, staring at the screen.
My phone buzzes. The group chat Becker created is already at fifty-something messages and climbing, but I ignore it. All my focus is on this Reddit DM, willing this stranger to come through.
More replies are appearing on my original post. People are having a great time at my expense:
Bro really thought he'd find a tailor in December.
RIP to this guy's Christmas plans.
Should've thought of this in October, my dude.
Fuck all of you.
Finally—finally—a new DM appears.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: She says she can help, you can call her in the morning.
Followed immediately by a phone number.
I could cry. I'm a twenty-six-year-old professional athlete and I could legitimately cry over a Reddit DM from a stranger with an absurd username.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: Thank you! You're a LIFESAVER!!
I'm already saving the number in my contacts, labeling it "Tailor - Reddit Angel," when another message comes through:
OnlyNewRadicals_69: Oh, my pleasure. In the name of the holiday spirit…lol, jk. Social capital, baby. Whenever I need a favor, I'm DMing you.
I laugh out loud. There's something refreshing about the honesty. No fake altruism, just straight-up "you owe me now."
I can respect that.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: You got it.
I check the time—midnight. I was fully prepared to pull an all-nighter on this, maybe sacrifice a goat to the patron saint of holiday haberdashery. Instead, I'll get a full night's sleep. Probably my last until New Year's.
All thanks to OnlyNewRadicals_69.
I look at the username again. It's ridiculous.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: What's wrong with the old ones?
OnlyNewRadicals_69: Huh?
Need_Tailor_Chicago: The old radicals. Your nickname?
OnlyNewRadicals_69: Oh. I see. Not only do you do things last minute, you're also uncultured.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: ???
OnlyNewRadicals_69: :D j/k. New Radicals. It's a band, check them out. They slap harder than dick against dick. Unless you need an explanation for the 69 as well?
I choke on absolutely nothing.
Dick against dick.
This person just typed that. Just sent that to a complete stranger on Reddit. With zero hesitation.
Some people are just batshit crazy, I swear.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: I think I got that part, but thanks :)
OnlyNewRadicals_69: Aight, gotta bounce, duty calls. GL with your suit, or whatever!
I sit there for a second, staring at the conversation, hoping the tailor is significantly less crazy than her kid's roommate. Or maybe I hope she's exactly this crazy. I haven't decided yet.
I close my laptop and pick up my phone to check that damn group chat.
Another fifty new messages. In five minutes.
Fifty. Messages. Five. Minutes.
I pull up the members list and immediately understand why. Becker's invited literally everyone. The entire team. Coach Martin. The bar staff. Some names I don't even recognize.
Becker has no chill and apparently no concept of targeted communication.
I try to skim through the messages but they're coming in faster than I can read. It's like trying to drink from a fire hose. A fire hose made of chaos and enthusiasm and far too many emojis.
I catch snippets:
Washington: We should swing by the shelter tomorrow after practice, see if there's anything we can handle ourselves. Celeste, is 5 PM okay?
Celeste: Oh, honey, of course. But only if you have time. Please don't feel like you need to. You boys are already doing so much.
Aww. She's so sweet it makes my teeth hurt.
Wall: Ma'am, stop talking crazy
Becker changed Celeste's name to: MamaPaws.
Petrov: You just sit back, relax
Devon changed the group name to: Pints for Paws.
The messages keep flying:
Devon: We need some flyers to hand out at the bar
Becker: Sounds like a me project
Devon: Which one are you again?
Becker: Umm. The blond one?
Devon: Ah, The Comedian. I'll allow it. Who's on hats????
I snort. We're all just characteristics to him.
Petrov: The Comedian xDDD
Becker changed the group name to: Pucks for Paws.
The pettiness is beautiful. I start typing.
Ace: I'm on hats. Handled.
I hit send with perhaps more confidence than the last three hours warrant, but technically it's not a lie. I'm handling it. Sort of. With Reddit's help.
Devon: The Handsome on hats. Okay, which one's The Adult?
Wait, what? I'm The Handsome?
Wall: The what?
Becker: We don't have an adult
Devon: The old one. The one doing the spreadsheet. Where's the damn spreadsheet???
Petrov: ??
Devon changed the group name to: Pints for Paws.
Oh, this is war now. I'm here for it.
Washington: EXCUSE ME? I'M 35
I can hear his offended tone through the text.
Wall: ??
Jinx: ??
I can't help myself:
Ace: ??
Becker: ??
MamaPaws: Is everything okay? What does the skull mean???
Washington finally posts a link to a Google spreadsheet and I click it with a sense of dread.
Four tabs.
There are already four fucking tabs.
One labeled, "Events Calendar." Another, "Task Assignments." Another, "Budget Tracking." The fourth, "Contact Information."
It's been one day.
Devon: SIR, I need admin rights to that spreadsheet. HELLO???
Becker changed the group name to: Pucks for Paws.
This is going to be a loooong December.