Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
GUNNER
T he arena, dimly lit save for the intense lights shining on the ice, is deafening with the roar of the Vancouver fans. The tension crackles in the air, but it’s not the welcome excitement that comes when we’re about to score a win. It’s the burning electricity that stings with an impending loss. The game's final minutes tick away, and we can’t seem to get it right.
Weight is heavy on my shoulders thinking of the three goals I’ve allowed into my net. It happens, yet when our offense is off, the burden is harder to bear. I loathe losing. In fact, there is little I hate more in the world. Vancouver’s forward rushes toward me, and his stick pushes the puck over the ice with precision. Watching his eyes, the movement of his body, and the angle of his stick, I visualize the shot he’ll take. I don’t move into position until his stick raises, ready to strike. I can’t risk him changing course. He slaps the puck, and I’m already in place. Gloved hand extended, I stop it.
“Let’s go!” I roar from the net. My teammates, in possession of the puck, zoom down the ice as seconds tick off the clock.
We’re down by one with mere moments left on the clock. The best we can hope for is a tie, but that will get us to overtime, where we have a chance at a win.
To anyone else, Feldmore and Richards would appear to have it together as they pass the puck, but I see the hesitation there. Something’s off. Cade Richards slaps the puck to our center, Sebastian Calloway, in a new play we’ve been honing this week. Calloway is in position, but I know before his stick slaps the puck that it’s over. Some days, we have it, and some days, we don’t. We’ve been off this entire game.
The buzzer sounds as the Vancouver goalie hits the puck away, securing the win. The sea of dark-blue-and-green jerseys in the stands goes wild, the sound deafening as they celebrate their hometown win.
The six of us wearing Crane jerseys stand on the ice motionless for a second, stunned. On paper, we had this game in the bag. Yet unpredictability is what makes this sport so fun. The Canucks played better tonight, plain and simple.
Defeated, we exit the ice and make our way to the locker room.
“Well, that fucking sucked,” one of our defensemen, Jaden Lewis, grumbles.
“Let’s just get out of here and to the bar. Forget this whole night ever happened,” Maxwell Park, another defensemen, chimes in.
“Agreed,” Beckett states.
“It just wasn’t our night.” Cade sighs.
Thankfully, the coach’s post-game talk is short. We shower and change. Eddy, our equipment manager, collects our bags and equipment to return to the plane while the rest of us pile into cars and head toward a bar.
The bar scene in Vancouver is decent, not that it matters. As long as there is alcohol, our guys could have a blast anywhere. Undoubtedly, the drinks will be pouring tonight as we drown our sorrows. Or at least, most of them will. I’ll be sticking to my two-drink limit. The temptation to drink until I don’t remember the sixty minutes we sucked out on the ice is strong. But my reasons for not getting shit-faced are stronger.
Growing up with drunks in my house who pushed my mother around on any given night left me with the resolve to never be out of control. I know I’d never hurt a woman or become a drunk, but I don’t want to be without my senses. The thought of not having a clear mind or being in control doesn’t sit well with me.
The driver yammers about the snow on the short drive to the bar. I only half listen, the conversation doing little to keep my interest. It’s winter, and we’re in Canada, so it’s bound to snow. Instead, my mind goes over every second of the game, figuring out the moments we messed up. It’s the cruelest form of torture, really, since there’s not a damn thing I can do to change it.
The car skids to a stop outside a faded sign that says Frank’s . I’m not sure who chose our final destination, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. Though Frank’s is nothing special, the bar has drinks, which is all the guys care about.
Two beers go down entirely too quickly, and I sigh in irritation. Now, what am I supposed to do for the rest of our time here? The more the team drinks, the more annoying they become.
The moment she enters the bar, the air changes. I’m certain she’s here, though I’ve yet to lay my eyes on her. Why must I be so attuned to the bane of my existence? Penelope Stellars drives me batshit crazy, yet instead of ignoring her, my mind has decided to be aware of every step she takes.
“Hey, boys,” she says from behind me. I resist the urge to turn around. “Tough loss. We’re going to keep everything cool tonight, yes? Make my job easy?”
“Of course, Miss Penny. Would you expect anything less?” Beckett teases.
Penny scoffs. The sound causes my back to stiffen.
Unable to ignore her anymore, I toss a glance over my shoulder. “Princess,” I say in greeting, which is met with a scowl and a roll of her eyes.
Bash shoves his arm past me, a shot glass in his hand. “Do a shot with us, Pen.”
“I’m good. Thanks, though. I’ll be around if anyone needs anything,” she replies. I don’t have to see her face to know that she gave each person standing around the circle a warning look.
I order a third beer because… I can. The two-beer rule is a self-imposed guideline, not a hard and fast rule. I have a feeling that this night will be long, so one more bottle is warranted.
When we arrived at Frank’s , the mood was low, but it doesn’t take long for everyone to be in good spirits. The conversations morph from depressing defeat to upbeat and jovial, as the guys normally are. Personality-wise, I’m definitely the most dull on the team, and I wear that badge with pride. If I’m being honest, I play with a bunch of idiots. Yet somehow each one of them seems to make their idiocy endearing. They have a way of making me feel at ease and accepted. They’re my family, and despite being opposite of them all—they are the family I choose. I can’t think of a better group of humans.
I’ve never been good with feelings, and I haven’t vocalized any of this, but I feel it, and the connection I have with this group is so strong, it’s undeniable. The first eighteen years of my life were pretty awful, but sometimes I can’t help but think that the universe is making up for it with this chapter. Tonight’s game aside, how many people can say they’re living their ultimate dream with coworkers they cherish like family? It’s pretty cool.
And, shit… that third beer is going to my head. I’m never this emotional, even in the safety of my own mind.
Giving my head a shake, I refocus on the conversation at hand.
“I just think it needs to be more than a once-a-year thing,” Max states. “I can’t wait until next year’s bye week. I’m dreaming about them, for God’s sake.”
A boom of laughter sounds.
Bash shrugs. “It’s not like I’ll only make them once a year. I would make them at other times and bring them in. I’m just busy.”
I realize they’re lamenting over our second annual cookie competition at the resort we rented in Texas last month. Admittedly, Bash, our two-time winner, can bake a damn good cookie. This year, he entered with some chocolate and mint chip recipe he created. The cookies were incredible.
The competition started a couple of years ago at the bye week in Barbados. I don’t remember how it came to be. One minute, we were all standing around talking, and the next, we were catching Ubers to the local supermarket for ingredients… well, they were. I don’t bake. Bash made a chocolate chip cookie that was gooey and delicious with mini-chips that year, winning the competition and earning his team nickname, Cookie Monster, which we love to shorten to Cookie. He hates it. We find it hilarious.
Jaden leans in. “What do you mean you don’t have time? You live alone with no pets or girlfriend. When you’re not on the ice, you have all the time in the world. Bake us some damn cookies, Cookie.”
Bash rolls his eyes. “Despite what you may think, I do have a life outside of this team.”
“Doing what?” Beckett questions.
Bash avoids eye contact with Beckett and clears his throat. “I don’t know. Hanging out with other friends.”
Being the quiet one of the group, I’m somewhat of an observer, and I get the feeling that Bash is nervous.
“What friends?” Cade asks.
Bash shrugs. He moves the toe of his tennis shoe against a spot on the floor. “Just friends. As stated, I have friends outside of you guys.”
I don’t doubt that’s true. As the youngest member of the team, I’m sure he still keeps in contact with some of his college buddies.
“Well, tell these friends you’re busy and make us some cookies. I’m dreaming about them, dude.” Jaden takes a swig of his beer.
“I’ll do my best,” Bash responds.
“That’s all I ask.” Jaden grins.
Cade’s thumbs move across the screen of his phone. He puts his phone in his back pocket and addresses the group. “Settle up with the bartender. We need to get back to the plane. I guess a storm is coming in, so Coach wants us in the air as soon as possible.”
Penny rejoins our group. “Let’s go, boys. We have to head out.”
The guys disperse to pay their tabs.
“Tell Cade I’m outside grabbing us a car,” Iris says to Penny.
“Okay, I’ll be right out,” Penny answers.
The guys head out of the bar. Only Penny, Jaden, Max, and me are left.
“What’s taking so long?” Penny eyes the bar where Jaden is still paying his tab.
Max chuckles. “You know Jaden. The guy can talk anyone’s ear off. Go ahead and go. We’re right behind you.”
Penny’s squinted stare darts between Max and me, uncertain.
“I promise we’re good. We’re seriously right behind you,” he repeats.
“Okay, well, hurry and be safe.”
“Will do.” Max nods to Penny before turning to me. “I’m going to go get him.”
I dip my chin in response, and my stare follows Penny as she heads to the exit. My focus veers to a table of obnoxious Canuck fans as the four guys watch Penny as she leaves.
The short one, who probably weighs no more than one hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, sneers as Penny passes. He looks like some cracked-out version of a troll doll with his wispy bright blue wig. Turning back to his friends, he scoffs, “Why do only the ugly ones stay till close? Did you see her ass? That bitch would crush me.”
His friends laugh, but I don’t find him funny. Rage consumes me, and my vision blurs as I’m flooded with molten-hot anger. I can’t think straight. My brain has ceased all functions. In fact, the only thing working is my fist as it finds his face.